“how I survived the Walford youth riot of 1996″

I had few qualms about crashing that private party that fateful night because four hundred other bored college students had acted on the same idea before I had bothered to think about it. No matter how “secret” you try to keep it, but when you throw a party with a beer keg, college students will always inevitably find out through some beer keg radar and they will crash the gates to “get wasted.” Getting wasted is, in hindsight, is the greatest and lamest of all “coming of age” pursuits.

I showed up to the house just when things had stopped being fun, and started to become interesting. ( And by interesting, I mean violent.) Uncontrollable drunk kids everywhere. Some had just found out for the first time in their lives that they are angry, unruly drunks and started to destroy property. Others were so easily influenced, that they simply followed suit. Trash cans were smashed into wind shields of parked cars,  flower beds and shrubs of the surrounding houses were used as improv bathrooms and beds of lust, sometimes both at the same time. An unlucky neighborhood cat had its ninth life strangled out of it by some angry football player as a revenge to an imagined slight. It’s eyes bulging as it struggled, unsuccessfully, to break free from the football player’s grip.

It wasn’t too long before a few police patrol cars showed up to try to restore order. But they were quickly replused by certain elements of the young, surly mob whose bravado was unnaturally and chemically bolstered.  Backup was called and the next thing I know, it’s was all riot shields and truncheons working it’s way the now unruly crowd.That’s when confusion began to reign supreme, some kids trying to escape while others thought it was best to make a stand against “the man.” Both groups just ended up getting in each others way and became easy prey to the encroaching police force.

I just stood there in the middle observing it all, disconnectedly, until I felt a heavy blow to my right temple and began to see sounds and hear colors.  I fell to my knees, vomited twice, and crawled my way to the nearest parked car while the battle continued all around me…

I woke up the next morning with a burn on my left side from where a tear gas canister had been fired into the crowd, emptied, and had rolled underneath the car I was hiding under where my then unconscious body had put a stop to its descent. The first thought I had was not of my injuries or of those of my peers who sustained much worse last night but was of the overwhelming wish that I had just stayed home last night. Even though the mattress was lumpy and I hadn’t washed or changed the sheets out of sheer laziness for months, my bed seemed like the safest and most comfortable place in the entire world at that moments I would’ve given everything I owned to be there right now.

I rolled over on my stomach and pulled myself out from underneath the car.  The first sight I seen in the blaring mid morning sun was that of a mangled piece of a black colored hair weave lying there on the pavement, undoubtedly pulled out of some girl’s hair during the riot last night. I said to no one in particular while I was attempting to stand up from my hands and knees: “Somewhere, there a horse whose ass is freezing right now.” While laughing at my own witty comment, I began to vomit blood all over the hair weave and then passed out again.

Gruff Rhys/ The Pipettes/ Long Blondes

Sorry about the long break from the record reviews, but there seems to be very little coming out these days that is, in my opinion, worth buying. I know, I’m just so old and jaded…

1.Gruff Rhys/Candylion/Rough Trade Records

What would a jareddriskill record review would be if I didn’t include a solo album from a singer from one of my favorite britpop bands? Super Furry Animals’ Gruff Rhys unleashes his second solo offering unto the world, showing that he is still way ahead of the curve than most of his peers. Much like his regular full time job with SFA, Candylion offers up unexpected pop music genre smash ups. But unlike SFA, who sound different with every track, Gruff Rhys has produced an entire album that sounds like a cross between Marty Robbins “Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs” album and hypnotic techno music. It’s worth checking out. The songs on Candylion are sung by Gruff Rhys in English, Spanish and his native tongue, Welsh, which goes to show that singing all of your songs in English is just passe these days.

2.The Pipettes/ Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me (ep)/ Interscope records

5 bucks for 4 songs. Not a bad deal, although two of the songs are included on their first full length album, which came out in England last year, but later this summer in the US, but you can hear it for free on their official website! ( Confused yet?) This ep was released to generate insterest in the band for their eventual US debut. Though I question the group’s logic with signing a US distribution deal with Interscope, who have always been unsupportive of the acts on their label in the past. Let’s hope The Pipettes don’t get the usual treatment from them!

3.Long Blondes/ Someone To Drive You Home/ Rough Trade

Just like the band Wire had strongly influenced Elastica in the dim dark 1990’s, The Libertines have influenced The Long Blondes in the equally dismal 2000’s. (And I don’t mean that because The Long Blondes is mostly made up of women just like Elastica were either.) Maybe I’m just old and can’t hear new music by new groups these days without hearing their influences, but I tried to sit through Someone To Drive You Home but I keep thinking to myself “that could’ve have been a Libertines song, oh that part sounds like Franz Ferdinand.” Then I end up taking this disc out of my player and putting in a Franz Ferdinand disc instead, which in turn, causes me to put in a Wire album, which brings me serendipitously back to the Wire reference at the beginning of this album review. Which goes to show that there is nothing new under the sun.

Oh, The US version of Someone To Drive You Home comes with a 2nd cd with b-sides and demos, ect. but I haven’t bothered to listen to any of it yet.

jareddriskill

Urban survival skills #6

part the sixth: Those Pesky Roommates

When you are single, and if you are not insane or insanely rich, it is almost impossible to live by yourself in the city. This means you have to share a place to live with another human being if you want to stay in town. Yeah, it’s terrible, but it is better than fighting the hobos at the greyhound station so you can go to sleep on a lumpy bench.

The best and easiest bet is to find a friend with a room to spare and move in there. But beware! Nothing can transform a warm friendship into angry, bitter rivalry that will last to your graves than being roommates with each other. (Curse you, Mike Johnson, you spawn of the shit of Satan!) Remember this adage before you take the plunge: your friend’s quirks are only cool and funny when you don’t have to put up with them on a constant basis.

Alternatively you can move in with a total stranger, which has the same effects as moving in with a close friend, but the difference being you didn’t have close friendship before hand and therefore, your roommates quirks are just plain annoying from the get go. So your hopes are not crushed too badly.

You can always make the mistake of moving in with a person of the opposite sex. I done this twice, once with a woman I was in a relationship with and another time with someone I was in a platonic friendship with. I normally don’t agree with the bible, but when it says a man or a woman shouldn’t live together unless they are married, it is absolutely right. It doesn’t take long, if you are male, until you become the “fix it” slave of the house/apartment/used refrigerator box in the alleyway. Who am I, all of a sudden, Bob Villa?

Then, men, it only gets worse… you will get cornered into a situation where you are forced to talk about your “feelings.” It always starts like this:

me: (blankly watching tv)

her: what are you thinking about?

me: oh, nothing.

her: You just can’t think about nothing. Don’t lie to me!

me: (making something up because I was actually was thinking about nothing.) Ah, er, hmmm… Taco Bell?

her: ( angry, shouting) I told you not to lie to me!

me: Hey, at least Taco Bell never gets angry with me!

Having roommates can also be hard work too, like knowing how frequently they get paid so that you know exactly when to hit them up for money to pay the bills. Or having to buy magic markers so you can mark all of your food in the kitchen, even though it somehow mysteriously gets eaten by someone other than yourself. And of course, having it be your turn to clean the bathroom. (Why is it that my roommates seem to contract dysentery the week when it’s my turn to clean?)

All in all, having roommates is not bad considering the alternative, which is not living in the city at all. And we don’t want that, do we?

time the next: is it art?!

jareddriskill

random item tuesday

1. when did “hip hop” become official and “rap” deemed unofficial? I told a person today that I didn’t care much for “rap” music when the person I was talking to got all offended looking and corrected me. Was there something I had missed? Was there a memo that went out and didn’t receive a copy of? Regardless of the name of the genre, I still don’t care much for it.

2. was there some contest today that stated that whoever could total their car in the most fucked up and creative way possible would win some sort of prize package? I do alot of driving at my job, and today I saw at least 7 or 8 major wrecks that involved at least 2 or 3 cars each. What are you guys thinking? “Man, that new toaster oven really sounds nice, I might as well plow my Chevy Avalanche into the side of that beat up Ford Escort, flip it into a corn field and cripple everyone in it… Here goes nothing!”

3. if you park you car in a no parking zone, in fact right underneath a big “no parking” sign, don’t come crying to me when your vehicle gets towed away. If you are that blind to not see that huge no parking sign, then you have no business driving a vehicle in the first place.

4. if you are calling a service tech to repair your air conditioning from an unlisted number, please leave your name, number and address on the answering machine like the recorded message says. When, (surprise!) no one comes to your house to repair your air conditioner, don’t call the service office back and leave a nasty message saying that we suck. Or if you do, please leave your name, number and address on the answering machine so at least we know who the we are laughing at.

jareddriskill

hatemail part 1

I received my first piece of hate mail today because of the website. Please keep it coming! Negative comments and angry, misguided missives are always welcome here at jareddriskill.com!

Apparently, according to the author, I’m a jack ass with no friends and the person also had to make some lame dig about how he probably makes more money than me. It’s hardly the truth, (I have few friends and he didn’t say how much money he makes so I can’t refute him there) but I’ll let him believe what he will. You know, First admendment rights, ect, ect.
jareddriskill

week 10

Man, I don’t know what is wrong with me. I just could not stay focused on this week’s offering of the Best Of Soul Train. (I knew I should’ve taken that nap!) Luckily for me, this episode was the following episode from the one they played last week with plenty of the same songs getting repeated air play such as “Love Injection” and “Master Jam.” I did notice that the Soul Train Dancers still danced with the carefree looseness of the late 1970’s even though this particular episode was filmed in early 1980. It’s nice to know that paranoia of the 1980’s didn’t start at the stroke of midnight, January 1, 1980, as the revisionist historians would like us to believe.

Soul Train Scramble Board: Maynard Jackson.  Uhm, okay I don’t know who he was, but the Soul Train Dancers sure grooved on down to “The Beat Goes On” by The Whispers. But isn’t that what really matters?

This week’s musical guests were:

The Ritchey Family: They were introduced by their producer/songwriter Jacques Morelli, who was also the mastermind behind the Village People. (If I were him, I would leave that little fact off my resume in the future.) The Ritchey Family preformed two songs, first being “Put Your Feet To The Beat” which still referenced disco long after the disco inferno had died out. (No wonder the group never took off!) The second song: “Give Me A Break” which, sadly, was not the theme song of the sitcom of the same name that starred Nell Carter and that young mega talent, Joey Lawrence. Dammit!

Capitan And Tennille: They performed their monster hit, “Do That To Me One More Time” and some BB King song called “Never Make A Move Too Soon.” You just gotta love the Captain, he has such a horrible shtick: he wears a Captain’s hat and plays some shitty keyboards, but he somehow managed to parlay that into a 30+ year long career. Tennille, during the group interview hyped up some talk show she was about to start. I suppose it wasn’t the big hit she thought it would be, because I never knew that she ever had a talk show.

The Electric Boogaloo did a special dance routine to a Bar Kays song, ” The Rocking Don’t Stop”(?) Whatever the song was, The Electric Boogaloo were fucking fantastic!

Soul Train Line: That “Don’t Push it, Don’t Force It” song that they played a week or two ago.

I was real proud of Don Cornelius this week, he didn’t do so bad during the interviews. However, the way he was kissing Captain and Tennille’s ass did made me sick to my stomach.

Well folks, if that didn’t do it, it can’t be done! Until next week, Don Cornelius, the Soul Train Dancers and I would implore you to go with love, peace and SOUL!

jareddriskill

a good mechanic is hard to find.

Just got my vehicle inspected today. It’s always an arduous task sitting in the lobby of the mechanic’s shop watching the Today show on a half broken television set. We all have to do it at least once a year if we want our transportation to be legal in the eyes of the state…

While waiting, I realized that finding the “right” mechanic is more important than finding the “right” spouse. In a literal way, you are trusting your life in the capable hands of your mechanic every time you sit behind the wheel. If you ever wonder “Hmmm… Did my mechanic installed my brakes properly?” every time that you leave the drive way, then it’s time for you to find a new mechanic. Transversely, if you ever wonder “I sure hope my wife didn’t sever the brake lines on my car.”every time you start the car before you go to work in the morning, I suggest you get a marriage counselor, like, quick.

Once you do find a good mechanic, like I have, you will always go out of your way to go to them for your automotive needs. Especially when you are mechanically retarded such as myself. (All I know is: you put oil and gas in the car and it magically works.) Don’t know about you but I would crawl through a sea of broken glass and Aids infected blood to go to my mechanic over somebody I don’t know or trust.

jareddriskill

goth wheelchair woman

I have witnessed what is perhaps the most ridiculous sight ever(!) yesterday. I was walking around, doing nothing in particular, as is my wont, when I saw a young woman in full goth regalia ( dyed black hair, white pancake make up with black lip stick, black fetish clothing, the whole nine yards) but she was in a mechanized wheelchair! Hilarity must surely ensue…

Goth Wheelchair Woman was all scrunched over to her left, with her hand (with black painted finger nails, naturally) which barely operated the joystick that contolled the movement of the wheelchair. Imagine the struggle her caregiver has to go through everyday not just only putting up with her needs, but trying extra hard making sure that the goth wheelchair woman’s ripped black fishnet stockings looked “just right.” This gives a whole new meaning to the old Fad Gadget song, Collapsing New People, “hours of preparation/just to get that wasted look.”

Well, if anyone is deserving to wear black on the outside because that’s how I feel on the inside, it’s Goth Wheelchair woman.  I know if I were wheelchair bound, I would be deeply depressed and I would do my damnedest to commit suicide at every waking moment. Let’s be honest with ourselves: if you were suddenly crippled tomorrow, you’d want to die too.

However, I did not get close enough to the goth wheelchair woman to see if she had that faint, but distinct, shit smell that all people in wheelchairs seem to have. ( I hate to sound mean and cruel, but it’s the truth!) I mean, why bet against a sure thing?

jareddriskill

“sue is fine”

Nothing says enjoyment like going to the DMV on a Saturday morning to take care of some business. Is it me or are the employees are extra surly and the clients have an extra dose of white trash in them on Saturdays? Resignedly, I take my number and then my seat.

I knew I should’ve taken a book along with me because the waiting area is packed. (Fuck!) This is going to be awhile, so I decide to instantly make up absurd life histories on the rest of the people in the waiting area based solely on their appearance alone. For instance, the couple in the matching dated nascar t-shirts are at the DMV to pay a non insured vehicle fee because the woman with the black eye lost her job at the McDonalds and therefore she couldn’t pay the car insurance on the couples shared battered beige 1993 Ford Tempo. Mullet McGee there couldn’t been bothered to stop drinking and playing the lottery long enough ( he always plays the numbers of his favorite drivers) and get a real job to help his woman out. Last night they got into a fight because she wanted to buy a 40 oz with their last five dollars and he wanted to play the lottery instead.

I was about to elaborate on how the old widower in the front row there lost his nest egg in a fraudulent pyramid scheme involving corn subsidies that his former wife (she controlled the family check book) was suckered into by a slick con man back in the 1980s, when I thought I saw Sue.

I wasn’t aware that my heart had stopped for a few seconds until I found myself recovering from a state of apnea, causing my heart and lungs to operate normally again. Although, “normally” isn’t the operative word when you think you have just seen your sister, who died of a drug overdose back in 1998. Though there is the slight impossible hope in the back of your mind that it is her. (There is so much that I had left unsaid…)

But, I allow myself to say “No, it can’t be Sue.” I had spent five minuted crying over her lifeless body at the viewing the night before we buried her on a hot, dry summer morning at Walford cemetery. It can’t be Sue because this woman looked like she has never have her entire family awake on countless, endless, sleepless nights worried about her and cursing themselves trying to find the moment in her life in where you had failed her and thus sending her down this dark path. “Oh, if only we could change the past and do it all differently!”

Her family were never scared each time the phone rang because they were afraid it would be the police with the news that they all feared to hear. A fear that became an reality that fateful summer night when Sue unknowingly bought a gram of pure Heroin and had overdosed. A fear, once finally actualized, that wasn’t as bad you thought it would be after all that time.

Her family didn’t spend her funeral in silence, accusingly eyeing each other as if everyone else was to blame for her downfall except for “me, I’m innocent. The relationship between Sue and I was right and pure you had to come along and poison her with your evil!” But the truth was: it wasn’t anyone’s fault at all. But at the time, we couldn’t let ourselves accept this fact.

Oh, how I wish I hadn’t allowed myself to accept the truth that it is not Sue! I want to run up to her and hug and and tell her how much I miss her and that I have forgiven her for the time she robbed my apartment so she could score some more dope. It was all just useless material possessions, they’re not worth to disowning a member of your own family, your flesh and blood, over.

I now find myself sweating profusely and in a state of extreme panic. What am I to do? I look around the waiting area as if any of the other people at the DMV would magically provide me with the answer- even the couple in the matching nascar t-shirts. (Please god, don’t let it come from them!) Then a voice over the intercom calls out: “Now serving 21274.” That’s my number! I walk out of the waiting area, instantly relieved and thinking to myself: “Whew! Glad THAT is over, I was about to lose my freaking mind back there!”

jareddriskill

Urban survival skills #5

part the fifth: clubs, bars and other amusements.

You live in the city and it’s night time and you are not content on staying at your house, what do you do? Why go to a club/bar/other hangouts and blow all your money, that’s what!

The only difference between a dance club and a bar, that I know of, is that a dance club has a bouncer at the door who never seems to let me in because I do not happen to look like Mr GQ Magazine. That and the whole point of a dance club is to go dancing, which is something I vowed, many years ago, to refuse to do in public. So it’s just as well that I am never allowed in the door at a dance club by the bouncer in the first place.

Bars. What can I say about them? They’re dark, smoky, steaming hot pits of despair. Would it kill the owners to turn on the air conditioning system or maybe a turn on a light… or two dozen? Yeah, I know that bars leave them off, because that encourages you, the customer, to buy more of their watered down drinks. ( Here’s a hint: to find out how watered down the drinks at any bar are, always order a coke before you order alcohol. The more it tastes like stale tap water, the more they are going to rip you off on alcohol later on.) What they seem to fail to realize it that the reason I go out drinking in the first place is to forget my problems at home. If I want to get pissed drunk in a dark, steaming hot room- I may as well just get drunk in my bedroom. (It would be much cheaper!)

Why is it that bar owners think that the only way they can attract customers is to have the music blaring so loudly, that you can’t even hear yourself think? (I just don’t know how bartenders and the other employees can stand the extreme noise night after night.) The thing that gets me is that I hear that people are well adjusted enough to actually go to bars to hook up with members of the opposite sex. ( Yes, I’m shocked too!) I don’t even know how that is even possible when you can’t even hear a person talking to you when they are shouting in your ear. Never mind the fact that it’s so dark in the bar anyways, that you don’t know who is talking to you in the first place.

Two more things about bars and I’ll leave the topic alone: 1. If there is a TV at the bar, why is it that it’s always tuned to a sports channel? I don’t know about you, but I just can’t get into sports because most of them involve men wearing skin tight pants and chasing after balls. Don’t know about you, but that just doesn’t appeal to me, thank you very much.

2. Bathrooms. If you ever have the misfortune to have to use the bathroom while at a bar, why is it that they are always smashed into pieces? Goddamn, people, have some respect for your fellow man! I don’t always want to play Indiana Jones and have to jump over a large puddle to questionable water just to use the urinal. Which, at it always turns out, is broken.

I suppose there are other amusements that one in the city can get involved in at night. Like, I don’t know, hanging out on street corners and in dark alleyways. Uhm, plotting revenge on your ever increasing list of enemies. ( You can do this during the day time also!) Or even going to the theater. ( I hear that is nice, even though I have never been to a play in my adult life.) Or you can be like me, just give up and stay at home.

part the next: those pesky roommates!

jareddriskill