Unfathomable Miscellany
Felix Thursday
Bleach Head Nation (Which Almost Turned Out To Be A Night On the Town
with Limp Bizkit): Felix takes The Lord of Death and Garren backstage at
the Anger Management tour and pisses off Wild Bill.
You have to understand something about big stupid tours like
Anger Management (the TRL-fest featuring Papa Roach, Limp Bizkit,
Eminem and Xzibit): they are a product--just like CDs, T-shirts, and
often the very performers who comprise them. They are directed at a
pop-cultural wasteland that embraces pro wrestling, Pokemon and
Penelope Cruz--the Sega Genesis Generation--and are coveted more than
a Ronald Reagan jellybean by the big industry executives who profit
cloven hoof over fist off the teenaged droids who are willing to
sacrifice fifty of their parents' dollars to attend them.
Normally, nothing in the world could persuade me to go to one of
these Fred Durst-A-Thons; however, I was willing to sacrifice a little
of my time and intellect to see Papa Roach play for the first time
since going multi-platinum. The last time I saw them was in San
Francisco on the Warped Tour, and they hadn't quite settled into their
success. I was curious to observe whether they had acknowledged their
popularity, and if they possessed the same congeniality. Plus, they
put on a fucking great show.
So I called up Dreamworks (P.Roach's label) to procure tickets
for the three-second attention span extravaganza, so that I might bask
in the glory of Papa Roach's prodigal return to their quasi-hometown.
Dreamworks denied my request for six tickets and six photo passes, but
were obliging enough to grant me two tickets and one photo pass (the
industry standard). They forewarned me, however, that the photographer
(who would be Wild Bill) had a chance of being "escorted" out of the
building immediately after shooting Papa Roach (with his camera).
This, they claimed, was beyond their control and was left entirely to
the discretion of the tour organizers. I entertained the notion of not
informing Wild Bill, just so I could see him get forcefully ejected
from the building for protesting a stipulation totally unbeknownst to
him. I reconsidered, though, because I assumed that he would be my
transportation to and from Sacramento, and I knew if this occurred he
would leave me stranded without remorse.
I still had the task of procuring more tickets (for my esteemed
constituent, Garren Hanon, who I promised to take with me) and
negotiating additional photo passes (to shoot Limp Bizkit and Eminem)
for Sweet William. This required me placing a call to Interscope
Records (Limp Bizkit's and Eminem's label). I was told by Limp
Bizkit's "people" that I'd have to wait until the day before the show
for final confirmation. The day before the show I did indeed acquire
their consent--for two tickets and a photo pass (which were sent to me
via Federal Express).
A problem did arise, however, when Sweet William (a former Fed
Ex employee) informed me that the courier service did not deliver to
my sequestered residence on Sundays. Sweet Will made a call, though,
and we were able to intercept the tickets at the Federal Express
depot.
When I opened the envelope, I found that there was an extra
ticket. This mandated a call to Sacramento resident, The Lord of
Death, Sean Gibbons. The Lord was a childhood cohort of mine and
Garren's who was forced to evacuate his place of residence in Yreka
for (among other things) planting bass (the fish) in his swimming
pool. I was not sure if The Lord of Death would want to join us,
however, for his taste in music is practically limited to what Garren
refers to as "The Death" (that's, uh, death metal in the Hanon
vernacular).
After some initial protest from The Sweet Lord ("I hate those
Bleach Head Nation bands, dude"), he finally consented. Evidently The
Lord had lost part of his hearing the night before at a Testament
concert, so his equilibrium was off and he was a little sluggish--even
for Thy Lord and Master.
We met The Lord at the Arco Arena and went directly to the Will
Call window to retrieve our remaining tickets and passes (supposedly
there waiting for us). Not there. "Try the security gate," they
suggested. At the security entrance there were all the other members
of the press (evidently advised as we were) gathered around. No
tickets, no passes. So, we waited. We waited and waited. Still, no
tickets. The security people eyed us conspicuously. I eyed them back
with contempt. The typical "Who are you again? Who do you work for?"
bullshit ensued. One official-looking person after another came out to
give us the Grand Inquisitor treatment--no one was getting anywhere
with the Arco Arena's staff.
Garren and The Lord were patient. Wild Sweet William was not.
Papa Roach started playing and Wild Bill finally lost it and started
screaming in his indecipherable Wild Bill way--which sounds like
someone with a swollen tongue yelling. About halfway through the
second song, the photographers were finally led into the arena to
shoot pictures (totally supervised, of course). Five minutes later,
they were back. See, it's fairly common for photographers to only be
allowed to shoot the first three songs--those poor saps got stuck with
one and a half. Sweet Wild Bill was raging and elated at the same
time. Our passes had not shown up yet but Coby (P. Roach's singer)
picked him out in the crowd and announced to the audience that:
"section M is in the how-youse!" (or house)--interpreted to mean that
we were present and he was acknowledging us. It's a hip-hop thang,
don't ask me.
As for Garren, The Lord, and me (and the other writers), we had
still not been allowed admittance. Papa Roach ended their set, and
still no one had come to let us in. I suggested that we give Wild Bill
one of the tickets and sell the other two outside and go to The
Spaghetti Factory and eat and drink all the money away--or just drink
it away. Garren suggested that if we did that, we could call the
article "A Night on the Town on Limp Bizkit"--I liked that idea.
Suddenly, a "real decision-maker" came out and asked what it was
that we needed. I said "I need four tickets, a photo pass and four
all-access passes. Plus, I want a box of Arco Arena stationary, 25
Arco Arena pens, floor seats to a Sacramento Kings home game and an
exclusive contract for Hanon's Floors To Go to refurbish the arena."
The guy walked off. I assumed that I had totally blown any chance of
acquiring anything from the arena staff now, but I felt vindicated for
having to wait so fucking long. About two cigarettes later, the guy
came back and asked if I "knew anybody". I told him that I knew Papa
Roach, and he looked at me like he didn't know whether to believe me
or not. Out came Papa Roach's tour manager. He asked me what I wanted.
I told him that I just wanted to bask in the glory of Papa Roach's
prodigal return to their quasi-hometown and that I could give a fuck
about Limp Bizkit or Eminem or the stupid fucking Anger Management
tour apart from that. He asked me what I needed and I told him four
all-access passes. He told me that the Anger Management tour didn't
even have all-access passes, but he would give me four passes to the
Papa Roach party--which I accepted.
Papa Roach's tour manager led us through the security zone and
backstage past a bunch of weird-looking machinery and crates to an
elevator, and told us to get off on the second floor. We did as we
were instructed and came out in the Sacramento Kings' conference
room--which delighted The Lord of Death, for his is a fan of
basketball almost as much as he is of "The Death".
Papa Roach's friends and families were socializing and drinking
beer. We didn't recognize anybody, so we sat at an empty table. Across
the room I spied a bartender. "Let us have a drink and share in this
merriment (or something like that)," I proposed, and we made our way
to the bar. We each received cups filled with what I think was
Budweiser or Coors. "Is this a bottomless cup, dude?" The Lord
inquired (meaning "is it refillable?"). "Yes, I think it is," I
responded, and he grinned with much delight. We then proceeded to
drink the first of many beers that evening.
From the conference room we could hear Eminem. He sounded
exactly like he does on his CD. I mean exactly--makes you wonder. The
Lord of Death was staring at the floor. "Is that a dollar bill?" he
asked, pointing to a crumpled-up piece of paper next to Garren's shoe.
"I don't know," Garren responded with indifference. "Maybe it's one of
those Jehovah pamphlets," spoke The Lord. Garren did not heed The
Lord's conjecture. "Pick it up!" The Lord commanded. "I'm not picking
that fucking thing up," came Garren's reply. "It's probably attached
to a string or being videotaped." "Are you too proud to pick up a
dollar?" spake The Lord. Garren hesitantly reached for the obscure
paper article and handed it to The Sweet Lord. "It's a dollar!" cried
The Lord.
Soon after, the elevator doors opened and in walked Coby.
"section M is in the how-youse!" he yelled, and walked over to our
table and sat down. After conversing for a while he said "I've got to
make the rounds. I'll be back." A few domestic beers later, Coby
walked by again. he toasted us and we all drank--except for Garren,
who was pretty ploughed. "It's bad luck not to drink after a toast,"
Coby said. So Garren drank to placate him.
No smoking was allowed in the Sacramento Kings' conference room,
so each time I wanted to have a cigarette I had to step into the
elevator and go two floors down by all the crates and weird machinery.
The Lord of Death joined me, and in our domestic beer-drunken stupor,
we decided to see where our orange Papa Roach stickers would grant us
admittance. We followed a troupe of photographers (which included Wild
Bill), assuming they would lead us to a close view of the stage.
Everything was going well until The Lord dropped his keg cup. The echo
from the plastic cup hitting the concrete floor seemed to reverberate
over the music, through the entire building. Immediately, two Arco
Arena security guards descended upon us. "You're not allowed here!"
they told us. "We were at the Papa Roach party and we got lost," I
said, pointing to our orange stickers. "You're not allowed here!" one
of the big dumb security apes repeated. "We were at the Papa Roach
party and we got lost," I repeated, pointing to our orange stickers.
"Go that way!" the ape commanded, pointing in the opposite direction
of the Papa Roach party. "We came from that way," I told him, pointing
in the direction of the party. "Go that way!" said the ape. "We came
from that way!" I said, pointing, again, in the direction of the Papa
Roach party. "Do we have to escort you?" asked the big dumb ape's big
dumb ape buddy menacingly. "Yes," I responded.
I thought that was it--everything was over and we were getting
kicked out of the Arco Arena. They "escorted" us to an elevator, like
two stormtroopers from Star Wars. "Get on the elevator," the big dumb
ape told us. We got on having no idea where we would end up. We came
out at the top level of the Arco Arena. There was nothing to do but
comb the perimeter and hope that we could find our way back to the
party. The Lord looked inside one of the corridors and spotted some
people from the party. "Hey, there's our party!" he shouted. We
pointed to our orange stickers and we were let back in.
Back at the party, The Lord of Death walked around with the
dollar bill Garren picked up off the floor for him earlier and had the
members of Papa Roach sign it. By this time The Lord had lost all of
his inhibitions and was acting like he was at a Yreka keg party. "I
don't really like your kind of music, dude," he told Tobin, the bass
player, "but I heard a couple of your songs on the radio and they were
alright." "Thanks," Tobin said, and looked at me as if to inquire if
The Lord was dangerous. I was laughing. "Don't fade out and become a
has-been, dude," The Lord advised Tobin. Tobin said nothing and looked
bewildered.
We made our way back to our table and a kid--like 10 or 11--sat
down and introduced himself as Coby's brother. Coby's little brother
is a cool kid. We asked him what kind of music he liked and before he
could answer, The Lord Almighty told him that he should be listening
to Slayer, Venom and Cannibal Corpse. Coby's little brother had never
heard of any of those bands.
Garren had had way, way, way too much to drink, and decided he
wanted to go out and see Limp Bizkit--the band he deplores more than
any other. I knew immediately what Garren was up to--which was getting
us into a lot of trouble. "Don't do that, man," I pleaded. "We're
outnumbered, like, 25,000 to 3." It was to no avail. I went along with
Garren and The Lord hoping I could terminate any trouble before it got
started. As soon as we left the party, Garren started doing his
patented "Milk Chicken" walk (don't ask). I anticipated the worst, but
no one took any notice...or they pretended not to. Limp Bizkit really
sucked.
The three songs that the photographers were allowed to shoot
were up, so I tried to gather up The Lord of Death and Garren so that
we could meet Wild Bill back at the party. This proved to be a very
tedious task since Garren was not quite finished doing his Milk
Chicken walk and his Girl Screams. By this time he had added jumping
up in the air to his repertoire (I don't get it either). I finally
managed to persuade them to come with me to meet Wild Bill. I knew
that if I went alone I'd never see The Lord and Garren again.
Back at the party (again), we bid Papa Roach adieu. Coby's eyes
looked red and swollen. "Go home and get some sleep, man," I
suggested. "I'd like to but I can't," he said, sounding totally
exhausted, and gave me a hug. I felt really bad for him.
Anyway, we found Wild Bill and he was all pissed off (what's
new) because some security guy busted him for smoking and took away
his orange Papa Roach sticker. I told him to save it for later so we
could get the hell out of the Arco Arena before Limp Bizkit was done
and avoid traffic and the Bleach Head Nation. He conceded.
Garren was staggering drunk. The Lord was surprisingly sober
(or, at least, he appeared to be). I was pretty fucked up, and Wild
Bill wouldn't stop bitching. Garren tried to do one of his jumps and
fell. He wasn't hurt. As we were walking to Wild Bill's car, we looked
behind us and couldn't see Garren. I feared that he had hurt himself
doing another jump. Ten minutes later, he emerged from behind a row of
vehicles. I think he fell down but he claims he was urinating behind
the smallest tree in the Arco Arena parking lot.
We went to The Lord of Death's house and visited for a while and
listened to the Dead Kennedys' Bedtime For Democracy. Garren's wife,
Kim, and The Lord's wife, Dena, had been doing a bit of drinking, too.
This left only Wild Bill sober (for once).
We began our trek back to Sonoma County, Wild Bill bitching the
whole way. Garren and Kim fell asleep in the back seat. I tried to
sleep but just as I would doze off Bill would start yelling "Fuck!
Fuck!". Then the miserable bastard made me listen to Modest Mouse. I
was drunk and tired and could not sleep and I had to listen to Modest
Mouse. Still, I maintained my composure and let Wild Bill sulk all by
himself.
Back at Wild Bill's house in Petaluma, the place of our
departure, I realized that I was too drunk to drive. It was 5:00 in
the morning so I had to call my girlfriend to pick us up. She was
displeased. I felt bad.
This article appeared in section M magazine, Issue #19, March 2001.
This article, also, sort of hints at why I fucking hate Modest Mouse.
Wild Bill and The Elusive Leather Pirate done ruined me on them.
