Apparently, Zakk Wylde is a legend...(he also happens to hail from Jersey, Howell/Jackson to be exact, and yes kiddies I
have partied with him, back in the eighties, worked at Silverton Music in Brick, he looked a little different back then,
apparently) In any event...
I thought that this might be appropriate to post. Does anyone remember Opie and Anthony's inappropriate bell? Ding ding ding. It conjures up hazy bacchanalian memories of life at the frat house, except that we were hurling the bottles full-on at each other
trying to hit each other. Jagermeister and Rockstar cocktails. Cracker breaking Napoleon Dynamite's bedframe on his forehead, OMFG! A lot, and I mean a LOT of broken glass to clean up. When Dan woke up that saturday afternoon, he was like, "WTF? we had 3 kegs, where did all the bottles come from?" One of the taps went missing, that was actually what started the bottle fight. He slept through the entire melee. For some reason, hurling shite is funny when you are shonoxicated...on a related note, but on a different night, I learned that a 22" ride cymbal can just about take your toe clean off (flip-flops around drum kit=bad idea. Unreal how much blood there was), that bastard hurt for weeks. Reminds me of yet another night, this past summer, over at my former employer's house. Slick Rick was on the stereo, a job-site radio, one of the ones with the roll cage. Some asshat broke a glass, I picked it up, went inside, threw it away. In the time it took me to do that and come back out onto the deck, something had happened. Silence. Everything was dark, and no music playing. John had, for reasons still unknown to any of us, picked up the aforementioned job-site radio, and hurled it, and the 2 strings worth of party lights that it was plugged into off the deck, into the back yard, where the dogs were cowering, under the deck, trying to figure out what the hell just happened (along with the rest of us, I might add). I agree with the adage that it isn't a party until the cops show up, but I mean, seriously... Just then, everyone started laughing and screaming random things(WHOOOAH! MINIVAN BEE-OTCH!!!), and started throwing shite off the deck. The dogs weathered the ensuing torrent of cellphones, plates. spare change, pots and pans, bottles, flaming tiki-torches, flowerpots, glasses, shoes, and whatnot under the deck. I guess you had to be there...a local business owner/client/old friend of mine from the eighties and his nephew were there(I had hooked him and my employer up), sort of shocked and awed all at once at the spectacle they were witnessing. Later, during a more laid-back moment, I was there with the light-up slurpee cup of beer and bottle of cabo in hand, trying to spin that this was just boys being boys, blowing off steam from playing even harder than we worked, both of which he witnessed firsthand, combined with the imbibing-to-eating ratio being way skewed. Me swearing that this was NOT a regular occurrence, etc. Oh dear... Again, not sure if they thought I was kidding, no idea what they thought to be honest with you...
See folks, the really f'ed up thing, is that I was one of the only SANE and sober people at that party, the voice of reason, as it were... (Edit)If working
HARD 100+ hours a week didn't kill me, one of these little get-togethers might have (it had to end sometime, the date, btw, was September 7th, more on that later).
The story gets a bit wilder after that, brandishing firearms, and the Sheriff's Department showing up and so forth. Several court dates later, that night still lives on in warrants, and whatnot.
Funny? Hell yeah!
A night to remember? Maybe...I dunno. Shameful, a moment that will live in infamy? You be the judge, in any event...
Here are the boys in action, on Jimmie Kimmel Live!
Sort of a credo of mine;
All my life I've been over the top
I don't know what I'm doing,
All I know is I don't wanna stop
All fired up, I'm gonna go till I drop
You're either in or in the way, don't make me,
I don't wanna stopPriceless Ozzy interview with Henry Rollins
hereJust another day in the life, I suppose...
Labels: Black Label Society, bottle fight, Cracker