Create Your Own Kanye West Meltdown Story

More fun than burping up leftovers.

Thanksgiving Is A Great Reminder Of Why I Started Listening To So Much Punk Rock

As my family surrounds me today, the following songs (and a few of the corresponding images) reverberate in my skull:

Sigh. I need some weapons-grade heroin.

Talkin’ Dr Pepper Free Soda Clusterfuck Blues

As I predicted in this post, Dr Pepper’s Chinese Democracy free can promotion was a goddamn clusterfuck. Drpepper.com did not have enough bandwidth to handle the thousands of thirsty Americans who attempted to log on all day Sunday. Even after they extended the promotion to 6 p.m. Monday, I still heard complaints from people saying they couldn’t get past a loading screen.

Now, I did say I’d sue Dr Pepper should this promotion not work out as intended, but that was just a joke. I’m not a very litigious person. Alan Gutman, on the other hand, is a very litigious person, which isn’t surprising considering the fact he’s a lawyer. Although Alan isn’t suing mad yet, he has been worked up enough to fire off an angry letter to the good Doctor demanding an extended redemption period for those who failed to claim their free soda over the weekend plus full-page apologies from Dr P in no less than four major newspapers.

Did I mention the fact that Alan Gutman represents W. Axl Rose and Guns n’ Roses? ‘Cause he does. I’m not sure what that suggests exactly, but it does make me wonder where homeboy is coming from with his defrauding the public claims. Has Axl been directly affected by this sody-pop gaffe?

Towards the very end of my Chinese Democracy report/review (SHAMELESS PLUG, SHAMELESS PLUG), I casually bring up the Dr Pepper thing:

“…[T]hanks to that kilt-wearing, Slash-firing, Buckethead-hiring, Vince Neil-taunting, alleged wife-beating, confused, fatherless, over-the-hill rock star, I’ll have one extra can of Dr Pepper in my refrigerator this year.”

As this statement indicates, I too was unable to obtain my pro bono can Sunday; yet, I remain optimistic. I believe Dr Pepper to be an upstanding, reputable company. I believe they will hear the cries of the dissatisfied soda drinkers across the country and right this awful wrong. Even if they don’t, it really doesn’t make that much of a difference to me personally – a Dr P rep at the Chi Dem listening party I attended last week handed out coupons for free 12 packs. So technically, thanks to Axl Rose, I’ll have THIRTEEN extra cans of Dr Pepper in my refrigerator this year.

Still, Dr Pepper should have seen this web crash coming and prepared for it. It’ll be interesting to see how they handle what could be a mountain of negative PR.

By the way, this junk was all still developing as I was completing the Crawdaddy! article linked above, which is why the ratio of Dr Pepper chatter within is so low. The last thing I wanted to write was, “Man, fuck Dr Pepper!” only to have them turn around today and start express mailing cans to people. I mean, shit, that would have made me look like Asshole Supreme.

Also, I know the conclusion of my Chi Dem article is hella weak. Endings are always my Vietnam. To make up for that, I posted a handful of addenda in the comments section. Just know I’m aware of my shortcomings and that I’m always trying to improve my craft (and my copy of The Craft on VHS).

One more thing: the reason I didn’t talk about the Chi Dem listening party anywhere in my official report is because, aside from the Dr Pepper coupons and hearing the album, nothing of major interest happened. Per attendance, enough people showed up to suggest Best Buy would be a little rowdy come Sunday morning (which, of course, it wasn’t), but there were no real crazies. No midget Duffs, no full-on Hell’s Angels, nothing like that. Hearing the album before most of the world was cool, but then a day later it leaked and then they streamed it on Myspace. So I kind of feel like I froze my ass off outside Webster Hall for nothing that night. THNX AXL LOL.

Chinese Democracy: The JG2 Point Of Purchase Report & Review

ZOMFG, CHINESE DEMOCRACY ACTUALLY CAME OUT!!!! THAT SHIT IS REAL, ROFL WOFL WTKS LBJ STFDBDMF!!!!!!

How Do I Know I’m In Texas?

The Vault here comes in camouflage cans. Don’t want them deer to see you guzzlin’ yer sody-pop while yer huntin’.

Longer soda-related post tomorrow. Right now need sleepy.

The Naked Ghost Of Don Knotts

Makes me delete and rewrite and re-delete posts here. That evil specter haunts JG2Land with all the vigor of a young John McEnroe. This blog needs an exorcist. The power of Christ compels me.

My Favorite Photo From The LIFE Magazine Internet Photo Archive

Two great tastes that taste great together. Look for your own favorite here.

Look Who’s At The High School Reunion Odyssey Too

The third and final chapter in the ever popular “High School Reunion Odyssey” series (here be chapter the first; here be chapter the second).

Walking in to this thing was kind of like stepping into one of my dreams. A smattering of people I used to know standing around a big empty room while a video screen in the background played silent footage of a concerned Native American man whispering to a puppet (so this is art, huh?). The only thing missing was Mark Hamill in a cocktail dress reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

Now, I hate to brag, but I have a memory like a bear trap. Very little gets out. I credit this to my clean lifestyle – no booze, no drugs, no dancing. It’s not easy to live this way, but I get by. Anyway, I knew going into this awkward soirée I’d have no problem recognizing 99% of the former RHS student body and their bodies of varying size. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. When one guy expressed anxiety over the lack of name tags, I had to laugh.

“Name tags? Surely you jest, Greg Saks, whose favorite song in second grade was ‘We Built This City’ by Starship and who kept all his Garbage Pail Kids in an old trick or treat bag from Caldor.”

Only three people managed to fuck up my Christmas, as it were: the Kid Who Was Obsessed With Motorcycles, The Kid Loved Daffy Duck, and the Kid Who Had The Same Last Name As This One Asshole Teacher So Everyone Thought They Were Related. Clearly these poor souls ran afoul of some radioactive mutagen after graduation, forever altering their DNA (I know I’m not alone on this; I watched the Kid Who Had The Same Last Name As This One Asshole Teacher blow minds all night long).

Most people remembered good ol’ Jim Greene, even if they stumbled with the name a bit. I know, it’s tough – one syllable and a color, with an extra “e.” Look, I’m sorry. If I had it my way, my name would be Arizona Bigglesworth IV. A few of the former cheerleaders and/or wicked popular chicks told me I had really “grown up” and “become a man,” which kind of felt like a grandparent complimenting my penis size. I took my strange feelings to the dessert table. There, as I stuffed my face with raspberry squares, the Kid With Too Many Names apologized for making fun of me in ninth grade when I had to wear a neck brace (I made the mistake of calling Todd McFarlane a “homo” in a crowded comic book shop).

After a few hours, the party moved to Ridgefield’s official dive bar, the Ancient Mariner. It was there that the drunken revelry kicked into high gear. I don’t want to single anybody out, but JB. Holy shit, was that asshole drunk. Remember how I mentioned the folly of the Class of ‘97 Presidential election? What the whole thing boils down to is the guy they elected didn’t do squat, including this reunion. He didn’t even show up. JB, not letting inebriation stand in his way, took it upon himself to apologize to the Kid Who Lost The Presidential Election on behalf of the entire class, loudly and with many wild hand gestures. My favorite line from this tirade:

“I’m gonna ask all these motherfuckers who they voted for, and they’re all gonna lie! They’re all gonna say they voted for you just ’cause you’re here! These people – fuck these people!”

Further JB insanities: accosting me for walking out of the bar and missing “the best song of the eighties” (Crowded House’s “Don’t Dream It’s Over”) even though it was still clearly playing on the jukebox as he was talking, forcing numerous people to admit they never spoke to him in high school, and condemning every Yankees fan within a three mile radius. Incredibly, J made his seven o’clock flight back to Michigan the next morning. A true champion that child is.

The $64,000 question is did I manage to hook up with any former crushes or lovers at this Rock n’ Roll High School Reunion Special? The answer, of course, is no, because I still think there’s nothing wrong with using phrases like “jerk off” and “dog shit” in front of the opposite sex (in my defense, I was making a point about women’s lib). I got a few numbers/e-mails; as expected, though, not a single call/message has been returned. Sigh. I’ve still got so much learnin’ to do.

John, on the other hand, totally locked lips with a very hot and popular chick, proving that there’s hope yet for guys who look like Peruvian drug runners. Rumpf was holding court with a multitude of beautiful girls all night (it must be the long, Jim Kelly-esque ‘do). Ben and Andy – those guys fucked everybody in the place. Okay, not really, but I’m sure they did better than me.

Even though the reunion had to come to its eventual end, our adventure was far from over. Sunday was all about the Incredible Puking Ditzler and his stunning inability to stop yakking. Ben didn’t seem that tanked the night before. He must hold his liquor well. When Benno arose that morn, he informed us all he had puked a little in his sleep (dude, that’s what killed Hendrix!). On the way to the Bethel Apple Cider & Pumpkin Pickin’ Jamboree (how lucky were we to be in town the same weekend this was happening?), more upchuck came. We pulled over at a large nursery. Ben shuffled over to one of the flower beds in the parking lot and fell into a crumpled heap.

“Ben,” I reprimanded him. “You cannot puke here. There are children. Let’s go to that outhouse, alright, buddy?”

To the outhouse we went. Ben ejected his guts while I stood there listening. Truly a majestic experience in the town of Bethel.

What can I say about the Apple Cider/Pumpkin deal? There was indeed delicious cider and ripe pumpkins for all. There was also vague child abuse in the parking lot (“Put that in the trunk before I punch yo’ head wit it!”) and a traffic cop taunting a wiener dog. Oh, the hilarity. I wish I had a camera.

Later at the Piacquadio mansion, Ben faced the wrath of John’s sister Jen, who was none too happy that he had puked on her pillow. A harsh tongue-lashing was administered, and Ben was left crying at the foot of the stairs in the fetal position. Meanwhile, I ate shrimp pizza while John busted my balls for not giving a FLYING FUCK about Captain Jean-Luc Picard and his Enterprise. About a half hour later, we three gents departed for the city, sick of our one-horse hometown and its pillow-sensitive residents.

Let’s look at the drive-in totals for this here reunion:

No breasts. No dead bodies. No aardvarking. Gratuitous baseball injuries. One kiss. Multiple business cards. Numerous blown opportunities. Puke fu. Modern art fu. Cider donut fu. JG2 Academy Award nominations for Dan Becker for his amazing Patrick Warburton impression; David Brandt for sporting his “lucky necktie”; Matt Link for asking me how my mom was and praising her ability to “put up with so much shit”; Danielle Cantonese for initiating conversation with us, the rogue’s gallery of nerds and weenies. I give it three and a half stars.

High School Reunion Odyssey Part One: The Proper Beginning

This is actually the second installment of the JG2 “High School Reunion Odyssey” series (part one can be viewed here). God, I’m so irreverent. Part two isn’t as funny/interesting as parts one or three, but it has its moments. Plus, there are some pictures.

Our tale begins on a late Friday afternoon in October at the corner of Washington and Lafayette Avenues right here in Brooklyn, where I received one Andrew “Hollywood Babylon” Herman. I believe young Andrew wins the award for Greatest Distance Traveled To Eat Finger Foods With Other RHS Alumni – he came in from L.A. If Andrew was feeling jet-lagged, it didn’t show. The Herminator was his usual friendly, affable self. We made our way to the neighborhood watering hole and killed time before Operation: JB’s At LaGuardia (And He Needs A Ride).

This swift military action would have been less haphazard had JB’s flight from Michigan not been unceremoniously delayed. Andy and I circled LaGuardia’s Terminal B arrival area at the time we thought our blond German friend would be on the ground. The cruel bitch-slap of irony/bad luck hit us moments after we gave up and pulled into long term parking; J called to let us know he was on the ground and ready to be found. Thankfully, the Gods of Shitty Airport Driving Decisions decided not to punish us this night by robbing our wallets of three dollars (despite the signage indicating all drivers will be charged such a fee for a time span of zero to three minutes spent in the lot – that’s zero minutes, three bucks).

We eventually located the wily JB, who informed me the moment he got in the backseat of my car that he had forgotten the “special gift” he was going to bring for me. I correctly guessed the item in question: a copy of U2’s Zooropa. B then chirped at me that it was the actual cassette he was supposed to lend me in ninth grade, proving once and for all that he did not in fact leave it in a Rhode Island hotel room like he told me all those years ago – he just didn’t trust me with his precious U2 tape. Thus, he made up the hotel story and forced me to seek “Lemon” elsewhere. This enraged me. Somehow, I managed to quell my anger and refrained from reaching into the backseat for fifteen minutes of blind, furious punching.

It’s an accepted fact that when you arrive at John “Uncontrollable Urge” Piacquadio’s apartment in lovely Fort Greene, the hirsute artist will be doing something completely and utterly ridiculous. This was certainly the case when I brought JB and Herman up: John was going number one with the bathroom door wide open, shirtless and grooving to an extremely obscure early nineties rap group. “Oh, you scared me!” he said when he caught a glance of the three knuckleheads in his living room. After pizza, a few innings of the Red Sox game, and a startling revelation about JB’s sister and one of our mutual friends, the four of us loaded up the Camry and rolled out to our hometown of Ridgefield.

To pass the time in the car, we played “Guess the TV Theme Song” with a few of the TV theme song CDs I own. J was maddeningly bad at this game, seriously guessing “Webster” for the “Blossom” theme and “WKRP in Cincinnati” for something so not “WKRP” (I don’t remember what) that I was forced to slam on the brakes. This sent us nearly flying off Route 35 just outside of R-field; I’m certain had we died, the reunion would have been canceled in our honor and a four-way funeral would have been held instead.

Awaiting us at John’s parents’ house were the rest of the usual suspects: Josh “Fifteen Cents For Grandpa” Wyatt, his dame for all seasons Brie, Jim “Lord Xenu” Rumpf, and Ben “Dyslexic Heart” Ditzler. The joking and storytelling went on until three in the morning. Topics covered included Ben’s brother’s belief that air travel isn’t real (it’s simple teleportation, he claims, constructed to feel like a few hours in a cramped, dirty seat next to some sleepy fat guy or a baby), the folly of the Class of ‘97 Presidential Election (to be elaborated on later in this scroll), Christian Scientists we know and love, and the infamous high school tennis match where Rumpf and a friend heckled the opposing player so hard he forfeited.

The Fellas. Back Row (L-R): Rumpf, Ditzler, JB, Piacquadio, Herman, Wyatt. Front Row: ME, apparently using magic to levitate an orb.

Saturday morning I awoke to the ghostly voice of the young male Piacquadio calling my name from the second floor. Seems I was missing “tea time” with Ben and John’s mom. Being it was ten in the morning on a Saturday, I was more shocked John was awake and clothed. That goddamn son of a bitch likes to sleep in on the weekends. He rarely rises ‘fore the clock has struck one. Before I could properly investigate this unusual anomaly (geiger counter, polygraph, rectal thermometer), I was whisked away to a local eatery Early Bird’s for the Ceremonial Reunion Morning Breakfast & Drawing Contest. I had the fruit cup. The kiwi ratio was alarmingly low. This event marked the second time Herman brought up the urban phenomenon known as “ghost riding the whip.” I’ll let you Google it to find out how crazy/stupid/dangerous/hilarious it is.

After our bountiful meal, it was time for baseball. A pickup game was assembled at Scalzo Field. It should be noted someone stupidly built a dog park directly behind the outfield of this baseball diamond, which just seems like a lawsuit waiting to happen. I can happily report that no pooches were injured during our sloppy, painful game (not one of us had a proper glove; line drives hurt when you try to catch them bare-handed). I pitched most of the game, doing alright for someone who’d never been on the mound before. I struck a couple of dudes out.

Sadly, I was made to look the fool by John “White Reggie” Piacquadio, who golfed two of my tosses out of the park. The game ended officially when Jim Rumpf, ever the cad, slid into pitcher’s mound and seriously messed up his ankle. That didn’t prevent his ass from playing a round of coneball minutes later (coneball, for the uninitiated, is a Connecticut-born game where you throw a soccer ball at cones; it’s just as incredible and breathtaking as it sounds).

A quick lunch at Piccolo (a “jazzateria” with ridiculous names for their dishes such as “Groovin’ High” and “Symphony Sid”) and we were now t-minus two hours until the official start of the RHS Class of ‘97 Ten Year Hootenanny at the Aldrich Museum. John and Ben killed this time sleeping in John’s sister’s room (John in the bed, Ben on the floor) back at Mansion Piacquadio. I slept for thirty minutes, woke up, and debated fiercely in my head whether or not I should bother ironing the shirt I planned on wearing. Would anyone even notice if my shit was wrinkled? Would anyone even remember who I was? What the hell was I doing here anyway?

God, are you there? It’s me, Jim Greene.

At the last minute I said, fuck it. I pulled Mrs. Piacquadio’s iron out and went to town on my dark red silk shirt. A ten year reunion only happens once. I didn’t want to be all creased at some fancy-pants museum, surrounded by people who used to judge me who still might be judging me (surely I’d be judging them right back, too).

I threw my duds on and roused the boys. JB arrived, muttering nervously to himself that he should have “pre-gamed.” I’m not sure what he was so freaked out about. Married, almost an actual scientist, still youthful-looking and full of pep…JB is the golden boy. He’s done the best out of all of us. Nevertheless, J had the jitters and couldn’t wait to get to that open bar.

All dressed up with someplace to go: Ditz, JB, Pee, Gree, that motherfucking orb again.

I felt a pang of nerves myself as we walked up to the Aldrich. This event certainly had the potential to be a nightmarish hellscape. Are we going to have to wear name tags? Are they going to give out stupid awards? How drunk is Bucher going to get? As we passed the giant plate glass window just to the left of the doors, everyone inside stopped what they were doing and stared at us. It was like the Zapruder film from Kennedy’s perspective (though with less blood and more Bluetooth accessories).

WHO WILL SURVIVE THE RHS HIGH SCHOOL REUNION AND WHAT WILL BE LEFT OF THEM? WILL ANYONE REMEMBER OUR INTREPID HERO? WHERE’S THE BATHROOM? ARE THEY STILL SERVING FOOD? ALL THESE QUESTIONS AND MORE WILL BE ANSWERED TOMORROW’S THRILLING CONCLUSION! KISSES, VOMITING, DOUCHEBAGGERY, AND APPLE CIDER! STAY TUNED, BAT FANS!

Have To Agree With My Man Jimmy On This One

“Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent.”

- James Baldwin