BULLWHIPPED

Doesn't every town in the United States have one? I'm talking about a "morning zoo" irritation whose on-air persona is strewn with innuendos and calculated political incorrectness. Once the shock-jock's shift is finished, however, he retreats into an abyss of junk food and prescription drugs. The station's sizable ratings (thanks to a large population of ball-scratchers who couldn't get laid by a crack-addicted he/she on Jefferson Avenue) are only matched by the boisterous DJ's gut. During feel-good simulcasts such as a "living flag" representation to support our country's efforts in the Persian Gulf, "Mr. America" has a smile and handshake for each personified stitch of the Stars & Stripes. However, at less-hyped remotes like a broadcast from some new dealership, the AOR company's point-man bluntly answers a birthday well-wisher with, "Yeah, whatever." Occasionally, though, you'll find enough rope to leave the DJ hanging.

Approximately twelve years ago, Rack 'N' Sack (Farm Fresh's answer to Be-Lo Markets) opened a new store on Kempsville Road. Many booths were set up for free samples. Snack Wells, Bagel Bites, Coca-Cola, Oreo, Tombstone, Oscar Mayer -- no need to drop coin on lunch at the nearby McD's, because super-sized meals were for the taking inside this new grocery. Making laps around the 'Sack, I spotted "The Bull" hunkered in the pits between a Krispy Kreme display and the ATM. He was clutching a stack of FM-99 WNOR stickers (the very ones "listeners" had manipulated to read "MF-69 WOR" on their vehicles) and looking uncomfortable. Did "The Bull's" public turn out in droves to exchange one-liners with the man who'd brought humor into their miserable existences? Not exactly. Sure, a crowd of potential FM-99 types had gathered throughout the aisles of Rack 'N' Sack. But the throngs busied themselves with their wives and kids' free eats in lieu of trading war jokes with the now-sullen radio personality. Upstaging "The Bull" at this stop was a rotund 'n' smiling favorite from childhood...Kool-Aid Man!!! No less than 30 people were constantly at his liquid stand, drinking the flavored sugar-water and shouting "OH, YEAH!" at the walking pitcher. Enjoying a glass-o'-grape, I wanted to join the cheering section (HEY, KOOL-AID -- WYLER'S SUCKS!!!), but someone pointed me in the direction of bite-sized imported sausages from Vienna. Perhaps I should've thrown some non-potato chips at "The Bull" (HEY, BULL -- YOUR PLAY LIST IS SHIT!!!). No matter, since Kool-Aid Man had broken him in the head-to-head at Rack 'N' Sack by capturing FM-99's demographic, it wouldn't be long until "The Bull" was put out to pasture.

Turn the dial to seven or eight years later. I was at my favorite music store shooting pool with its then-co-owner Jeff. Both of us enjoyed several runs of four and five pocketed balls. Jeff asked me if I wanted to be in an 8-ball league with him. "I'll think about it," was my shaky response. As Jeff was setting up the ninth rack, "The Bull" walked in with several boxes of albums. I'm no estimator, but I didn't see much in the way of resale value placed on the counter. Maybe Jack Tripper would've gladly paid $50 for a Pablo Cruise 12" adorned with Peaches' Records & Tapes stickers. Perhaps Paul Hogan could've been persuaded for a cut of "Crocodile Dundee" residuals in bartering Men At Work's Business As Usual (draped in the center by a "Things Go Better With Coke And K-94" label). Amazingly, Jeff was able to find a few worthy items in the stock. He wound up giving "The Bull" forty or fifty dollars for the accepted long-kept freebie promos. I'm sure Jeff's action was charitable, for the DJ had been de-reined from his long-standing plum gig at FM-99 and was doing graveyard or worse at an AA (Adult Alternative) outlet. Bills in pocket, he said muchas gracias to the payer and headed to his Explorer. Five minutes later, "The Bull" reentered the stable to ask Jeff for a jump. His truck wouldn't start. I was in command of overseeing the store until Jeff returned from charging "The Bull's" battery. Alone inside, I counted the words that had been shared between myself and a local celebrity. Zero.

Gunther, you should have been nicer to a man down on his luck. He'd given so much to the community at large. He'd locked himself in a cage for over three days to raise money for the SPCA. He'd brought "bombs bursting in air" patriotism to sympathizers at Mount Trashmore. He'd gone to a Ramones concert on his own dime.


Yeah, whatever.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME REAL FOOD?

Everyone has been in a situation where his or her loose stomach suddenly becomes tied in a triple-sheepshank knot. You know the deal: a spouse or other companion invites you to share a meal with a relative of theirs. Though his or her intentions are usually good, unappetizing gruel such as haggis with blood sausage and pickled ram's testicles can cause irreparable damage to culinary taste buds...not to mention your relationship.

In 1983, my mother was involved with a gentleman named Larry -- who acted more like a glorified babysitter than a "dad" (excepting the time he became the only "father figure" to ever paddle my ass). One Sunday morning, the usual routine of waiting for the church bus was suspended. This was because Larry's mom -- a 24-hours-a-day-in-her-pajamas-type woman -- wanted her most intelligent son (7th-grade education -- no lie!) to bring his ready-made "family" over for breakfast. My siblings and I welcomed the change of plans, readying ourselves for some seriously good eats. After a 25-minute drive fighting with my brothers and sisters over an electronic hand-held Space Invaders-like game, we arrived at the "All-You-Can-Eat."

The house, located less than two miles from my mother's old high school, was a sprawling, two-story structure with a well-tended garden that was most assuring for first-time guests. Once inside, however, Mr. Miracle Grow's dream became Martha Stewart's living hell. Aside from the clothes piles and garbage tucked in every nook and cranny, the first things I noticed were the many televisions scattered throughout the place. Numbering about thirty, they occupied every bedroom, both bathrooms, the garage, den, etc. There were even a couple of non-working sets in the upstairs hallway that served as tables. The most impressive of all the boob tubes was situated in the family room. A three-panel stack of TVs, each had an important function. Top set was where the antenna stood, middle layer brought you the picture, and the bottom TV delivered not-so-crystal-clear sound. An early version of the home entertainment center, perhaps? Don't laugh. The triple-headed monster was equipped with full cable (including HBO). All of us were heartily introduced to Larry's mom and his six brothers. Dig this lineup: Lloyd, Leslie, Lonnie, Leon, Lynn, and Lance. No L-monogrammatic (as in Laverne) sweaters for this bunch. Eyeballing an old western ("Gunsmoke") on the triple-stack, we five hungry steers were corralled into the kitchen to chow down.

As I stared at the plate, my thoughts began to mirror those closest to me. We all gave the grub a "What the hell is this crap?" look. The main course, you ask? Eggs and salmon. Not just any ole egg 'n' salmon platter, it was the kind where chicken embryos are unstable and "catches of the day" would be thrown back by any sensible fisherman. To make matters worse, my least favorite foods at the time were (in order): 1)eggs, 2)fish, and 3)watermelon. Sensing tension across the crowded table, my mother (aware of the foods I most disliked) flashed me a look of great concern, motioning as if to say, "Try to get through it, son." Beaver Cleaver'd had it easy with those brussels sprouts, and the longer I sat paralyzed with fear, the more jealous I became of his predicament. Trying to stall consumption by devouring slices of buttered toast (the only edible item on the table), I waited and waited for my chance to abort such a lousy surf 'n' turf expedition. Fifteen minutes later, I finally caught a wave that would set me ashore. Besides the L-to-the-sixth-power exponential relations, Larry also had three sisters (Robin, Tina, and Rachel). The youngest one, Rachel, was a temperamental child who spoke in a whiny manner. On this day, she rewarded me with, "Mama, I'm not hungry. I wanna go to parrrk..." The pajama-clad pushover implored her youngest son, "Oh Lance, please take Rachel to the park." "Not now Ma, I'm eatin'," replied the idiot, wasting his get-out-of-jail-free card. "MAMA!!! I'M NOT HUNGRY!!! I WANNA GO TO PARRRK!!!" bellowed Rachel to 135-decibel effect. Although it was not my familial duty, I "kindly volunteered" to escort the hot-headed little one to the swings and sliding boards. Mama nodded in approval, and the two of us were soon in the sandbox creating sculptures. Dirt never tasted so good!

Less than a year later, my mother would meet the man that I've been proud to call my father for the past sixteen years. Our worries have been few. He doesn't like his mother's cooking. Or his mother.

The Glory Hounds @ Hoopla's - Northampton Blvd., Va. Beach, VA (12/7/02)

Figuring my bud Mike Keels hadn't seen a live rock 'n' roll show in quite some time, I decided to C-A-L-L A-T-T the man. Though he ain't the easiest person in the world to reach normally, Mike answered el telefono with a mouthful of Chicago deep-dish from the 'Hut. To be frank, Keels wasn't too jazzed about venturing out on this cooler-than-a-Paul Davis-song night. He'd felt more right keeping his breadsticks warm by the firelight, until I mentioned something about a Pagans cee dee (I'd burned him a copy of Everybody Hates You) and pool tables. At that point, Mike was ready for a $6.25 (the price of five games of 8-ball...damn the introduction of that fifth quarter-slot) love affair on the street where nobody lives. Once inside Hoopla's, he ordered the first of several Bass ales (not as robust as the ones he'd polished off during his stay in England, Mike would later comment). As for me, Pabst Blue Ribbon was nice at a $1.00 price...even nicer, considering Keels picked up my tab. Muchas gracias, Miguel! In between shooting stick, we noticed the fliers for upcoming performers. Molly Hatchet (all original members axed long ago) was a $20 ticket, Blue Oyster Cult (don't know what's left in their shell) wanted forty smackers, and Edgar Winter (friend of George Hamilton's) gave free rides upon payment of the service charge. Keels, a huge street-punk/Oi! fan, was shocked to learn that Splodgenessabounds ("Two pints of lager and a packet of BLOODY CRISPS," for those in the know) had been scheduled to play here back in September. Too bad for the cancellation, because "Wiffy Woman" (set to the tune of that Orbison classic) would've induced laughing and/or fighting. On this Saturday night, the best friends were found at the bottom of the glass.

The Glory Hounds gave us no aggravation, getting their action in on many cuts from the pop-rock gem Sex-A-GoGo. "Sorry" didn't need to say as much for its Cheap Tricks not taken for granted. "Porn Star" had boob-job lyrics ("She isn't easy/But she makes me hard") lifted from similar XXX-screen sirens Lit (whose Atomic el pee has also "got it and that's a fact"). "Baby Please" begged sweetly with T-Rexesque bended knee. "Spinnin' Round" was a Zander-ful waste of time and loss of mind at 33 RPM. Among the newer tracks, "One Night Stand" and "Come On" were most Marvelous (3) crankin' from the (American) Hi-Fi. Adding wacky throw pillows to the velour sofa, the 'Hounds furnished their upholstery with tips from noted decorators Generation X ("Dancing With Myself"), The Cars ("Just What I Needed"), David Bowie ("Rebel Rebel"), Buddy Holly ("Oh Boy"), The Sweet ("Ballroom Blitz"), and Bryan Adams ("Summer Of '69").

At the triple-set's conclusion, Mike asked Brian (singer/guitarist) about equipment and I wondered if he thought "Your Love" by The Outfield was a great pop song. Answers: 1)Six-string that I bought at the five-and-dime and 2)Yes, but I can't sing it with such a high-pitched vocal.

Aerosmith/Motley Crue @ Virginia Beach Amphitheater, Va. Beach, VA (10-21-06)

Original plans for this Saturday:
1)Spend time with my girlfriend, 2)Play tennis, 3)Watch the Tigers and
Cardinals square off in the World Series, and 4)Stay sober. Due to Lovie's
aching tooth and a sore elbow, I would have to settle for Joe Buck's
play-by-play and an imaginary bottle of O'Douls. However, a phone call from
"Black Bart" ixnayed the baseball. He had procured two tickets for the
nearly sold-out show and invited me and my sister Shannon to join him. Our
acceptance of the generous offer came less than an hour before the opening
licks, so we had to torch tread quicker than Dale Jr. The drive from Suffolk
was surprisingly short, and Virginia Beach's finest kept the entrance line
moving steadily. Once inside the gates, Bart was perched by the
lost-and-found section. Handing us our passes, BB still had to conduct other
business. Spotting two lasses from either the amicable country of Sweden or
the tulip-laden land of Holland, he pitched two good seats for a
mildly-inflated price of $250. The attractive blondes turned him down, of
course, but Ridgemont High's Damone and Larry from "Three's Company"
would've been proud of Bart. Oddly, this was our last face-to-face with the
shyster. Perhaps BB had to meet a curly-haired youth at Lynnhaven Mall
burnin' for Blue Oyster Cult tickets. Let's give the devil his due.

Speaking of the forked one, the Crue had already begun shouting at him
during our mile-long hike up the steps to the lawn area. By the time we
found a great spot on the lawn's edge closely behind the party tent, Vince
and company had kicked ass on "Wild Side" and drooled over "Looks That
Kill". Twin scorchers from Dr. Feelgood, "Kickstart My Heart" and "Same Ol'
Situation (S.O.S.)", sent me back to the 1989 grit lunch table at Bayside
High School. KISS-y pyrotechnics induced more time-traveling on "Louder Than
Hell." If I'm not mistaken, my brother Brian's first musical purchase was
Theater Of Pain -- which I spun constantly throughout the terrible year that
was 1986. Another act from the comic/tragic platter, "Home Sweet Home",
brought out appreciative cell phones and cigarette lighters. Personally, I
would've fired one up in the restroom at Brownsville Station and lamented
the "City Boy Blues," but it ain't like I threw tomatoes at 'em. Mick Mars'
sliding guitar unleashed a "Primal Scream" from the Decade Of Decadence,
which garnered extra hollers upon my subsequent discovery of his
degenerative bone condition. A make-out session with "Josie" and an Orange
chopper ridden onto the stage by Vince were perfect props for "Girls, Girls,
Girls." In my ninth-grade Spanish class at Churchland High School, the
students had to give a presentation on a favorite album of theirs. Troy
Liverman's pick was Chicas, Chicas, Chicas. A muy bien set, overall. But
leave it to Tommy Lee and tastelessness. Pandering to the white-trash rapper
crowd who actually owned the Methods Of Mayhem waste of plastic, the wannabe
MC led a "When I say Motley, you say Crue" call-and-response to the delight
of most. Even unlimited Jager shots wouldn't have made me join that choir.
Good night, fucker.

Dusting off the "Toys In The Attic" and briskly "Walkin' The Dog", the Toxic
Twins only hinted at the technical brilliance and bluesy comfortableness yet
to come. With apologies to Van Morrison, Bon Scott, and Terrible Ted, a
stripped-down "Baby Please Don't Go" was, by far, the definitive one I'd
ever heard. The juke-joint feel made me wish they'd summoned other standards
like "Train Kept A Rollin'" and "Milk Cow Blues" in lieu of the teeny-bopper
sing-alongs "Cryin'" and "Eat The Rich." Still, the sight of Steven Tyler
captivating 20,000 folks by simply blowing on a harp scored a "Big One" for
the old guard. "Devil's Got A New Disguise," the lone newbie, didn't mask
the Beantown Boys' winning song-and-dance routine. Eight years ago, I
compiled my favorite Aerosmith songs on a mixed tape for Lovie. "Dream On"
did not make the list. Tonight, singing through the laughter and tears with
our new pal "Drunk Dan" took us away. Deep cuts such as the riff-rockin'
"Draw The Line" and a slowly-changing "Seasons Of Wither" partnered well
with the DMC-less "Walk This Way" and an expressive "Sweet Emotion."
Standing near the front but not shaking his ass, Dan struggled to maintain
balance after umpteen cups of nine-dollar Miller High Life. After a third
and final tumble, he invited us to his place for beers and darts. The only
thing Dan would be throwing was up, so his wife wisely nixed the idea. Never
got the man's digits or address, but the not-played (WTF?) "Back In The
Saddle" is hereby dedicated to him. People like Dan are just as important in
recollecting memorable moments as those on the right side of the velvet
rope. Give him a drink, bartender.

Oh, my sobriety streak ended at ten weeks. I joined Lovie and Shannon for
pints of Sam Adams at Smokey Bones BBQ several nights ago. So much for
staying on that horse...

Joan Jett And The Blackhearts @ 24th Street Stage, Va. Beach, VA (7/4/02)

The triple-doppler forecast of horrendous humidity brought upon by tightly packed New Jersey tourists, scattered showers from the spit outta these people's mouths and threatening thunderstorms courtesy of the Greekfest reunion on 19th and Atlantic Avenue made me wanna stay inside by the record machine. Must've been about 17 minutes later when fellow Jett-ite jOhn A. told me to gather my dimes for the in-person jukebox. Oh baby, I could tell it wouldn't be long until the Queen of Rock 'N' Roll was with me...yeah, with me! But before our dance, it would take a little time to find a parking space. Rather than waste coin on a meter that needed constant nourishment, jOhn fed an officer of the law seven crisp one-dollar bills at the Vaaa Beeech Pavilion's entrance. The gentleman was on a paper diet and willing to share his weight-loss secrets in the form of tickets. jOhn had already pigged or cowed out, therefore, he kindly said no gracias to the gun 'n' badger. After a 35-minute walk on a path adjacent to pocket ghettos, surf shops and two old farts singing about a little deuce coupe repossessed from Charlie Falk Auto, the stage was in our sights. Sure enuff, a fair amount of fairweatherers had taken their spots on the grass. Some folks were waving stars 'n' stripes; others were wearing them. A drunken Filipino man on crutches, donned in Uncle Sam gear from head to toe, had his Polaroid snapped with some boy in a wheelchair. Not a split second later, Mr. I Want You was back at the beer tent -- Ain't that America? Though the fireworks laxtravaganza had been the weakest display of Chinese-American togetherness since my meal at the Happy Buffet several months prior, the throng surrounding us gave its collective chopstick salute to the not-so-crackling conclusion. Backfire from a '76 Pinto would've excited these easy-to-pleasers.

At approximately ten Pee Em, Miss Jett and the Blackhearts came out to the cries of The Who song NOT called "Teenage Wasteland" playing on a Library of Congress-sized bookshelf system. With the "Family Feud"-esque ending portion of the track complete, the band opened with one of the five numbers on my checklist ("Bad Reputation"). Most of the crowd probably didn't give a damn about this Ramones-y rock 'n' roll anthem, but those dolts need a Francis Scott Key to improve their station. 96-X? Oh no, not me. "Cherry Bomb" (check #2) made some of the daddies and mommas say hello. Despite my association of this paean to teen-age fun with Cherie Currie on vox, Jett had me and grabbed me until I was sore. "Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)," the third mark, gripped with glitter gloves and a molesting chorus. She didn't have to ask me twice. Yeah. Oh yeah. "I Hate Myself For Loving You" (#4) broke free, ran and came back to me. My cee dee copy of the el pee from which this cut appears on (Up Your Alley) came with a carefully placed sticker on the jewel case (97-Star...Plays More Hits!). To loosely quote a promo blurb of this long-gone spot on the dial, Jett always "gives us the phrase that pays." "I Love Rock 'N' Roll" (#5) had spent seven weeks on Casey's countdown as the numero-uno song in the Ewe Es Aye (1981 or 1982...nine-year-old naughty boy or ten-year-old troublemaker). Without a doubt, the majority of those with green stains on their white shorts had reserved sod seats just to hear "I Love..." before moving on. That's exactly what happened. Never mind the Blackhearts had at least five more tunes to perform; the view of lawn chairs folding, umbrellas closing and feet walking was upsetting to jOhn and me. But only briefly, for we moved forward to get a closer look and feel of a still-relevant rock 'n' roll legend. You can keep your Iggy Pop going like a weasel with his nu-found metal nuances, Aerosmith (brought to you by the Chrysler Corporation) performing children's music on Nickelodeon, and the Rolling Bones (thanks, Terry!) osteoporosizing their way through the 30,000th live version of "Not Fade Away" and charging $250 for the decomposition. Me, I'll take Jett -- who is still doing alright with the boys in my estimation. "Don't Abuse Me" and "The French Song" were the evening's surprise "deep cuts," while "I Wanna Be Your Dog," "Roadrunner," "Love Is All Around" and "Everyday People" were different strokes by different folks made Jett's own with her first vocalization.

Near night's end, I made a comment to jOhn that few people on Earth have more rock 'n' roll in their blood than Joan Jett -- the artist known as Pink could sure use a transfusion.

The Heavy Sleepers - s/t (Holy Cowboy, 2001)

This three-piece from Vaaa Beeech must've been catching some Rip Van Winkles under a tree since Two-Triple Zero, for I wasn't aware of the 'Sleepers' bedside manner until several weeks ago. My pal jOhn A. tossed me their EP like an illegal Frisbee on the Oceanfront sand. Fortunately, the pedal-pushing policewoman only gave jOhn a warning, thus allowing me to keep the flying disc. I won't be throwing this well-rounded object into File 13 anytime soon. Wham-O! Retro-modern (oxymoron is necessary for differentiation) rock that's very much like the kind Dave Kendall used to roll on "120 Minutes." The 'Sleepers would've awakened the Boston-area Em Tee Vee viewership had they napped in the late-80's, as they remind this sheep counter of pleasant dreams from the Lemonheads/Pixies/Buffalo Tom triumvirate. Amplified acoustics ("Glue And Feathers" and "Vanished Cage"), buzzy-guitar brawls ("Mae" and "Almost Always") and garage grunge ("House On The Hill" and "Wait A Minute") comfort the listener like a bed of nails from Mattress Discounters. Sharp! Have a good night sleep on them.

The Mockers - Living In The Holland Tunnel (One Eye Open, 2001)

Producer Mitch Easter, somewhat known for fronting Let's Active but mostly remembered as the man behind the controls of Really Exciting Music's finest hours, makes sweepstakes winners outta The Mockers on ten of these twelve very fine entries. "It Wasn't Just Me" moves to the beat of the ultimate slow dance -- that 0 BPM twist 'n' turn called heartbreak ("I don't think you meant it/Told me that you thought it's for the best/Then why'd you have to go and do The Macarena on my chest?"). "Pearly Gates" doesn't require a 700% tithe to Mister Robertson's wallet for admission to its enclosed community ("Heaven's not a country club/Some can join and some are snubbed/Depending on the church where you have been/It's all just within your mind/And there's no gate to hide behind/To keep all the people out you don't want in"). "Robin's Problem" is that she has too many ("...Attention span like MTV without a television/...A 2-D girl in a 3-D world on a monetary mission"). "C'Mon Over To My Side" wants its subject to cross Maturity Street ("Day by day, you're older now/Just leave that all behind/You say you'll change the way things are/Why isn't now the time?"). For investors of all eras pop (be it '60s Ewe Kay or '80s Gee Aye), the smart money is on The Mockers.