Time to kill

I have some time to kill before the bourbon and percosets kick in and knock me out, and I figured I'd type a bit. Where to begin?
Oh, yeah, I know;

FUCK PUSHED! FUCK THEM IN THEIR STUPID ASSES!

Why the animosity, you ask? (You did ask, didn't you? No? Well, fuck you, I'm writing about it anyway.)

As you recall, I was supposed to play my last three gigs with Pushed last week. Thursday at Pub 46 in Clifton, Friday and Saturday at The Tropical Pub in Belmar. I was really looking forward to it. I took off work on Friday, so I could drink my ass off Thursday night, get some sleep, and leave early for the shore, to beat the weekend traffic. I was going to hit the beach for a bit Friday afternoon, play the gig that night, then crash at Todd's beach house.

Saturday I was going to meet up with Mrs. Bungle, hit the beach again, play my final Pushed gig, then head either back to Todd's, or to Mrs. Bungle's brother's place a bit north of Belmar. Big Plans.

What happened? Glad you asked. Even if you didn't. I got a message from Frank (the singer of Pushed) Thursday afternoon basically saying that their new bassist was ready to play the gigs, and they were going to use him for the weekend. That's fucked up. Frank said something like "We'd rather have you in the band, but you can't commit because of your obligation to Quick Kill, and we're afraid that if we give you these gigs, we may lose the new guy." Some bullshit like that.

Fuck that shit. We had a verbal agreement at the start that I was to play those shows. The new bassist knew this. I really don't think he would have had a problem with it. I had assurance from the band a week prior that I was on those gigs. I made plans for the weekend revolving around those gigs. I was going to make $425.00 from those gigs. That's fucked up. You don't do that kind of thing to a working musician.

So, I left Frank a message basically saying I thought they had acted very unprofessionally by yanking those gigs away from me on such short notice. I explained how I had planned my whole weekend around those gigs, and most importantly, how I was counting on that money to cover a few bills. Messing with my money is like messing with my emotions, bitch. I concluded by wishing them luck with the new bassist, then said something to the effect of "If it doesn't work out with the new guy, don't bother to call me. I only work with professionals who honor their agreements." Something like that. I really wanted to go off on the guy, but what's the point? Shitheads like that will never learn.

I later heard through "the grapevine" that Frank was trying to pass it off onto Corey, the guitarist. Bullshit. Frank runs the band, not Corey. I think Frank's just afraid I'm going to show up at one of their gigs and kick his ass. Fuck him, it's not worth it. He's too tiny to bear the brunt of my wrath. Matter of fact, fuck all three of 'em. Whoever's idea/decision it was to gyp me out of those gigs, at least one of those turds should've stood up for me.

Ah, the fickle nature of "the music business."

So, with my weekend unexpectedly wide open, I improvised. Thursday night was "dollar drafts and other people's prescriptions" night at The Grasshopper. Friday was spent sleeping it off. Friday evening DeanO, Rob ("Sugar Brown"), and I chilled in my backyard, drinking beer and Wild Turkey. I hardly ever get to see either of those two retards anymore, so it was good to hang out and catch up on things.

Then, The Arrival Of Mrs. Bungle! Since our Saturday plans got fucked, she decided to head up here Friday evening for a night of old-school self destruction. DeanO had to head back home early (family obligations), so the remaining three of us met up with The Flananagans and Big Daddy Den-Den at Casey's in Wayne to see Daddy Pop!

This was not my idea. I have a bit of a "history" with one of the members of Daddy Pop (see above about people not honoring their business agreements), and haven't been in the same room as that person in a few years. Now, I don't really give a shit about any of that anymore, having soundly won that particular "war of words." This person found out the hard way that I cannot be beaten, for I have nothing to lose, and will resort to all manner of evil shit to attain victory. I just really didn't feel like seeing this particular person, and I was fairly certain said person would be less than thrilled to see me.

Mrs. Bungle, however, thought it would be a hoot. Since she was my guest, and I'm nothing if not a gentleman, I abided by her wishes, and went to the show. The band was great, as was expected. Even though I had had issues with the one member in the past, I never denigrated his musical ability. I think everyone I was there with was expecting me to get hammered (which I did) and start some kind of trouble (which I didn't). Perhaps I've mellowed with age, or perhaps I'm just saving up my rage for those who truly deserve it. Time will tell.

After Casey's, Mrs. Bungle, Den-Den, and I headed to (where else?) The Grasshopper. Mrs. B. hears me talk about that place all the time, so I figured I'd show her the scene. All of my usual drinking pals were there, and of course, a Club Infartos After-party quickly took shape.

Club Infartos did not disappoint. I shall not go into any details. What happens at The Club, stays at The Club. Suffice to say, everyone came away with a few special memories. Heh.

Okay, the pills are kicking in, I need to finish this shit up in a timely manner...

Saturday evening I went to a CD release party in East Rutherford for Phlamencore Records. It's a label run by Marc Rizzo from Ill Nino. They just released a CD sampler, and put "Time Dies Slow" by Quick Kill Formula on it! That's the second sampler we're on (Streetcult being the first-check our website for more info). The party was cool, I met a bunch of people, had many drinks. Check out http://www.marcrizzo.com He's a really nice guy, and we appreciate his help.

From there, I went to a party about half a mile from my house. I got there around midnight, and grabbed the first bottle I saw. It was Cuervo. Oh shit. Me and tequila are an interesting mix. It brings out the El Infarto in me. At around 3am, I stripped down to my boxers and executed a graceful cannonball into the pool, tequila bottle in hand. Bear in mind, no one had been in the pool all night. Soon enough, though, about half the party had joined me in "The Doom Pool." Fun stuff.

I don't know what time I got home, or how the hell I evaded any "Imperial entanglements." Dumb, drunken luck, I guess. I woke up Sunday afternoon with my still-damp boxers carelessly draped over my bass amp, and my T.V., stereo, lava lamp, and desk lamp still on. And I couldn't find my shoes. It turns out, they were on the hood of my (parked at an interesting angle)car. Why? Who the fuck knows.

Sunday night I sat in as the house bassist for open mic night at The Ringside in Caldwell. I basically have the gig until the end of the summer, when The Betty Ford All-Stars return to host. (Except for this coming Sunday, because I have a Quick Kill gig. We're opening up for D.R.I. at The Downtown in Farmingdale, N.Y.) It was Spunk's birthday, and the drinking was epic. There's always a great crowd in there on Sunday nights, and it's always interesting to see which songs I have to fake my way through from week to week. Good practice.

Fuck, I have to wrap this up, I'm hammered. So, even though Pushed fucked me over this past weekend, I had a great time. I got to hang out with some pals I don't see very often, meet some new "industry people," go swimming at 3am, and generally behave like a retard. Life is good.