I wrote this for a class in college, and instead of posting something new, I figured I would share something I’m actually very proud of. Enjoy.

I am traveling to the City of Angels to visit a close friend and for what seems like an eternity I turn and focus my attention on the slow-moving ground below. The Sierra Nevada mountain range stretches for nearly 400 miles along the eastern border of California. These behemoths are home to Lake Tahoe, Yosemite National Park and monstrous sequoia trees which often boast a circumference that would have Paul Bunyan breathing heavily. From 30, 000 feet this land is like the surface of a freshly-fallen leaf, its canyons and rivers resembling veins running down the sides of the ranges’ vast torso feeding the valleys below. The Owens Valley is a wasteland of sorts. When one is flying west the view from coach quickly turns from virginal white powder to brown barren terra-firmer. Looking south down the valley the only signs of civilization are miniscule service roads running in straight lines, un-obstructed by office buildings, townhouses, or elementary schools.

“Sir¼Excuse me¼sir¼”

I blink and shake my head startled by a gentle tap on my shoulder. It’s the flight attendant asking me to buckle my lap belt as we will “¼soon be making our final descent.”

I remember my purpose onboard this commercial flight, with its bloated first class section (20 rows with optimal service and “free” cocktails), and its cast of New York and Los Angeles finest, which includes a former Lakers player seated roughly 25 rows in front of me. Flights from New York to L.A. often carry an interesting mix of people all whom seem to be fixated on their business outside the fuselage, lost for over 5 hours without use of their mobile devices.

Our plane climbs above the San Gabriel Mountains and slowly settles into the airspace above “the basin”. Listening to a channel which offers the air traffic control broadcast I hear the pilot wish his crew and the folks on the ground a “Happy New Year” in between flight instructions and instrument readings. He could be thousands of miles or a cab ride away from his family, lover, or lonely apartment. I know how far I am away from home and all I want is the company of my friend, a cigarette, and if all goes well an iced-cocktail at some point before what I believe is 10 p.m. Pacific time.

Exiting the terminal I make a phone call and after nearly an hour of searching I find Nicole’s car and we head off. A nighttime tourist in L.A. will mostly notice the lights, millions of them illuminating the sky into an orange haze without a trace of the cosmos drifting above. The city where the mountains meet the sand is something one might see in a science fiction novel, millions of people jockeying for position both in the street and in their lives. We drive along the 110, the 210, the 115, as the sun disappears along the Pacific tucking conveniently behind the downtown Los Angeles skyline. Palm trees dart up from the neighborhoods along the freeway as if painted to distract you from some of the dilapidated homes. Extreme wealth and devastating poverty are divided by invisible lines which are rarely crossed. A few blocks away from the base of Beverly Hills, you can find a homeless man inside a cardboard box, laying on his back, a few feet away from Jack Nicholson’s star on the “Walk of Fame”. Drugs and crime are just as much of a part of Hollywood, as cameras and limousines are.

Nicole moved out here going on three years ago, and has done well for herself. After a divorce, a series of 24 hour work days and an impressive resume of film and television projects later, she has settled down in Tujunga, California. A midsize town on the side of a mountain, that most country-folk would call a city. A place known for it’s down and out, not necessarily it’s up and coming. The entire town leans west slanting toward the ocean and the higher you travel the more wealth you encounter. Nicole’s apartment, a steal at 990$ a month, is near the top of one of these streets in a complex with a remote-controlled entry fence, installed for purposes of security as well as aesthetics.

We make our way to Sun Valley, a secluded, PG-rated suburban town, just west of Tujunga. Out the car window, the landscape whizzes by as my mind races to take it all in. One level houses, mostly manila, stuck-o walls with red thatched roofs, their spot-on South Western attire. The mountains to the starboard side oversee our trip, keeping a watchful eye on the sparkling metropolis below. We take a seat at a sushi bar at which she is obviously a regular. The chef smiles and says what I assume is a greeting in broken English. It is hard to forget the girl with jet black hair, a full sleeve of horror movie tattoos, and friendly demeanor. We sit and talk. I spend most of the time listening. I am happy to be there, to hear how her life is going and to leave mine behind for a few days. The room holds a modest weekday crowd, mainly working-class couples and a handful of children, smiling over their eel, tuna, and octopus. Sushi is a big industry on the west coast and Nicole has fallen in love with it. I chew what I believe is eel and try to keep from gagging. A cell phone rings and Nicole answers, after a series of monosyllabic exchanges she turns, grabs her glass and proposes a toast:

“My mom just said ‘They just hung Saddam.’” She offers.

“Huh, Cheers,” I say, noting the historic event.

The next morning, I find myself opening the refrigerator searching for a drink but only find three cases of varying energy drinks, a bag of grated cheese and pita-bread.

“Yea, I’m sorry dude, we need to go shopping for the week, only stuff I have are the drinks I get from craft-service, and toilet paper left over from the set,” She says, later explaining that she has only purchased toilet tissue twice since she moved from Newburgh, New York to L.A.

“We’ll grab breakfast and then run a few errands I really have to take care of, if you don’t mind.”

Of course I don’t mind.

We make out way into the punishing, bright California sun, bound for the Burbank branch of her union office. Los Angeles County with a population pushing 10 million is a microcosm of the entire United States. People of all socioeconomic backgrounds make their home in various neighborhoods within 469 square miles. A great number of its residents transplant themselves here from other parts of the country to start a new life, or escape a past one. For Nicole it was a desire to achieve both that landed her here. Small town gossip and limited opportunities made the decision easy.

She joined the local after paying five-thousand dollars in dues at the beginning of her second year on the west coast and cut her teeth as a member of the crew on various low-budget horror films. The union offers steady work, desirable benefits, and an income that most people at her age of 23 would kill for. At her age, she is a successful special effects artist and set dresser, but instead of using a keyboard and mouse to craft her work, her monsters come to life with plastic and clay.

“I never wanted to be a computer geek. I’m a horror movie geek and I want to make zombies and dead-people. There is a huge difference.”

Many younger adults in Hollywood are caught between tabloid pages and the shadow of their millionaire parents, but Nicole has avoided the tinsel town machine and kept her New York sense of pride and street smarts. An admirable trait in a town where all too often ones desire to achieve leads to exploitation and scandal.

We arrive at her union hall, a fairly modest building in a palm tree-lined alley off of Ventura Boulevard with glass doors and a waiting area much like an emergency room. The walls however are peppered with black and white time-capsules of American icons rather than dime-store paintings. Bogart in his famous fedora, Burbank soundstages in 1954, Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like It Hot”. Someone from my parent’s generation would more than likely be overcome by feelings of nostalgic remembrance of days gone by. As we make our way to the counter I recall our purpose here. We are here to pick up the “dailies”, which she later explains is a report of all the movies that are being shot in and around Hollywood. We get into her Honda, cut south and merge onto the 405. I open the large publication which offers nothing of supreme interest to those outside the film industry, except a roll-call which includes some B-list actors.

“Get it? 405 , as in ‘It’s gonna take 4 o’ 5 hours’” she says as she rolls down the window, tying her hair back and steering with her knee. I am familiar with this joke but laugh anyway. I notice that she hasn’t changed much since our time spent in New York. In public she often attracts curious glances, most are unaware of her professionalism, work ethic and success that has subsequently come with it. People in her profession wear casual clothes, no need for costumes or makeup. Today it’s wrinkled green shorts, a tank-top revealing the large green and black tattoo on her chest and red sunglasses with jet-black lenses.

“No use in getting gaffing tape on your Prada shoes.”

We arrive in North Hollywood to drop off the “dailies” with a friend of hers who she works with from time to time. She asks how she looks and I tell her. My answer is correct, and we slowly creep down an ominous driveway running behind what looks to be an abandoned factory. Windows along the top of the building have been busted out and graffiti lines its aluminum siding. As we get out of the car a huge metal door swings open and the air is thick with the smell of super glue. This is the shop where she is currently working. At first glance it looks like a category-four hurricane has torn through the metal building and decimated everything in its path. Bubble wrap lies on one side of the room, ash trays overflowing beneath a forest of empty coffee cups, presumably the by-products of all-night projects. On the work bench, a white, freckled face looks at me with deep, horrified blue eyes and a severed jaw. Beside it rests a green, bulging mass with three red eyes. I trip over a power-cord and shake hands with Rob, her partner in slime.

“Did you hear about that NBC project in Pasadena? We tried to get on that but we were here until about 4 this morning finishing up the prosthetics for Matt.” Rob yelps over the sound of a power sander whining from across the room.

“I am going to see him tonight; I will see what I can do.” Nicole answers.

They continue to talk business for a few more minutes as I flip through a picture book showcasing a short history of their work. After exchanging pleasantries we turn and leave.

4 hours since our departure from Tujunga and we are finished and can now go shopping.

“Who was that?” I ask Nicole, previously noticing a change in her attitude upon entering the dank work space.

“Well he worked on ‘The Mangler : Reborn’ with me and then kinda’ had a thing for a while,” she explains. “But that’s over, and if he found out that Matt and I are seeing each other I think I would be fucked out of work at that studio for a while.”

Their business is in a way about everyone else’s business and how to avoid getting caught in it all. Pleasing the “right” people and partying with “wrong ones” can make a world of difference when trying to land a job. Periods of work are nothing like the normal nine to five. Nicole tells me horror stories of working for three weeks with an average of two hours sleep each night. Sleeping in cars, being in the desert without a bathroom or running water within 50 miles, driving to Mexico, paying the police south of the border three-hundred U.S. to get back into the country. Glitz and glamour. She explains all her adventures with bursts of manic laughter and an unadulterated enthusiasm which gives away just how much she enjoys her work. Even when describing the most laborious episodes, her tone shows her interest in telling the tale again. She enjoys it. Weeks are often spent building sets and props which in most cases are overshadowed by the people reading the script. The time between projects is spent sleeping and getting business in order before the next marathon begins.

“Before you came I hadn’t cleaned my house in a month,” Nicole explains, “But I really I haven’t been home for more than 3 hours at a time, and when I am here, I’m in bed.”

Two days later we are sitting on the couch in her living room grappling with more run-of-the-mill issues. All day she has been on the phone with the Department of Motor Vehicles, the bank, three of her bosses and is visibly upset. It’s New Years Eve and the millions of people in this time zone are gearing up for that infamous 10-second countdown. We are sitting trying to balance a checkbook and pass an online traffic-safety exam before 5 pm so she can keep her driver’s license. The L.A. traffic has yielded four tickets in the past year. I pet the resident pooch “Link”, and ask her what is on the agenda. According to her sources there is a party in West Hollywood that sounds like it could be fun, but may just be a bust. She mentions Matt’s house as a possible destination, seeing as he will soon be leaving for two weeks to shoot a pilot. Noticing her look of confusion, I tell her to relax and that we will stay in if she would prefer.

“No, No, we are gonna have fun tonight I just need to figure all this out before I do anything, I’ll be right back.

She leaves to pick up the mail and I look around her apartment which by now, is familiar and comfortable to me. However, a few things catch my attention. A picture book personalized and signed by the cast of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” rests on a shelf next to a replica of a human skull. The couch I’m sitting on is covered by a blanket used in the recently released film “Bobby”. As the sound of a motorcycle rumbles past, the front door opens and Nicole returns wearing sweat pants, and a navy blue t-shirt which reads “Newburgh Free Academy Softball 2001”. The mail plops down on the coffee table sliding like a wave washing up on a beach, and she picks out a piece that perks her interest.

“What the hell is this?” she asks, knowing I have not the slightest clue. Finding my way back to the grocery store would be a stretch, I am not the person to be making postal predictions. She opens the envelope and quickly reads the message while mouthing words here and there.

“HOLY SHIT!”, she screams and startles both the dogs and myself. Link barks sensing that something is wrong.

“It’s a check for three grand!” she says between bursts of delirious laughter.

One of the union jobs she worked on reported having a budget of roughly 5 million dollars but they ended up spending twenty-five. The production company was audited and all union workers were compensated for the wages they should have been receiving while shooting was taking place.

I laugh and celebrate with her as she calls her friends and plans a night out to dinner and a party to follow.

“I’m taking you guys out; this is gonna be the best night you have had in L.A.”

Arriving at a dimly lit one-level house in North Hollywood, Matt’s house looks overwhelmingly unfriendly. The moonlight and Los Angeles glow guide me as I push open a large, complaining metal gate, stepping slowly to avoid falling. I round the corner and wait for Nicole who carries Link in her arms.

“This place is kinda odd.” I say, less concerned now but more intrigued.

“Just wait until you get inside.” Nicole answers with a laugh.

The door swings open and a bald man of about 5 feet 6 inches appears with a wicked almost sinister smile. He welcomes us and shakes my hand, saying how glad he is to finally meet me. I enter and there are two older women, probably in their early 40’s sitting smoking cigarettes next to a smoke invaded bar. One is over-weight with teased blonde hair and a low-cut white blouse. She pulls on her cigarette and looks directly through me as if I am not even there. The other is a skeleton. Her cheek bones look like they are trying to escape the skin that wraps itself around them. She rises and makes her way to the rest room inching her way through a cloud of smoke that hardly notices her movement. Her arms both held out on either side of her body drift along with her, moving up and down like a diseased maple tree in a sudden storm. Both of them look devoid of any emotion. Empty stares suggest that they once had something great and have spent years looking for it, but instead have gotten lost while searching. Nicole does not know them either so I make conversation with her about the surrounding decorations. One wall is covered completely in replica medieval weaponry and samurai masks. Two huge leather couches, a projection screen and a circular glass table fill the living room. It is less of a house and more of a museum or art gallery with a kitchen. A credit card with the name “Julia Geffin” rests on the edge of the table, accompanied only by an empty beer bottle and a crumbled soft-pack of Pall Mall’s. At first I find this strange but as I return to the kitchen to grab a drink, I see the two women snorting the stuff off of the bar. One nostril pushes closed face down. It’s not like the movies. Most people take the drug without sounding like a Hoover vacuum. As soon as I mix a drink for myself and one for Nicole, the two women say goodbye and leave. I don’t know Matt, but I am sure they stick around because he has the coke. Nicole had told me about him and shown me his work but I still did not know what type of character he was. He carries himself in a very mysterious, introverted, quiet way. He mainly asks very precisely worded questions and spend the majority of a conversation listening to the answer. He rarely asks follow up questions and relies on you to think what he would ask next. At first this annoys me but I grow to appreciate it.

We sit around the bar, and Nicole leaves to pick up a few things from the store. I am left alone with Matt.

“So I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from her.” He says as he takes a pull from his cigarette slants his head and holds it in, as if waiting for some far-away camera to roll.

“That good to hear”, I reply.

Nicole returns and brings a friend of hers. Manford is a heavy-set Mexican man with tattoos all up and down his arms as well as on his neck. Much to my surprise he gives me and hug and asks me how I like L.A. I raise my eyebrows, because right now I feel as if I am in one of the movies that these three make. The unexpected sign of instant acceptance is appreciated and I feel a bit more comfortable. He explains that he has worked with Nicole on a few different shoots and is hoping to start his own record label soon.

Nice enough guy. You know what they say¼ “Don’t judge a book¼”

“Nicole, when are we going to figure out how the budget is gonna work for Josh’s movie?” Matt says.

“Well, I think we need to talk to Michelle first and see how far in she is willing to go on this,” Nicole explains. “I mean we need at least another seven to get the rake scene to work, or at least look good. The filler putty they gave us was the wrong color and if I am going to be working on Kimmel I can’t devote every waking hour to this thing we might not make a dime on”.

Each one of them has an ability to negotiate even within a presumably friendly atmosphere. Getting the leg up is what all of them want, the question is how far they are willing to go to get it. Matt mentions how he “did blow” with the writer of a new film project and that he feels he will be able to get Nicole on the project. Coke is the glamorous drug of Hollywood and has enticed young people for years. Nicole had her time with it and now prefers Kettle One gimlets over well-cut lines. I fix her another while talking to Manford about my plans after college. 4 limes, 4 ice cubes, 2 shots. After they finish talking business, we talk art, music, our respective influences and passions. Manford prefers Pacifico over Corona, Matt thinks “The Breakfast Club” was John Hughes’ worst film. Good conversation never goes out of style, no matter how strange or foreign the venue. An hour goes by, three, six, I glance at my watch and it reads 5:37 a.m. I decline offers to sleep in Matt’s guest bed and make my way to the couch and fall asleep with my face firmly pressed against the cold leather in a house paid for by fake blood and prosthetics.

I awake to the sound of Nicole’s voice,

“We gotta go if I’m gonna get you to your flight on time”, she says softly.

I rise and soon learn that we are taking a friend of hers along with us for the ride to Tujunga and back downtown. Mackenzie is the younger brother of a famous actor, and dresses like Sherlock Holmes minus the hat and pipe. He has also acted in over 30 films, his most notable being his childhood stint on an early 80’s sitcom. He is an extremely eccentric fellow, who is the product of a family full of industry-types. We make our way down the road. I talk with him and we exchange general information about ourselves knowing damn well that both of us are in no shape to care. He is still high and hasn’t slept in over 24 hours and I am running on 2 hours sleep without substances floating through my veins, but delirious anyway. I glance over and squint at Nicole and see her expression change in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, she cuts Mackenzie off:

“Hey, I just realized I left something at Matt’s. Is it alright if I go back?” she asks, and I sink lower into the seat as images of LAX’s main terminal and my departing flight flash against the back of my eyelids.

“Oh shit, well, where are we? Van Nuys? ¼Well we are right near a friend of mine’s if you wanna drop me there.” He answers.

She agrees to drop him off at his friend’s apartment behind the Bombay Garden Girls! Girls! Girls! Building.

I say goodbye and flinch as the door slams shut. I sigh and look over at Nicole and try not to say anything to upset her, wanting to scream.

“I didn’t leave anything at Matt’s, I knew he had a friend around here and just hoped he would say that. I know you’re tired, I’m gonna call the airport get you a later flight so you can rest, will that work?”, she says.

“Why? You don’t have to do that, I can sleep on the plane, it’s no big deal”, I say the words and wonder if I mean them.

“No, it’s my fault we were out all night. I was trying to get Mackenzie to work on this new film of ours, but even after agreeing to it I knew he would hardly remember this tomorrow because of how fucked up he was. You are my best friend; I don’t want you thinking this is how every day is, because it’s not. This is not normal. I was trying to get ahead a bit on this project and I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. Let’s go home get some sleep and we will go to the airport tonight instead.”

I stutter for a second and then manage to thank her then I lean over and hug her.

As we stop at a red light on our way back through Tujunga, I look over at a black man dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, yellow tie, holding a young girl in one arm and a briefcase with another, slowly making his way down a long driveway. A big yellow bus pulls up in front of them and abruptly stops as its air brakes hiss. He kisses the girl on the cheek and smiles as she disappears up the steps and onto the bus. It’s just then that I look down at my watch and remember that it is a Friday morning.

Stone Temple Pilots – May 31,2008 @ The PNC Bank Arts Center

I can’t remember the first time I heard Stone Temple Pilots. I would be lying if I said I did. I was 9 years old when “Core” was released, 11 when my personal favorite album “Purple” dropped. I know for sure it certainly on the radio. I do however remember seeing the video for the song “Plush” when I was in 6^th or 7^th grade and how I was drawn in by a weird guy with purple hair and awkward facial hair swaying towards and away from the fisheye lens singing about some girl and dogs finding her. As the years rolled by I grew to love this band that sounded Seattle but were a little less doom and gloom and a little more rock and roll. I have a few records that remind me of summertime and time spent in the sunshine over the years. All of STP’s records (with the exception of “Shangri La-Dee Da”*) have meant so much to me and have gotten me through a lot of tough times. Even songs that would have bored me 10 years ago, are gorgeous and moving now that my tastes have matured and I appreciate what the band was doing. (See: “Atlanta” or “Adhesive” or even “Seven Caged Tigers”) To me they are more than just a 90’s flash in the pan alternative band; their music has moved me and made me feel great on countless occasions. It is one of those things that are difficult to explain, I simply love STP.

I never had the chance to see the band while they were together and I was angry and disappointed that I had missed out. Knowing Scott Weiland’s habits and the bad blood that had split the band up, I was convinced that I would never see the band live.

So, naturally when it was rumored that STP would be reuniting for a summer tour, I figured it was an out and out lie. Much to my surprise the announcement was made that in fact STP would indeed be getting together for a string of shows. I nearly fell out of my chair at work and called everyone I knew who shares an equal appreciation for the band. I got my tickets when they went on sale and looked forward to the show for months.

So on the afternoon of the 31^st , Heidi and I headed down the Garden State Parkway and eventually got to the PNC Bank Arts Center. This was my first time visiting this venue so I had no idea what to expect. Our friends were in a particular lot and had been tailgating but we were not able to meet up with them so we parked and headed to the amphitheater. When I got onto the lawn the first act Ashes Divide was finishing up and they sounded pretty good. I was unaware that Billy Howerdel of A Perfect Circle was the front man, but I was happy to see him playing music because he is an incredible musician and songwriter.

We met our friends just as Filter was taking the stage. They had great stage presence and were a really good opening band for any show. A good mix of melody and heavy crunch really set the tone for a good rock show. Just as they began to play “Picture”, the skies opened up and the lawn people, who were praised multiple times during their set, were treated to some rain. They finished up with the classic “Hey Man, Nice Shot” which I can honestly say I was really happy to hear. When they walked off the stage the time was 9:00 PM…and no one in the crowd knew what we were in for.

As we waited I talked with a few friends mentioning how excited I was to finally see STP and how lucky we were that it wasn’t pouring. More chatting with friends…and more waiting…and waiting…and…

Around 10 PM people started to chant S-T-P, the chants and cheers began shifting over to “Boos” and it was clear that the crowd was not pleased to be waiting over an hour for the main band to begin their set. “WE WANT REFUNDS!” some people chanted towards the stage. Heidi and I took a walk to the bathroom and refreshment area since we figured it would be another 15-20 minutes before anything happened. I sent a text message to a friend of mine who was not attending telling him that I really feared that a riot might break out if they didn’t perform. I saw frustrated people leaving as we walked back up to our spot on the lawn, and couldn’t help but think if I should be doing the same.

Finally, Robert, Dean, Eric and …Scott made their way onto the enormous stage. Lots of people around me booed and others cheered while I stood and just looked on, feeling not excitement or anticipation but disappointment and anger. Not the way you want to feel when you are about to see one of your favorite all-time bands play. I figured however that STP would come on and play an awesome set and blow everyone away and make us forget about the ridiculously long intermission. Scott apologized for keeping us waiting, and the band limped into the first strained notes of “Big Empty”. I love the song but as an opener it’s like having a gun pointed at your head and upon pulling the trigger a “Bang!” flag pops out. The song doesn’t really kick you in the pants like I think a good opener should. Some of the guitar slide notes were off and Scott sounded pretty bad. Mumbling words and missing cues here and there.

Next was “Wicked Garden” which should have been the opener. As they busted into the song’s strong heavy verses, I felt sad because after all these years of anticipation the show was something I was now in some ways simply putting up with and not necessarily enjoying. Scott had hardly any stage presence and in a half-assed attempt to “connect with the fans”, he walked along the side of the stage past the PA causing high-pitched feedback through a multi-million dollar sound system. I must say the band themselves sounded pretty on throughout the night and had their standard issue STP stage presence, with a few minor exceptions.

The next few songs were more of the same with Scott forgetting lyrics and basically speaking the words that his voice couldn’t handle. This really got to me. I guess it is old age, heroin and a few thousand cigarettes but his voice is really not what it used to be. Even when he was strung out or wired on tons of different drugs, the vocal chords pretty much stood up even if he couldn’t. I have seen dozens of bootlegs and even when he was in bad shape he could hit the notes from songs on “Purple” and “Core”. Before “Lady Picture Show” Scott began telling some story about a girl in very slow, mumbled fashion and the band began the song, cutting him off mid-sentence with obvious intent to shut him up.

After coming to terms with the fact that I was not going to be seeing a knock-down drag out rock show, I tried to watch, listen and enjoy myself as much as I could given the mood that had been set. “Coma” “Sin” and “Sex Type Thing” were the highlights of the second part of their set, and Scott seemed to wake up a bit and really work and get the notes out pretty well.

The encore was another favorite “Dead and Bloated” with the classic megaphone vocal intro. It was a good way to end the set and was one of the best sounding songs of the night. At least they ended strong.

Overall the show was underwhelming. I think it was the level of my own expectations and the simple fact I didn’t realize a few things I should have thought about before going to the show. For one, the band has always been unpredictable. They’ve cancelled shows, even tours before due to internal conflict the majority of which was brought on by Scott’s drug use and legal troubles. They didn’t make it to the European legs of their last two tours because before they made it overseas things, fell apart at the seams.

One thing became abundantly clear to me as I thought about the show during the following days. Hits. Nearly every song they played was huge on the radio and MTV and still to this day gets played on rock stations as regularly as Zeppelin AC/DC and other huge acts from over twenty years ago. That shows you the impact their music has had on mainstream rock and the industry in general. You could put their music in a time capsule for the 90’s and it would fit perfectly.Their music will not be forgotten any time soon, but neither will the reputation of their front man. The name Stone Temple Pilots while being associated with some incredible music is also associated with drug use, arrests, inconsistency, arrogance and wasted talent. Google “Scott Weiland” and you are sure to find a fair share of mug shots.

Most of the big junkies in music either died or threw in the towel long ago. Those who died may have aged gracefully or unfortunately ended up being a sad replica of the artists we once loved and related to. The artists that brought us joy in spite of pain, happiness instead of despair. The question is, when do we as fans of such a great group, say that we’ve had enough. I would say I am concerned for Scott’s health but in all honesty I really don’t care. He has done this to himself and as difficult as addiction is, he is becoming a parody of himself at this point. He has a supportive wife and two children and that should be the most important thing. He has the resources and time to get clean, it just never seems to stick. If they put out another album I would buy it, but listen to it thinking about the concert I saw and how the singer seemed to be forcing himself through the performance and not enjoying himself at all. How is that supposed to feel?

Millions of people have bought STP records, DVDs, shirts and supported the band through good and bad times. If Scott is thankful for all he has been given, and he should be, it sure doesn’t show. It’s a shame that for a reunion tour celebrating such a huge catalog of memorable music simply reminds us of what made the band split apart in the first place.

The music will always hold a very special place in my heart, but it sure won’t feel the same as it used to.

I have always been a big fan of Saturday Night Live. Sure it fell off there for a while, with the Sanz being one of the only funnymen left on the show, but I never let that over-shadow the skits that I hold near and dear to my heart even to this day. One of those is a classic skit with Robert Duvall and Garth Brooks facing off in a game of “Who’s More Grizzled?” hosted by one of the most underrated guys on the show, Norm Macdonald.

I thought this one was so good in fact that a friend and I actually dressed up one Halloween as if we were competing on the show. An extensive online search for a video clip of this skit, came up empty and I was left to read a script of the performance and let my memory do the rest.

Just now I was sitting here finishing up what is to be my last paper of my undergraduate career, and saw an old text file containing the script of the bit. I figured it was worth a search to see if someone had posted the clip since I last looked..and sure enough Google came back with numerous links to blogs and other discussion boards. The problem? All the links lead to a youtube clip which is no longer available, presumably the victim of NBC’s far-reaching internet gestapo.

I understand copyright law. I know all about it, and to an extent I understand. But when a little skit which was in no way as popular as say “Celebrity Jeopardy”, pops up on the internet and a few people enjoy a laugh and a look back at something they previously enjoyed, is it really that harmful? Is GE that strapped for cash?

Thanks , NBC for the buzzkill…Now, I’m off to eat dinner and dream of a day when Tina Fey has her own network and has a healthy crush on this guy behind Drydocked.

Check out Skaggs Design’s ad for Toto high efficiency toilets. If I had any talent for design at all, I would design the hell out of some awesome stuff like this. Instead, I post pictures of wrestlers and mention how many “hoes” a certain rapper has in area codes across our great nation.

Also thanks to my friend Joe for sending me this link, which is coolest youtube video I have ever watched. (NSFHP) (Not safe for hungry people)

“I’ll throw an insurgent’s face straight into the turnbuckle!!!”

To say I have not been writing alot on this blog would be a huge understatement. What can I say? It has been gorgeous out in New York, and the time I would have spent surfing the net looking for current events malarkey to make fun of, has been spent outdoors. I did some awesome hiking and even some camping…felt good to be outside.

However, something came up that demanded I address it here on my little corner of the internet. Last night, all three of the presidential candidates appeared on WWE’s Monday Night Raw. Here is McCain’s video which I personally found to be just as uncomfortable as listening to him speak on his plans for well, just about anything. My god…here is my favorite quote, from his amazing speech:

“And Whatcha’ gonna do when John McCain and all his McC-ainiacs run wild on ya?” – John McCain (A candidate for the presidency of the United States)

My answer Senator: When the McC-ainiacs run “wild” on me? I think a mid-tempo jog for about 150 yards should do the trick. Make sure to have the campaign physician and the inhaler on hand for that little scuffle. Don’t get me wrong I respect him as a war hero and that is something that will never change seeing as my father fought in the same war. I just find it kind of sad seeing Senator McCain trying to keep up with two younger and more “appealing” ::cringe:: candidates in a race that is more and more about appealing to young voters.

Other highlights from the candidates WWE appearences include Hilary’s request to be refered to as “Hil-Rod”.

Not to mention, an appearance by Senator Obama: “Do ya smell what Barack is cookin’? Is it pot roast? Empanadas? Finance reform?

WWE? Really? I understand that not everyone is interested in the same things as me, but wrestling is something I could never understand the appeal of, especially in its form nowadays. I do know that next to NFL football is the one of the most watched television “sports” events every week. Two of my band mates love wrestling and actually take part in a regional wrestling “league”, I guess is the best term. I don’t understand their obsession with it, but I support them in their hobby and try to seem somewhat interested when they bring it up. But anyway…

As easy as it is to see Barack reading off a cue card, he sells it so much better than the other two. He seems like a chill dude…but that’s what a lot of people felt about someone else when they were campaigning for the presidency. Not that I feel Obama is capable of causing as much harm as the latter example has,( noone can really), but is he up to the task of trying to stop the bleeding?

As I have said before, it is upsetting to see how appearance and public persona so easily overshadow what will happen when one of these candidates puts their right hand on the bible, and is sworn in to lead our country in what is undoubtedly one of the most crucial periods we have ever faced.

Thanks for reading.

I was wasting time a minute ago and came across this amazing little blog. Remember that song? Oh, 2001. ::sigh::

Aaaaanyway, Keith Olbermann is the man. I mean I could care less about Hilary’s image, I already think she has done enough to tarnish it herself. Without getting too much of a political discussion, I will say I pray to God, she does not win the election. Her voice shreds the very essence of my being. If you don’t believe me, YouTube a speech of her and tell me you wouldn’t just love to kiss a moving train.

This whole Ferraro fiasco is kind of hilarious. She’s made such racist, ignorant comments and in what was such a close race toward the convention, her association with Senator Clinton has widened the “delegate gap” considerably. Thankfully someone is taking the fall for not speaking out against her “regrettable” comments.

In the world of sports, the NCAA tournament is still awesome. At this point even for people who are fans of college basketball, can’t figure out who the hell is going to the dance or who Uncle Robby should bet his Rolex on. It’s all pretty damn confusing to me, and I think I have a popular strategy for March basketball viewing: stick to the two or three teams you can actually name players on, and pretend your life is on the line. And for some gamblers that may very well be so.

I should never stop mid-blog. This is what happens, you get fragmented nonsense. Oh well, back soon with something a bit more inspired. I promise.

Imagine for just a second that you were born and raised in a part of the world untouched by news media. I know it hurts but try. Imagine coming to America today, March 13th, 2008, and seeing what has the media scrambling for the (true?) story. The internet, television, I-phones, news and information whenever and wherever you want it. Elliot Spitzer fetishes ,gas reaching $4 a gallon, Shelley Duncan’s high slide into second, the Rockets 20-gamer, NCAA action, bubble teams.I sometimes ask myself what my life would be like without all of these trivial bits of information floating around in my head. I guess it is all in the information we seek, however some tidbits are harder to ignore. Information and news stories are now accessible through so many different means, that it has become hard to differentiate what is real and what is “reality”. (Sadly that term has been tainted.)

On the one hand, the wealth of information helps us find out all we want/need to know about the topic whether it be a new draft prospect, a story of sex in the oval office, or Britney’s new haircut. This being the far more popular face of sensationalized “news”, which the majority of Americans prefer. However, within a political realm, the internet, and blogs just like this one make it increasingly more difficult for casual citizens to unearth the facts. During an election year this problem is especially troublesome.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that talk of economics, foreign policy, and leadership of our nation isn’t the most flashy coin in the jar, but it should command some attention. It isn’t at all wrong to retrieve information from less “traditional” outlets, in fact thats absolutely a safer bet. Those “traditional” outlets are the ones pimping 24-hour-a-day REALITY.

According to the Nielsen Ratings for last week, American Idol was watched by roughly 28.3 Million people, with the closest news program being a 20/20 special on the Royal Family. Seems as though we care more about foreign royalty and psychotic “singers” than we do about relevant current events. (Maybe those 20/20 viewers were researching Simon Cowell’s heritage?) Which is why money will continue to be pumped to back this system of distraction to make sure we keep paying $3.50 for gas (if you’re lucky) and voting for candidates in elections because “He seems like you could have a beer with him”. It feels good to be distracted from all these tough issues facing us at this point, but at what point should we stop and remove to dressing at stare at these wounds in their rawest form.

I guess it all has to do with the choices we make and information we seek in a world where it is all at our fingertips. It is time we realize how lucky we are to have such incredible resources, and use them to make informed decisions about things that will affect this generation as well as those who aren’t here yet. The longer we sit on our hands and take in whatever is fed to us without questioning things, the longer it will take to fight back.

Welcome.