As someone who's always looking forward to something really and truly big happening, I must confess that this whole impending end-of-the-world scenario has me quite down. And not just because I might not get to make fun of Dudley Manlove Quartet any more, or that there might not be any more nights spent at the Cha-Cha -- the ONLY bar in Seattle where you can do just about anything while drunk and no one will speak ill of you. (Except that gross, crusty punk who peed in the booth earlier this month, earning him the short end of bartender John Atkins' temper. Many spoke ill of him.) No, I'm most saddened because my fear of the end and of being judged harshly by you-know-who means I have to come clean with all of you, and confess my dirty little secrets and hidden shames -- the things that, had they gotten out sooner, would have prevented me from doing what I do today. You know, the cushy job where I work in the office 9:00 to 5:00, dodging all your calls, then spend the evenings out at clubs until 1:00 a.m. watching bands and drinking, raising a dog, and sleeping somewhere in between. Ah, Catholicism. It'll bite you in the ass even on Judgment Day.
So here goes:
I never saw Nirvana live.
It gets worse:
Once while slaving as an intern in a hipster sweatshop, a jammed sewing machine prompted me to shriek "Nirvana is getting on my nerve-anas!" as the just-released Bleach cassette churned loudly from the boombox sitting on my supervisor's worktable. I shudder and redden at the memory.
I may be a critic, but I don't take criticism well:
Back in his Cop Shoot Cop days, Tod A., after eating a spaghetti dinner in my home and then drinking almost an entire box of crappy red wine, made a drawing of me as der Führer. I suggested he help himself to the year-old bottle of spoiled cooking sherry moldering in the cupboard. He did, and I apologize to the city of Portland for Cop Shoot Cop's less-than-stellar show later that night.
I am a fraud:
I steal all my best one-liners from Rich Savignano -- a trick I learned from Everett True, who stole all his best one-liners from me.
I am tetched in the haid:
I harbor a near-obsessive hatred for Winona Ryder, and blame her for the demise and/or ruination of at least four once-great bands -- the Replacements and Soul Asylum, to name two.
I am a geek:
At the last Lemonheads show in Seattle, circa Car Button Cloth, I danced and sang along. It's a Shame About Ray is one thing, but Car Button Cloth?
I am jaded:
I sprained my eyeballs this morning when I read that Everclear will be releasing two albums in 2000 (if they get the chance), titled Songs from an American Movie, Volume I/Learning to Smile and Songs from an American Movie, Volume II/Good Time for a Bad Attitude. In a press statement, singer Art Alexakis said Volume I will showcase -- careful -- "more of an emphasis on harmonies, keyboards, and strings."
I am overly sensitive:
I nearly had an aneurysm when I read later that Alexakis is about to go all Courtney Love on us by landing a role as a drug-addicted car thief in a forthcoming Miramax film starring Heather Graham, Luke Wilson, and Casey Affleck.
I am B-O-R-I-N-G:
Who cares about me? Actually, several of you have made it quite clear in print and via e-mail that you don't. However, this may be my last gossip column, and I intend to end it with a huge revelation that will surprise and astound everyone.
I am a liar:
Gabe from Murder City Devils actually writes this column.
See you in Hell!
