Back around 2005 and ’06, I was writing for Metal Maniacs magazine, one of my all-time favorite gigs in my career.
I’d earned myself a freelancing spot with Metal Maniacs battling Metallica’s Master of Puppets vs. Megadeth’s Peace Sells…But Who’s Buying? two critical masterpieces of the genre. I had the balls to declare Megadeth the winner by an edge.
I interviewed many artists, got to cover horror including my much-loved assignment out to Blairstown, NJ to tour the film locations of the original Friday the 13th, followed by an interview with Mama Voorhees herself, the ultra-classy Betsy Palmer.
I had a portion of my interview with the late Kevin DuBrow of Quiet Riot months before he passed run at Metal Maniacs after QR drummer Frankie Banali and I ran through the footage.
Then there was this piece Metal Maniacs allowed me to pen, “Reflections of an Old School Metalhead,” planting the seeds for my bucket list novel project seeing the light of day this year, Revolution Calling.
Liz Ciavarella-Brenner and Dave Brenner, thank you for a hell of a ride back then. I won’t ever forget us closing down that Irish pub outside of Times Square until 5:30 a.m. and hanging with Team Ireland soccer team in that long night of debauchery. Love you guys, always…
By request from a handful of folks reaching out to see me in a kilt, here ya go!
TJ and I were at the 2023 Carroll County Celtic Festival selling her books, The Healthy Witch and Three Little Witches, along with a recently-released Healthy Witch tarot deck and coloring books.
Lots of traditional and rock-themed Celtic music, beer and about 3,000 attendees, so many fun people to talk to, including our neighboring vendors.
I upgraded my kilt and decided to re-try an old look I gave up on, the flat cap. TJ was most pleased by the flat cap, but better yet, she sold out of everything except for a handful of coloring books!
Piseach!
Come on, vogue…
The salute this child snapped off made my heart burst.
Piper Jones Band lighting it up! The hands-down rulers of the festival.
Drop in for a spell…
I love this generational statement so much that I had to snap it.
Mando!!!!
TJ reacts to selling out of nearly everything she brought. Slainte, love…
At this point, it comes off as artifice, nearly 47 years since punk rock legends The Sex Pistols lit up Parliament and Buckingham Palace with a balls-out declaration of no future for no dogsbody with their then-alarming dictum, “Anarchy in the U.K.”
I can remember seeing the old anarchy symbol above all over the streets, spray-painted on bridge underpasses or scrawled on the book covers of the punkers I went to school with. I even wore a scratchy iron anarchy symbol of my own when us metalheads merged our subculture with the punk cotillion back in the late 1980s. It was called crossover back then, and the anarchy symbol, more than a macabre skull, was a unifying symbol.
Maybe we were artifice ourselves, maybe we were believing in something far over our young, dumb heads. True anarchy is a state of mind, yes, but put into action, the ramifications are the undoing of society itself. At age 52, rebellion and anarchy comes off to me more like couture instead of counterculture. A bunch of bollocks.
Taking a pit stop and lifting my kilt at a local Celtic Festival my fiancée, TJ, was selling her books at to a large degree of success, I felt obligated to snap this picture in the stall as much as shake my head at it. These days, unlike Johnny Rotten, I know what I want and I know how to get it. The long road to getting what I want has been the road lesser traveled, and filled with anarchy of a proverbial, not a literal sense.
Today’s youth have their own problems and their own frustrations their seniors can never get on their level with. Generations pass and generations find bigger conveniences, elevating the angst of those who came before them. Yet getting pissed and destroying as junior insurrectionists or even old, crusty dogs, is just, well, a wankfest.
I am thrilled to announce I have been offered publication of my novel, Revolution Calling, through Raw Earth Ink.
This is a semi-autobiography drawing from my teen years in high school. I call this an Outsiders for Gen X with a heavy metal twist. A sometimes brutal retrospective comeuppance story, about half of it is true while carrying a fictional thriller bend.
Above is a picture from 2003, myself having dinner in Washington, DC with Geoff Tate, former vocalist of Queensryche while he was still in the band. I had only just started writing in the music industry. Geoff had been generous with his time as well as signing a few albums for me and taking this shot I’ll always treasure. A truly epic moment in the beginning phase of my time in the industry. Revolution Calling is lovingly titled after Queensyrche’s gem of an anthem from their masterpiece album, Operation Mindcrime.
I thank you, Tara Caribou, for taking me on again after the successful launch of my short story collection, Coming of Rage.
If you were around during the 1970s, you no doubt remember the trashterpiece schlock that was The Gong Show.
The halcyon (if such a term could ever apply this case) first run syndication of The Gong Show (it’s been done in three different eras) spanned the summers of 1976 and 1978 at an insane time slot of 12:30 p.m. EST on weekdays. Unfathomably wedged “almost live” between your local afternoon news and network soap operas before it was scooched over to a later time at 4:00 p.m. until its cancelation in 1980, The Gong Show was an oddity of can’t miss crap t.v.
I was addicted to the outrageous lunacy of The Gong Show as a child crossing into the preteen bracket and it’s been a hoot playing some of the old episodes of late on the elliptical machine when I have the gym all to myself. A friend of mine recently tagged me at social media with a reminder of why I loved this idiot savant show carrying more chutzpah than any show of its ilk. Need I go there with the infamous Popsicle Twins?
The Gong Show was a staged “amateur talent” show which gave contestants (some legit, some obviously culled from the deepest dreck lurking in a Burbank sewer) the opportunity to win over a panel of three celebrity judges, lest they suffer the indignation of pure suckdom by being “gonged” for a poor or purposefully obnoxious performance. If you made your time without getting tolled by the gong, the judges would drop you a score between 0 and 10, critique coming more in the vein of roasts than actual evaluation. Even Mad magazine couldn’t even hold a candle to some of the outlandish farce delivered by The Gong Show.
To think of mouth commotion maestro Michael Winslow of the Police Academy movies actually getting rung up by the gong panel (usually governed by the flamboyant Rip Taylor, M.A.S.H.‘s Jamie Farr and sexpot Jaye P. Morgan), while slaphappy host Chuck Barris slung his barroom one-liners beneath one flappity hat after another, pretend-chastising his “judges” for victimizing acts with the clanging equivalent of a raspberry… Ironic in the case of Winslow, of course. Other legit talent who came through The Gong Show, either with points or a clang of shame, were Paul Reubens (aka Pee Wee Herman), Bozo the Clown and Boxcar Willie, plus Danny Elfman and a riotous, lunatic, early incarnation of new wave-punk legends, Oingo Boingo. The latter (calling themselves on the show The Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo) with Elfman encased in a smoke-spewing rocket and a costumed dragon) racking up a score of 24 and bringing a friendly indictment from judge Shari Lewis as needing a “vaccine against weirdness.” Look it up, you’ll never look at Elfman the same. Or maybe it’ll explain everything that came thereafter in his illustrious career.
Barris would already be ushering the next stage act, seemingly drunk off his ass (but claiming to never allow substances on the show), dropping a signature clap behind each sentence (which the studio audience would eventually pick up with him), but more often than not, the next sacrificial lamb act was often irrelevant, since you could feel it brewing…
If it wasn’t the paper bag-domed Unknown Comic crashing the show with the corniest drag of any decade, one look on Barris’ face tipped you off. Ol’ Chucky Boy would be feigning surprise as Milton DeLugg’s orchestra began its familiar piano and bass strikes of Count Basie’s “Jumpin’ at the Woodside.” You knew within a single bar, sometimes interrupting Chuck Barris’ trademark promise of being back with more stuff, it could only mean one man…
Gene Gene the Dancing Machine!!!
Full name Eugene Sidney Patton, Sr., Gene Gene the Dancing Machine became a beloved, heavyset icon of buffoonery, shticking and shuffling his way onstage, his ankles jiving, hips gyrating. It was minimal and hokey, like an afternoon of pimpish ass-clowning at Count Basie’s expense, since Milton DeLugg’s band would always transition into “One o’clock Jump,” as if Basie himself was conducting the whole thing. If only Basie could’ve seen what hell he’d wrought…
Patton, the first African American member of the International Alliance of Theatrical and Stage Employees, was more than a Gong Show stagehand. Barris utilized all of his stage crew along with his ensembles in bit moments and various tomfoolery. None more hilarious and joyous than Gene Gene’s fellow hands tossing trash and flotsam at him while he shucked and moved, tossed one hand in the air while all but giving his crank a, well, crank…
Audiences ate the whole thing up. It was to the point the only thing better than seeing an all-gonged no winner episode (victors came away with a check for five hundred-plus and a golden gong trophy) was an appearance from Gene Gene the Dancing Machine.
Sadly, Gene Patton later in life suffered debilitating effects from diabetes, losing the usage of both legs before his passing in 2015. Awful to think of a man in his floppy street duds bringing a mixed race studio audience to its feet, Chuck Barris to maniacal dancing of his own and an orgy of mayhem from the judges. Looking at you and your pulled-out ta-tas, Jaye P… It’s true. There’s an uncensored Gene Gene clip you can dig up where she actually unbuttons and pops ’em. How the network censors got through that was no doubt a sweatier sweating bullets session than those two teen girls doing obscene things to ice pops in front of a televised audience.
Like The Gong Show itself, a lost gem of its place and time…
Roads Lesser Traveled 