The Curious Narcissist

You ever Google your own name? Maybe you have. But did you Google your band's name late last night and spend 90 minutes slogging through some of the worst "journalism" you've ever had the displeasure to subject yourself to? Of course not. You, sir, are not a fucking idiot. Me? Idiots Rule.

I read my own press. I've got the cojones to admit it. I'm not one of those elitist doughboys that will look you in the eye, light a cigarette, bend you over, and blow smoke up your ass about how I "never read about myself". I do, and I do it until my eyes bleed...or until I think about some Alisha Klass video that I need to steal from the ethers...whichever comes first. It's refreshing, actually. An affirmation, reminding me how much better off I am upstairs than the majority of the population that are stealing my precious oxygen, especially anyone that religiously and obsessively comments on rock/metal forums and/or message boards.

Probably every six months I'll pull the aforementioned idiot move, and I swear to whatever god you pray to that it makes me a truly stupider person. Not including the hideous drug abuse of my past, I'm convinced I've lost at least 9 perfectly good IQ points reading about myself and my band over the years. It's a given by now that the internet has indeed given every moron with more than three digits, a phone line, and a very loose grasp of English and it's syntax, a "voice". But, man...fuck...really?

I've only been to Blabbermouth.com maybe a dozen times, tops, in the last 7 or 8 years. Usually during one of my bi-annual, self-congratulatory internet search outings. You type in my band's name, and that bastion of good taste invariably pops up. But, hey, it's usually good for a laugh, and will almost definitely make you feel better about yourself as a human being in general. It's like being in a small room with one drunk guy screaming "Slayer!", one smug "insider", two guys attending "engineering" school, 23 guitar players, and a smattering of homophobes, half-wits, and lonley, angry, stoned 15 year-olds.

Basically, the youth of America. But they all love the metal. And you're a fag.

Anyway, apparently my band does not garner favor over there in IntelligentsiaHills. I think it may be that our logo isn't pointy enough. That, or we're either too hard or too easy to define. Too hard because there's a lot of stuff in there. I'm biased, but it's factually not a case of "if-you've-heard-the-first-2-tracks-you've-heard-the-whole-shtick". Too easy, because if you're not Slayer, well, you obviously "suck balls".

Tangent: I had a new section of our ridiculously expensive red leather Natuzzi couch delivered this afternoon. When you spend more that $3 grand on a couch, that fucker better be right. So they finally replaced the fucked up section they delived last month. One of the delivery guys took great interest in the Glock 23 I had on the coffee table. The guy in the kitchen estimating the patio door issue just looked kind of...edgy.

Segueway to...I am now, by the state of Minnesota and 13 other states, legally allowed to carry a concealed handgun.

And boy, do I. Everyday. Miami-style, I'm told.

Trusted citizen and all that. Who would of thought? The proud owner of a .40 caliber Glock (23), and a Taurus 1911 .45 ACP...all stainless steel and gold with pearl grips...a sexy fucking gun. I sent my brother a picture of it the day I bought it. His reply?

"G-g-g-g-g-g-gansta."


Alright, I'm done. Bored and losing focus.