Well, now we know what Axl was talking about in “I.R.S.” And I quote:
“Gonna call the president, gonna call myself a private eye/gonna need the I.R.S., gonna get the F.B.I./gonna make this a federal case, gonna win it right down in your face!”
Yesterday, Antiquiet blogger Kevin “Skwerl” Cogill was arrested by F.B.I. agents for alleged violation of federal copyright laws. You see, Cogill is the guy who posted nine very legit-sounding tracks on Antiquiet back in June that were supposedly culled from the long-awaited sixth Guns n’ Roses album Chinese Democracy. The Feds visited Kevin shortly after the songs were posted and he freely admitted to his quote-unquote crime. Why they waited until yesterday to drag him in is anyone’s guess. My theory is Axl Rose is crazy and he ordered the F.B.I. not to move until August because of some lame astrological bullshit.
How long has Axl been in the game now? Three decades? Shouldn’t he be used to people bootlegging his shit? He’s only been working on one of the most anticipated rock albums in history for the past thirteen years. Like everyone isn’t trying to get a piece of that. Calm down, Axl. People are gonna be all up in your Kool-Aid until Chinese Democracy comes out. What’s up with calling Johnny Law anyway? That’s not very rock n’ roll. Stop taking your Scott Weiland-related rage out on poor, defenseless bloggers.
How much you wanna bet the arresting officers are huge old school GNR fans who were like, “Yeah, let’s bag this fucker for Axl!”? How much you wanna bet part of the F.B.I. entrance exam is knowing all the lyrics to “Rocket Queen?” How much you wanna bet I downloaded those nine Chinese Democracy tracks back in June and wrote an epic blog entry about them?
While we’re on the subject of the biggest waste of money since Leonard Part 6, if Chinese Democracy doesn’t come out this year, I think America should file a class action lawsuit against Axl for blocking the distribution of free soft drinks. I want my Dr Pepper, god dammit.
Concerning my quest for New Coke: the Yap Visitor’s Bureau has yet to respond to my e-mail, and every time I try to call the Government of American Samoa, an extremely scratchy recording tells me all circuits are busy. I feel like I’m dealing with an old girlfriend who doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Micronesia, I thought we had something!
There is a ray of hope, though. A friend of a friend is soon traveling to the Republic of Palau, an island nation whose closest and largest neighbor is Yap. This person has agreed to take up a New Coke investigation on my behalf. Her name is Betsy and I must give her the maddest of props. Her reports will be posted as they come in.
The other day I decided to e-mail Coca-Cola and ask them point blank about the rumored bounty of New Coke in the Pacific Rim. So far, I’ve been redirected to two or three different people, none of whom have even attempted to answer my question. I can’t imagine they’re too embarrassed to talk about New Coke; there’s an extensive essay about the stuff on their website, one that refers to the maligned beverage as an “intelligent risk” that “re-energized the brand.”
Intelligent risk? Re-energized the brand? Sounds to me like they’re almost proud of New Coke. So they should be downright happy if Micronesians and Samoans are guzzling enough of the swill down to generate any kind of profit, right? Well, we’ll see what they have to say.
By the way, thanks to everyone who’s supporting this silly quest of mine. You will be graciously thanked in the book.
The Upper Crust
Highline Ballroom (New York City, NY)
8/23/08
Isn’t it strange how sometimes you can completely forget about things you once obsessed over earlier in your life? The idea of an AC/DC-style hard rock band whose members adopted the look and mannerisms of Eighteenth Century fancy lads (complete with powdered wigs and buckled shoes) struck me as pure genius when I first discovered the Upper Crust in 1999/2000. Lyrically, the testosterone-fueled songs the Crust played reflected their aristocratic leanings – “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” “Highfalutin’,” “We’re Finished With Finishing School,” etc. It was an incredibly funny idea executed with hilarious perfection. If I were a better guitar player and living in Boston, I would have tried so hard to join them.
I bought one of their CDs and listened to it incessantly, but for some idiotic reason I didn’t hang on to the thing. I must have really needed burrito money that week. Anyway, this CD was apparently the key to keeping the Upper Crust alive and well in my subconscious, for once it exited my home so they exited my brain. This is stupid, really, because it’s not like the Crust have been completely absent from the rock scene in recent years. They’ve been doin’ stuff. In 2004, they were the subject of a documentary entitled Let Them Eat Rock. Two years ago they put out a “best of” disc. Last year, they made a special guest appearance on “Codename: Kids Next Door,” which I can’t believe I missed because I watch Cartoon Network whenever possible and that show is ALWAYS ON. I guess I just haven’t been paying close enough attention.
I sure as hell was paying attention this past Saturday when I was walking down some street in the East Village, searching for a cool spot to get my lunch on. As I approached the corner of an intersection I can’t quite recall, I spotted a small flyer advertising an Upper Crust performance that very night at the Highline Ballroom. The shitty, photocopied image of my four favorite rock fops broke the mental dam that was blocking a powerful river of happy memories from flowing through my gray matter. Suddenly I knew how I was spending my Saturday evening – in the fanciful and rocking court of the Upper Crust.
The flyer said the Crust would be taking the stage at 9 p.m. sharp, and true to form, the Beantown quartet sauntered onto the Highline Ballroom’s stage at exactly nine bells.
“How y’all dew-ing?” lead singer and rhythm guitarist Lord Bendover asked the crowd in a stuffy British accent. His tone suggested a severe contempt for such improper English. I can’t recall which high octane number UC kicked things off with, “Let Them Eat Rock” or “Tell Mother I’m Home.” At any rate, their rock was tight, loud, and full of refined, regal muscle. It could be argued that the Upper Crust possess a sound that’s far too boisterous and ball-busting for a bunch of guys in pantaloons, but that’s what makes the joke so funny. And yes, it’s still very funny after all these years.
The performance was not without incident. At one point, perpetually grumpy bassist Count Basie broke his low E string. This lead to a chuckle-worthy scenario in which Lord Bendover admonished the Count and suggested in a droll tone that his band mate continue using the broken instrument (“I should like to think Count Basie can compensate for his fatal error, don’t you?”). When Basie left the stage to locate “the lad with the extra bass,” the Crust bashed out “Rock n’ Roll Butler” wherein Bendover made a mistake of his own.
“I suppose it would help if I played in the correct key,” the singer observed of his own gaffe. Then, turning to lead guitarist the Duc D’istortion, he remarked, “You could humor me by playing in the wrong key, you know.”
While watching drummer Jackie Kickassis (a great drummer, by the way, who I think is saddled with the lamest name in the band), I wondered if he was operating his kit in the same large buckled shoes the rest of the Upper Crust were wearing. Indeed he was; I observed this when he stepped up during the band introductions and put his foot on the bass drum. I give Jackie credit for playing the drums in shoes most people probably would hate to walk three feet in. While on the subject of cosmetics, the Duc D’istortion’s scraggily indie rocker beard seemed a little out of place. At least he powdered it to match the giant mess of fake white curls that topped his head.
For a little over an hour, the Crust kept the comedy and the crunchy cacophony coming, pleasing/bewildering many members of the adoring audience. It’s not every day a band rolls into town sporting tight britches and old school head-banging numbers with titles like “Come Hither, Fair Youth.” You could tell a few people in the crowd were having their minds utterly blown. They all seemed to enjoy it, though. An audible wave of anger rose up when the Highline Ballroom techs came out to unplug the microphones almost immediately after the Upper Crust left the stage. New York City wanted more fop rock. Unfortunately, to quote Spinal Tap, there would be no encore.
Disappointing, but I can’t really complain. I got to see a band I forgot I even liked all because I couldn’t figure out where I wanted to eat five hours before the show. If that’s not dumb luck, then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.
Final Grade: Four Little Rickshaw Boys out of four.
Bonus Video: Get down on this fat piece of Crust, the video for their kick ass song “Let Them Eat Rock”:
This just in: Barack Obama has chosen Christian Bale’s false teeth to play an underage Chinese gymnast in Tropic Thunder 2: Rocky 7. This hilarious double sequel will find Ben Stiller teaming up with Sylvester Stallone to tell the real life story of the Jonas Brothers. It’s the movie BHP Billiton doesn’t want you to see! Coming Summer 2036.
1. The yellow waterproof “Sports” walkman sitting on the table behind me that every kid in America had during those years.
2. The floppy, Mike Myers circa So I Married An Axe Murderer haircut atop my head.
3. The orange tie-dye I’m wearing that looks enough like a Hypercolor shirt to keep me from getting my ass kicked at school.
4. The looks on our faces; such determination, such focus. Clearly, we are playing regular NES in a non-ironic fashion.
5. If you look closely at the controller I’m holding, you’ll see the buttons are hideously neon (the control pad matches my shirt; A & B are both yellow).
6. I’m wearing a cast on my left hand, a basketball-related injury. Everyone knows I haven’t played basketball since Clinton’s first term.
And now we return to the thrilling conclusion of Frost-Free Hoaxin’: The Great Hillbilly Sasquatch Swindle.
According to Atlanta’s CBS46, Matt Whitton has officially been sacked from his police cop job. Linked is a video report that also includes footage of Rick Dyer attempting to explain/defend the pair’s actions. They were trying to take everyone’s mind off the war, apparently.
Turns out Tom Biscardi was the private investor who ponied up an alleged $50k for the fake Bigfoot corpse. Naturally, he’s taking legal action against Whitton and Dyer. Hey Tom, next time ask to see the body before you sign the check. LULZ!
Dyer posted a Youtube video yesterday or today implicating a few other people and claiming he and Whitton were the real victims, but it’s so poorly made I’m not even going to link it here. It’s just text snippets placed over videotape of a television playing Biscardi’s original FOX News interview (say it with me: if you’re too lazy to even speak on the Youtube apology video you post after tricking the world into believing you have a dead Sasquatch, you might be a redneck).
Okay, I’m officially tapping out of Rickmat coverage. Unless something truly insane happens (real Bigfoot buying time on network television to chastise these bumpkins and reveal an accomplice role in the D.B. Cooper skyjacking), this is the last Georgia Gorilla post you’ll see from me.
Matthew Whitton and Ricky Dyer, the two Georgia men who shocked the world last week when they claimed to have the body of an actual Bigfoot, have admitted the entire thing was a cruel, stupid hoax. That thing in their freezer that looked like a shitty Harry & the Hendersons costume covered in bear guts was just a shitty Harry & the Hendersons costume covered in bear guts. Congrats, guys. For five seconds, you pwnd every single person on Earth.
The details are a tad convoluted, so I’ll give you the basic rundown: that guy with the salt and pepper goatee at Friday’s press conference, Bigfoot “expert” Tom Biscardi, was lying his ass off when he told the media he had examined the body. Tom Biscardi hadn’t seen shit. Rather, Bigfoot radio show host Steve Kulls examined the body – over twenty-four hours after the press conference. He reached into the freezer, felt Rickmat’s foot, and realized that shit was rubber. Kulls called Biscardi and told him what was up. Tommy Boy called Whitton and Dyer, the pair admitted Rickmat was a big fat lie, and the trio made plans to meet up at Whitton and Dyer’s California hotel room. Of course, by the time Biscardi showed up to said hotel, the sly Georgia boys had already vanished.
Kulls announced all this on his show Monday night, Squatchdetective Radio. For a complete transcript (accompanied with great stinging commentary), check out Oregonbigfoot.com. You know, if anything good came out of this mind-blowing waste of time, it clued me in to some really thorough and reputable Sasquatch-related websites. Oregonbigfoot.com is by far the best, especially when it comes to this ridiculous-ass Rickmat story. Props to reporter Autumn Williams.
So, the question now is will these two bumpkins be prosecuted for their cryptid-related crime? Supposedly they got $50k in advance from a private investor – that’s some pretty big fraud action right there. Still, Clifford Irving got way more than that out of McGraw-Hill in 1971 when he presented his fake Howard Hughes autobiography, and he only served about sixteen or seventeen months in prison. So my guess is if Whitton and Dyer are tried and convicted, whatever they’re sentenced to won’t even be worth talking about.
At least we can savor the fact these clowns will be viewed as complete assholes for the rest of their natural lives by anyone with a shred of decency in their bodies. Matt Whitton may even lose his job as a Clayton County police officer because of Rickmat. That’s how this whole stupid thing came about – Whitton was on sick leave when he concocted the Bigfoot body hoax, having been shot in the wrist while attempting to apprehend a criminal in July. Not surprisingly, that story is also full of dubious, conflicting details (don’t worry, it’s covered on Oregonbigfoot.com). Anyway, last I heard, ol’ Matty boy was this close to getting canned harder than Oscar the Grouch.
As a lifelong Bigfoot follower, this entire Rickmat affair really brings me down. It’s only going to make life harder for the people legitimately trying to prove there might be some large, smelly, unknown entity lurking in our American forests. And what if I see a Bigfoot sometime before I die? All my friends and family will tease me, making relentless frostless freezer jokes while I cower in fear every time I hear a weird noise in the middle of the night.
God damn. Like I needed another reason to hate Georgia.
Well, at least this story finally put an end to collective Dark Knight conversation the world had been having since Heath Ledger’s death.
So said George Lucas, apparently, regarding the character of Ziro the Hutt (above) in the latest lifeless Star Wars outing, the animated Clone Wars movie. And so it came to pass. Since the film’s release last week, the Internet has been abuzz with fan reaction to this mincing uncle of Jabba the Hutt who is apparently a strange tribute to the diminutive and deceased author of In Cold Blood. Quoteth Aicn.com’s Alexandra DuPont:
“Phonetic spellings of Ziro’s statements to Padme would read like this: ‘Ah KNOW!’ and ‘A senatah … in THIS nay-buh-hood?’ and ‘Yuh TRIED to call fuh HELP, senatah.’ I honestly haven’t decided yet if this character is SO wrong that it actually goes ’round the bend and becomes kind of perversely awesome in its totally-batshit-insane political incorrectness. But I’m guessing most everybody will hate the drag-queen Hutt, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if GLAAD issued some sort of statement.”
I haven’t seen Clone Wars so I can’t comment, but I will say the mere idea of a stereotypically gay Hutt character bumps “George Lucas permanent amnesia 1993″ up one notch on my list of proposed wishes should I ever encounter a genie or leprechaun. My tolerance for inexplicably stupid/asinine Star Wars characters has officially been breached. And just when I was beginning to warm up to the idea of wearing my Phantom Menace t-shirt in public…
Somewhere, Warwick Davis is laughing his little head off.
No body. No DNA evidence. No discernible Hollywood/fast food tie-in. Two small, blurry-ass photos. One salt and pepper goatee. A few heaping tablespoons of deep fried Georgia redneckery. For the full disappointing recap, check out the Blogsquatcher’s liveblog.
Posted by jamesgreenejr 
Posted by jamesgreenejr 
Posted by jamesgreenejr 
