GWAR, Me, and the Onrushing Grip of Death: Part 9
So we were set. The smoking lounge was chosen, the time was set. It was “the punks” vs. “the grits” in a fight to the death. Or at least until the bus got there.
Clash of Titans
(Photo by Matt Boron)
It’s been a busy and rewarding time. As long as you consider just barely keeping it together “rewarding.” My gig on Red Eye is still going strong, and I am surprised as anyone. I will be on again September 2nd, this time for the whole freaking hour. I swear I will bring back a picture of Oderus and Bill O’Reilly. Then we will know the Mayans were right!
I have been doing all kinds of inane stunts, from wrestling a savage redneck to diving into a gigantic pile of nachos. All of this in celebration of our new album, LUST IN SPACE and our 25th anniversary. Apparently there is nothing I won’t do, to whit…
Under a baking sun, and after shot-gunning several beers, I flung myself and about 50 pounds of rubber and leather into a gigantic pit of nachos. As I flopped about in the chips and goo, surrounded by people hurling wads of greasy corn meal at my nether regions, I sorta felt like The Hunchback of Notre Dame being whipped on the public block, except it wasn’t a whip, it was nachos, and I’m no hunchback! I pulled my head from the muck with a prolonged squish, and found myself staring into the face of Lamb of God singer, Randy Blythe, who was standing a few feet away from me with an expression that could only say…“Dude, I am so glad I am not you…”
Last time, this was what I wrote I would write about next time…
The colossal showdown, Ian Makaye, sexy scenes, genital shaving, my first blow-job (whoops thought I was supposed to do that this time, just remembered), and finally NUCLEAR DOG SHIT.
I always say that but never do! But using the miracle of the copy and paste keys, I shall keep my word!
The colossal showdown
So we were set. For the affront of hurling a paint bomb at me and my proto-punk friends, there was gonna be a rumble. And remember, this was from an era where such things were real– I could actually get punched or maybe even stabbed with a sharpened pencil! The smoking lounge was chosen, the time was set. It was “the punks” vs. “the grits” in a fight to the death. Or at least until the bus got there.
I spent the afternoon cutting classes and ended up hanging out by “The Little Theater,” as they called our… umm… little theater. For some asinine reason Conway Twitty was playing there, so we stole the last two letters of his name and drew a huge axe through his skull on the marquee. The rest of the day was spent getting a group of seventh-graders to beat the shit out of each other. I had a talent for manipulating people into doing awful things. Still do!
The hour finally arrived. Pretty much the entire school had heard about the big fight and everybody was there, smoking. The patch of cement between my now-iconic “Sid Vichyssoise Lives” tag and our end of the bike rack was the designated battleground. But there was some debate amongst the ranks as to who would be our champion. Being largest and loudest, the natural choice was me, but being at heart a wormy coward, I was all-too-quickly moved off my self-appointed pedestal as we began arguing about who got the honor of kicking Rusty’s ass—or visa versa.
As we argued we didn’t notice our enemies closing in on us. Suddenly Rusty stepped forth from the wave of denim and let loose with his peculiar war-cry, kind of a cross between some kind of prehistoric moose and a beer-belch. Sulfurous vapor (Marlboro Reds) escaped the plaquey chasms of his rotted mouth as his stout, keg-with-legs body marched right at us, expertly flicking his burning cigarette to the exact point where the soul of his boot met the ground and moved on—the features of his grotesque, pimply face writhed like a can of worms, actually bursting pimples. It was horrible!
Things assumed a slow-motion quality. Rusty was coming. My buddy Stiv (once again names changed to protect the guilty), a tallow-skinned individual with a rat-like countenance, reached into his jacket, hand emerging with a seductively uncoiling length of steel chain. Rusty pulled up short on his attack, his beady eyes fixing on the weapon which went from seductively uncoiling to completely ridiculous as it hung from Stiv’s hand, limp and useless. He looked like he lost a dog.
Always remember: SWING chains!
Everybody in the Smoking Lounge was looking at Stiv with amazement. Nobody had ever seen a chain used and it looked like they weren’t going to any time soon. To his credit, Rusty was the first to break the tableau. That and Stiv’s jaw as Rusty stepped up and teed off. Aghast, I watched him wind up and deliver his meaty fist into Stiv’s face with pulverizing force, a meaty sound that said ouch. The follow-through almost took Rusty off his feet but not Stiv. Stiv just stood there, wavering in the breeze, until a bright dribble of blood emerged from his lips, slashed down and off his chin, and onto the idiotic thin-tie he was wearing (Stiv was more New-Wave than punk). Then the lights went out. Stiv slowly toppled backwards, gaining speed, the forces of gravity and mass becoming clear, and as the shadow leapt to its maker they became one, and his journey ended with a colossal impact. He was out cold.
Now things went to fast-motion. I looked at Stiv. Rusty looked at Stiv. Then we looked at each other. The next thing I knew we had wrapped our bodies around themselves in a frantic embrace which took us to the ground and around the bike rack in a series of messy wrestlings. At one point I was able to get my adversaries face between my legs (lucky me!) and release a fusillade of blows on his juddering features. His crab-like eyes, wide with terror, rolled in their sockets. I could tell by the grease on my hand that I had struck home, and as he wrapped his stubby legs around my waist we continued to thrash about until Stark the Narc (real name and nick!), the schools security supervisor, burst in and put an end to the fray.
We didn’t get into any trouble. We never did, even though Stark said that we “got what we deserved” because we “dressed provocatively”. It was hard to declare a victor, so basically there was just a loser, Stiv, the dumb-ass who pulled out the chain and got knocked out with one of Rusty’s hammy hands. Rusty was a beast, and I had wrestled him to a draw, so I came out of it pretty well. The respect that followed was certainly better than what I had garnered from what would later be dubbed “The Vichyssoise Incident”. I did a lot better with “The Battle of the Smoking Lounge”. Maybe I could get laid now!
Next time : Ian Macaye is a dick!
(Confused? Get caught up with Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8)
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