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September 23, 2009

Learning the Hard Way

Well, here I am again. I’ve had a deluge of e-mails and MySpace messages regarding my wrist surgery. Some have wished me well, but a surprising number have been outright hostile. I appreciate fans savoring for some more Abysmal, especially since our last album’s delays ultimately led to us abandoning the project. Never fear, folks—I could never ditch something as rich and rewarding as Fuck Machines.

However, I must confess that recovery time for my surgery took much longer than expected. In fact, I’m still recovering, slowly but surely.

Here’s the skinny: when a person injures his or her triangular fibrocartilage complex, an orthopedic surgeon has two courses of action: repair the tear, or debride the scar tissue surrounding the tear, which theoretically will reduce the pain around the joint. Repair of the damaged tissue involves a much lengthier and more complicated recovery process than debridement. Unfortunately, with injuries such as this, not even an incredibly expensive MRI (paid for by the good people at Metzler-Rinbaum & Associates) can show the full extent of the damage. A surgeon will only know how to proceed once he’s jammed an arthroscope into the patient’s wrist joint and started poking around. Strongly suspecting he’d only be able to do a debridement, Dr. Hunzinbergel left me believing that I’d go in for surgery on Thursday, spend Friday and the weekend recovering, and be back to work on Monday.

On July 2, Margo drove me to Cedars-Sinai. She’s still a little pissed about what happened with Perdida last year, but we’ve been working through it (couples counseling), and I think this was a step in the right direction. She feels sorry for me and wants to take care of me, which I think is the foundation for rebuilding a solid relationship.

The pre-surgery process seemed a little awkward to me. A foreign nurse with a heavy accent processed me into Day Surgery, but I felt a little uncomfortable by her inability to correctly pronounce my name, my injury, or the word “crackers.” Did she have any idea what was going on? I was somewhat reassured by a balding, ponytailed man who drifted into my curtained-off bed chamber and announced in an airy, moderately disinterested voice that he’s my anesthesiologist and “Don’t worry, I’ve never lost a patient.” I started to feel anxious—thou doth protest too much, methinks.

They got me hooked up to an IV and started with a low-level relaxing agent. As I started to get light-headed, I began joking with Margo about the hilarity of my inevitable death on the operating table. Eventually, Dr. Hunzinbergel came in for a brief pep talk. He mentioned that they’d kick in such a powerful anesthetic that I wouldn’t even remember being wheeled to the operating room. I’ve had surgery before, so I laughed off such a ridiculous suggestion. The last thing I remember was talking to Margo. Then I woke up in the recovery area, with Dr. Hunzinbergel gleefully announcing that he had repaired the damage. I didn’t understand what he meant. Also, I feel back asleep.

When I awoke again, the full extent of his glee became evident. He put me in a full cast—made of tight-packed cotton and ace bandages—that I had to keep elevated all weekend, before I could meet with a physical therapist. The therapist unwrapped the bandages, removed the cotton, and examined the scars, which I myself saw for the first time. I wanted to puke, possibly from the massive amounts of Vicodin I had inhaled over the weekend, but I like to think it had more to do with the terrifying red-black lines crisscrossing my hand.

The therapist made a cheap cast out of some sort of plastic that becomes malleable in moderate heat (hence the warnings not to leave it in the car) but is rock hard at room temperature. She showed me how to clean and redress the wounds and showed me some basic finger-movement exercises to do each hour so the muscle didn’t atrophy. I wanted to die: such basic actions as making a “square fist” had turned into nearly-impossible Herculean efforts.

Back at home, Margo had gone off to Wilmington to shoot a few more episodes of Black Belt Irish. Her role as a Canadian arms dealer had grown suspiciously popular, so they made it recurring despite the fact that she had died in original one-off episode. Anyway, with her gone and the band pissed at me for causing so many delays and financial problems, I found myself alone to tend to my recovery. Trust me when I say nothing is more terrifying than having to hold gauze bandages in place with your teeth while using your only functional hand to tape a wrist that feels like it’s about to detach from the rest of the body.

I spent a three weeks alone, laid up in that cast, in an opiate stupor. I subsisted on junk food and sandwiches of rapidly turning egg salad. Finally, Margo returned, I got the cast removed, and I entered a six-week period of physical therapy. The therapy terrified me, because I had the suspicion that the cartilage “repair” was more like tacking frayed curtains to the wall than patching them, so I felt like any little move would cause the cartilage to re-tear.

I finished my last therapy session today, actually, and I don’t feel much better at all. I can do something with relative ease—typing for short periods of time, writing by hand, even playing a little guitar—but if I bend it the wrong way, it flares in immeasurable pain, far worse than what I suffered prior to the surgery. I’m told to continue the therapy exercises at home until I see Dr. Hunzinbergel for a follow-up in six weeks, on November 4. I hope things will be considerably better, but I have no way of knowing.

The short version of this long, disappointing tale is this: I am unable to continue work on Fuck Machines until I return to 100%. I don’t have a clue when that will happen, and Dr. Hunzinbergel refuses to give any sort of ballpark answer for fear of a lawsuit. I do feel like I’m edging ever closer to recovery, but I refused to allow Mildew to put yet another release date that may ultimately be changed.

For now, we’re simply saying, “Cumming in 2010 A.D.” Lucky for us, 2010 feels like a nice, sci-fi-ish year, so Mildew feels confident the marketing department will make the release year seem sexy.

We don’t want the Abysmal juggernaut to fade when we were just regaining some momentum, but with my inability to play, we have to be creative in how we promote the band. Look for some goodies to pop up soon, and before you know it, Fuck Machines will be penetrating your stereos.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 23, 2009 10:14 PM
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June 22, 2009

Wrist Trauma

As most of you folks know, I tore the cartilage in my wrist last December during the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase. My orthopedic specialist, Dr. Phineas Hunzinbergel, injected my wrist with cortisone and put me into a splint for a minimum of four weeks. By January, I was raring to get back to recording Fuck Machines. Unfortunately, my wrist would not cooperate. My trademarks—speedy licks and a well-honed, well-timed heir of sloppiness that is actually perfection disguised as edgy, devil-may-care playing—had left me completely, and although I could play brief snatches of songs, my wrist quickly transformed into a maelstrom of pain and numbness.

With the cliché-ridden adages of old football coaches ringing in my ears (“No pain, no gain!” “Walk it off!” “That helmet’s not a chair!” etc.), I pressed on, assuming things would get better with increased use. Well, you know what they say about assumptions…

By May, I was back in Dr. Hunzinbergel’s office, receiving yet another cortisone injection, in addition to an MRI to investigate the area. Hunzinbergel examined the results and confirmed his suspicion that I did have a tear, in the triangular fibrocartilage complex of my left hand. He told me to wait another month for the full effects of the cortisone to be shown before making any decisions about surgery.

A month passed, and to my surprise, my wrist began to feel better. In fact, better than better—I felt like a new man! For three days. After that, the pain got even worse than it had before the second injection.

Lucky for me, a few threatening letters to Metzler-Rinbaum & Associates, the organization that staged the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase, had convinced them to pay for any medical bills associated with this injury. Based on a quick pep talk with Dr. Hunzinbergel, I felt confident I could get the surgery, recuperate quickly, and still fulfill the previously announced June 23 release date.

Unfortunately, Dr. Hunzinbergel could not schedule me for surgery until July 2, meaning the release of Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ will be delayed, probably until mid- to late September of this year. Luckily, Dean Charleston and the folks at Mildew Records have shown surprising understanding of my medical problems. They still fully support the album and wish for a speedy recovery.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 22, 2009 10:09 AM
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February 17, 2009

New Release Date

Hey, folks!

It’s Girth, typing once again, but not for long. I just wanted to let you know we—and by “we,” I mean “Mildew Records”—have a firm date for the release of Fuck Machines. It’ll be out June 23, 2009. Expect a big marketing blitz throughout the month of June in anticipation of its release. We’re hoping to put out a single by April. I’ll keep you posted.

—G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 17, 2009 11:28 AM
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December 12, 2008

Fuck Machines — Delayed!

Fans,

We got some bad news. Recording Fuck Machines was going along amazingly…until Girth decided to take part in the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase. He tore cartilage in the second-worst possible place, his wrist, the one he uses to play guitar.

Because of this, we have to accept that Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ will not get out in January. Girth has to wear a wrist splint for at least four weeks, possibly longer. He may even require surgery to heal.

Join us in praying Girth gets better, so everyone can grind along with Fuck Machines.

xoxo
Margo Atwater

Written by Margo Atwater on December 12, 2008 4:05 PM
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November 7, 2008

Dropping the Ball

Hey, all. This is Girth, posting to you direct from the Paint Shaker in Hollywood.

Here’s something you ought to know: the entire band blogged extensively this summer, and you guys are gonna want to hear about it—some fucked up, crazy shit happened. Unfortunately, our stupid intern, Marty Rabinowicz, stopped posting blogs after a couple of weeks. I know he was only getting college credit, but we’re finding out the hard way that he didn’t do anything.

We’re really busy recording our new album, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’, but whenever I have some downtime, I’ll spend it posting our old blogs. Keep your eyes peeled, and sorry, folks!

—G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on November 7, 2008 4:05 PM
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October 21, 2008

Minor Setback

Okay, guys. Last time we talked, I mentioned that this is our most ambitious album today. I’m not wrong on that. The only problem is, it’s gotten so ambitious, the recording has spiraled out of control. We’re doing a lot with layered guitars/synths and some awesome studio experimentation that’s gonna really kick ass. It’s just taking me and Carlos Ueberschaer (our engineer) a long time to sort through what we’re recording and separate the wheat from the chaff. As a result, we got permission from Mildew to push the release back to January.

We’re also most likely going to put out a tie-in EP that I’m calling Songs from the Fuck Machine, which will fill out the Fuck Machines universe in richer detail than I can accomplish with one LP’s worth of material. Mildew adamantly refuses to put out a double album.

I hate to do this again, but I assure you, this time an album is coming out, and it’s going to kick so much fucking ass.

G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on October 21, 2008 5:06 PM
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September 24, 2008

Busy Doin’ Somethin’

Hey, guys! It’s Girth. I just wanted to check in a little to let you guys know we’ve been working our asses off on recording Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’, which will be available at retail stores by November. So far, it’s kicking ass! Even though it’s not a double album, I’d consider it our most ambitious album today. Hope you guys dig the new website design.

Peace!

G.McD

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 24, 2008 1:47 PM
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August 29, 2008

The End of Cheyenne

Perdida had been missing for a week when Margo finally said, “You should look for her.”

“Maybe we should look for her together,” I said, trying to trick her by pretending to be open and honest.

It worked: “No, Girth… If I see her, I’m bound to stab her in the throat. You should do this alone.”

I nodded, gave her an awkward kiss, and drove up to North Hollywood to look for clues in Perdida’s apartment. I didn’t find any suggestion of her whereabouts—just a lot of vibrators and faux-vintage knickknacks. As I prepared to give up and leave, my foot kicked something small across the polished wood floor. I went over to the baseboard and picked it up—a matchbook, bearing the logo and address for the Lunaria Jazz Bar, a club Jam used to frequent before moving in with a number of other disheveled musicians/hobos. It wasn’t much, but I didn’t have anything else I could consider a lead.

August 28, 2008

Studio Shitty

“Why do you have to be such a raging fucking bitchwhore?” I shouted. “I know it’s not ‘cause you’re on your period, so what’s you’re fucking excuse?!” (By the way, I knew this because Margo doesn’t have any eggs, so her gyno thought it would be best if she went on the pill full-time since she’s not dropping any eggs, anyway.)

“My ‘excuse,’” Margo retorted, “is that I’m fucking sick of being married to a man who can’t keep it in his pants!”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it last night!”

“Are you retarded?! Of course I don’t care if you’re fucking me. It’s every other woman in the world I have a problem with.”

“Well, now,” Carl added, “doesn’t that just about sum up the female gender?”

August 21, 2008

Bottle Rocket Battles

Last night, Margo and I watched one of her episodes of Black Belt Irish. I’m a big fan of schlocky TV, but this just seems like it’s pandering to nerds who enjoy The A Team ironically. I got bored quickly, so I was sort of happy to get a text message from Perdida halfway through. I was less happy when I read the message: Hay girth I need 2 o shit help sum1 just bust That was it—not even a period.

I rolled my eyes and ignored it until after the show, when I realized the sentence made no sense. I made several attempts at parsing it before realizing it should read as follows: “Hey, Girth, I need to—oh, shit! Help! Someone just bust—” It cut off in mid-sentence and warned that she was in danger. Even though I can’t stand her personally, the bond of sexual congress, combined with my overall desire to help mankind, made me worry about her safety. Was this another ploy, or had she really stumbled into trouble?

How could I find out? Margo had become increasingly suspicious of my behavior, and although she had reinstituted her policy of not reading the blog, she’d decided to keep tabs on me by refusing to let me out of her sight. We did everything together, and to be honest, I didn’t hate it. I’d kind of forgotten about Perdida until she texted me. How could I express these feelings to Margo and make her believe that I’m legitimately concerned and only sort of want to bang her again?

August 18, 2008

Electronica

“This is turning out like shit,” Carlos Ueberschaer said after we listened to some rough takes of the first Fuck Machines track, “In the Future.”

He was right: per usual, Mikey sucked fucking balls on the bass, and something about the sound just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Carl volunteered. “I don’t have fucking shit to do on this record. You made the whole thing drum machines to make it sound all futuristic and crappy. Why am I even here?”

“For moral support,” I replied.

August 15, 2008

Amends

I spent the first two years of my L.A. Life living in a van on Fairfax in Little Ethiopia. I got to know the area pretty well, and although it’s changed a lot in the past 15 years, one thing hasn’t: Hesh Kushi Pacman, a bar that specializes in the expedient, semi-legal sale of hash and vintage arcade games. I used to spend hours there, playing games on one quarter to relieve the stress and depression of my early, fledgling career. Whenever things go badly at home or with the band, I tend to gravitate back there, to get my smoke on and crush the Galaga top score I set in 1996.

I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me when I ran into Colby there last night. I introduced him to the place a few years ago, and what the hell else does he have to do? He’s an unemployed loser obsessed with video games and drugs. The pieces fit.

August 13, 2008

Conflicted

Beaming, I entered the studio. While Mikey and Carl spoke in low whispers and Riffs noodled around on his guitar, Margo glared in my direction from behind her wall of keyboards.

“Where were you last night?” she asked.

“I told you,” I said condescendingly. “Dean Charleston set up a meeting with Vance Sloane.”

“An all-night meeting? You couldn’t even call?”

“Sorry, baby,” I said. “It slipped my mind. We got into a touch-football tournament with some homos down in Huntington. Which, I’d like to point out, is just about the complete opposite of banging Perdida Cheyenne, so get the puss off.”

“You’re in an awfully cheerful mood for a dude who spent an entire night being groped by fags,” Margo growled.

“That’s because I had a burst of inspiration,” I said. “In the car, on the way over here, I came up with the last three Fuck Machines songs. It’s gonna be awesome!”

Without changing her facial expression at all that I could tell, Margo’s glare somehow darkened, making her seem both angrier and more terrifying. I tried to ignore it.

“Let’s rehearse, guys. Recording starts Monday.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 13, 2008 4:00 PM
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August 9, 2008

Crocodemon Finished

Last night, Perdida called me up, bawling her eyes out. “It’s Vance,” she sobbed. “Rumors are floating around the set that he found out about our affair and wants to shut down production on Crocodemon.”

“That makes no sense,” I said. “Are you sure you aren’t just being retarded?”

After a long, irritated beat, Perdida stated flatly: “Yes, Girth. Vance Sloane hates you and wants to bang me. It’s just a revenge tactic.”

“Man, that guy is so fucked,” I said. “He’d really fuck up his own career—wasting all that money on preproduction and what he’s shot so far, just to get petty revenge on me, and to a lesser extent you.”

“You know him, though,” Perdida sobbed. “It’s not out of line for him.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Girth…” She whispered.

“I’ll take care of it.” I hung up.

August 5, 2008

Writer’s Cock Block

Everyone knows I thrive on conflict, but since Margo forgave me, we’ve entered a new honeymoon phase. She’s nice to me all the time. It’s unsettling.

It has also created problems in the studio. How, exactly, does one write a sexy, futuristic soap opera when the soapy elements in his own life have disappeared? Granted, I have the screenplay Perdida and I wrote available to use as a template, but I like to write music that evokes the feeling, and much like the composer Richard Wagner, I can’t evoke the feeling in music without personally experiencing the emotions as I write. I like to think this is what caused so much drama between myself, Perdida, and Colby. Margo doesn’t, but she forgave me, so who cares?

To some extent, Mikey’s stupidity is creating conflict, but it’s not the right sort of conflict. As I struggle to write various themes at motives for Fuck Machines, he keeps popping up with half-retarded suggestions, like how the robot overlords should be underscored with a bass doubling the melody. I’d consider entertaining such ideas if he were competent enough to replicate it live.

July 31, 2008

Clean Break

“Margo,” I pleaded from the other side of the door, “there’s just something you have to understand about male biology. I need to get off, and sometimes my hand just isn’t enough. But you’re the one I love. You’re the one I married―baby, it’s always been you.”

I heard the locks click. Margo opened the door a crack. She looked super-hot.

“You need to prove it,” she said sternly.

“How? I’ll do anything!”

“Go to that fucking cunt Cheyenne and make a clean break. You’re to never see her again, even if I end up on The State of the Union Is Bonkers. In fact, I hope I get that part just to dangle that forbidden fruit in front of you so you can continuously prove your loyalty, you little rat son of a fuck.”

“Fine,” I said. “You want a clean break―I’l give you the cleanest break you’ve ever seen!”

I didn’t care that what I said made little sense. I just needed Margo back. I drove to Perdida’s apartment in North Hollywood and banged on her door. “Perdida!” I shouted. “We need to talk!”

Perdida yanked the door open and immediately jammed her tongue down my throat. I tried to pull her away, but she yanked me inside the apartment and slammed the door.

July 29, 2008

I Write the Songs

Walking into the Paint Shaker this morning, I was shocked to hear odd, foreign sounds emanating from the studio where we’ve holed up to write Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines.’ Since my problems with Margo, Mikey and Carl took it upon themselves to begin writing songs for the album, as if I wouldn’t mind. I entered the studio space, livid, and they clammed up immediately.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Just jamming,” Mikey said.

“Jamming… With lyrics I wrote for Fuck Machines?”

“Mikey actually has some pretty solid ideas, Girth,” Carl said.

“Let me guess: the bass gets a prominent melody while the other instruments get buried in a swirling wall of sound?”

“Uhhh…” Carl responded.

“Look, motherfucker,” Mikey interrupted. “We gotta get this shit done. If you aren’t gonna do it, somebody has to. You don’t have Jam to clean up your messes anymore.”

“Fuck you!” I exclaimed, sounding a bit whinier aloud than it did in my head.

“Good comeback,” Carl said.

“I don’t mean to be a prick,” Mikey said, “but I believe in this project, and I believe in making money off of it, so we have to finish it this time. If that means Carl and I have to write all the songs, so be it. But you have two choices: pull your head out of your ass, beg Margo to take you back, and get both of your asses back in the studio to finish writing the album, or suffer the humiliation of a co-writing credit.”

“Fine,” I snarled. “I’ll see you tomorrow―with Margo!”

As I stormed out of the studio, I heard Carl chuckle and say, “I can’t believe that worked.” I didn’t know what he meant by that.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 29, 2008 3:58 PM
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July 25, 2008

Best Laid Plans

Last night, Riffs got tired of me sitting around his apartment, feeling sorry for myself. He said, “Come on, buddy. I got a surprise for you.”

A surprise indeed. He drove me into Glendale to an old club I used to frequent, the Sunset Strip. I hadn’t been there since I encountered the woman I thought was my daughter dancing there and had sex with her. Coming back felt awkward, but as soon as I was bathed in the soft neon and noisy DJ patter, I felt better about it.

“Private dances are on me, man,” Riffs said encouragingly.

“What am I supposed to do here, Riffs?” I asked. “Margo is pissed at me for fooling around on her. How is fooling around on her even more going to solve anything?”

“Fuck, man. It won’t solve shit―but it sure will feel nice.”

July 21, 2008

For the Record

“Jesus Christ,” I griped, “I just want to write some fucking songs together, as a team.”

“Well, who’s stopping you?” Margo growled.

“You are!” I roared.

“Fuck you, Girth!” she shouted.

The boys’ eyes shifted back and forth, as if watching a tennis match. In the booth, Carlos Ueberschaer looked bored as fuck. I hated doing this in front of them, but what the fuck could I do? Margo decided to show up to help us write. It’s not my fault she can’t stop from being a fucking bitch. Well, okay, it actually is my fault, but I like to keep my private life separate from my work.

“Calm down,” I said softly. “Let’s just quietly work on the next song. Where did we leave off, Riffs?”

Riffs checked his notes. He looked up uneasily and said, “I don’t think we should work on anything new. We should just go over the stuff we’ve written and figure out strengths and weaknesses, you know…”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I’d rather get the whole album done, then time it out and maybe play it live to see what works and what doesn’t. So where are we?”

With a heavy sigh, Riffs said, “‘Lusty Bot,’ in which LIN-9660 discovers Kalos fucking Chery and is so overcome with jealousy, he reports her to the Robot Overlords at GlobalSyn.”

I looked to Margo, who sat in silence, quivering with rage. Smiling weakly, I said, “This is a perfect time to get the emotionality right.”

She leaped to her feet, lunging at my awesome new Kustom amp. Shrieking, Margo plowed her fist right through the fiberglass cabinet case. Billowing smoke followed a thick electronic burp, but it didn’t seem to affect Margo. She stood up, looked mournfully at her bleeding fist, and stamped out of the studio.

“That could have gone better,” Carl observed.

Ignoring him, I stepped into the dark hallway and called after Margo, staring at her shapely ass as she sashayed away. “We could really use your feminist perspective on this…”

Not turning around, she riposted with, “Why don’t you call Perdida fucking Cheyenne for your fucking feminist perspective?”

What the hell do you say to that?

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 21, 2008 3:57 PM
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July 16, 2008

Mistaken

I wanted to believe he’d changed. I guess that’s what I get for having some faith. I should have listened to my gut: once a liar, always a liar; once a cheater, always a cheater. I just… I don’t know. I thought he could control himself. If not for my sake, then the fact that, until recently, he’d had major troubles getting it up… But now he can. For her. It was never me. The past two weeks, every time he stuck his cock in me, he felt the moist, yeast breeding ground of one Perdida Cheyenne.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Things had been going so well, I thought, “Okay, I can check out the blog again. I’m sure I won’t find anything egregious.” Instead, I find nothing but stories about cavorting with Perdida, then fucking Perdida, then trying to hide said fuckfest from me. Thank God for Colby―at least somebody in the Abysmal family has some spine and dignity, although I wish he’d come to me directly instead of posting it for the fans.

After reading what I read, I waited for Girth to get back from the gym and confronted him. He tried to squirm his way out of it, but this blog will always remain his fucking downfall. How can you deny shit when it’s all printed out for the world to see?

I told him I was leaving. Yet again. I’d already called Lacey and arranged to stay with her for a few days.

“No,” Girth said. “I should leave this time.”

“Fine,” I said. “Get the fuck out.”

He stood there, eyes tearing up.

“Now!” I screamed, throwing a prop M-16 from Black Belt Irish at him.

He batted it away, glared at me for a moment, and then finally left.

I haven’t heard from him in a few days. He canceled recording temporarily. Rumor has it that Carl and Mikey wouldn’t take him in, so he’s stuck with Riffs. He fucking deserves it.

Written by Margo Atwater on July 16, 2008 3:57 PM
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