Abysmal Crucifix - OFFICIAL WEBSITE

Cancer Crisis! Archives

July 17, 2007

Tour Blog: Stockholm Syndrome

Our intern, Jason Fields, called me on the road on Sunday to tell me our show at Arenan in Stockholm had been canceled because of poor ticket sales. We didn’t even get the message until we arrived at the hotel in Stockholm, thanks to poor cell reception. It’s pretty crushing to know that Abysmal Crucifix can’t sell out a large club in one of the few places we’re still considered “popular.”

Since we still had a hotel reservation and a few days to kill before driving up to Lund, I did what everyone comes to Sweden to do: drove to the beach. There’s a nice one at Långholmen, and I needed some relief from the cool night air and the pressures that came from such a disappointing tour. We’ve been on the road for over a week, and we haven’t yet played one show.

I just sat there on the beach, thinking. After awhile, I waded into shallow water, trying to cool off from the heat of the Swedish summer. When I returned to the beach, I fell on my knees. With my eyes closed and brow furrowed, I prayed, prayed to the gods of the Church of Rafelman, a divine order I belong to that believes many of today’s rock stars are reincarnations of ancient gods and goddesses; for instance, I am believed to be Paoponicheleus. Borne of a lesbian affair between Demeter and a water nymph, Paoponicheleus brought soil pH measurements to Greek farmers in the same way I bring the rock to anyone willing to open their ears. I prayed to the reincarnated gods I worship, and when I felt a cold gust of wind coming in off the colorless lake, I turned around and saw—

A man in a heavy black robe. His face was very pale and he kept his hands hidden in the wide folds of his cloak.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am Death.” He spoke with a light Swedish accent, in the deepest bass I’ve ever heard.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 17, 2007 9:47 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

July 18, 2007

Tour Blog: Cancer Crisis

When I got back to the hotel, I told the rest of the band exactly what had happened: my ex-fiancée, Sarah Goss, had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Prognosis? Terminal. My arch-nemesis, musician Owen Autumn, confronted me on the beach and Långholmen to give me the news. Grief-stricken, Riffs ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

Mikey and Carl sat on a love-seat, trying as hard as possible to not actually touch. Mikey muttered, “Serves that whore right,” which prompted Carl to smack him in the back of the head. Then he looked at me, shrugged, and said, “I didn’t know her. I mean, I feel bad on a general ‘wow does cancer suck’ level, but it doesn’t go any deeper.”

“That’s what she said,” Mikey said, trying to avoid eye contact with me.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on July 18, 2007 10:45 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

August 21, 2007

Get Cancer

“Girth,” Margo said from the doorway, “come on, we gotta go.”

I rolled over and looked at the bedside clock: 2:30. Visiting hours ended at five, and the hospital was about 45 minutes away in midday traffic.

“Come on, we can wait a little—”

“Get your fat ass out of bed, dammit!” Margo growled. “You kept stalling yesterday and we ended up not going at all. Come on!”

She threw the blanket off me and wrapped her arms around my feet. She started yanking my legs, among other things, and I grasped the head-board. She continued to pull until I felt a weird burning sensation in my thighs. I shrieked like a little girl and finally let go of the bed. Margo grunted as she slammed against wall, rattling the portrait of us wearing matching royal-blue dresses. I fell back and caught my balls on the corner of the mattress. I gasped and reached for my crotch when Margo took advantage of my stunned state. She grabbed me around the torso and dragged me into the living room.

August 22, 2007

Debts That No Honest Man Can Pay

Feinstein’s building is down in Venice, a few blocks from the beach, in a little pink-stucco one-story building surrounded by parking lots. I parked in one of the lots—thankfully, they’re virtually deserted on weekdays, and one of them only charges $1.50 for parking during “non-peak” hours. That’s cheaper than the meter.

His secretary, a plump girl named Sheila, sat behind her gigantic desk. She looked, as usual, haggard and mildly terrified. “Mr. McDürchstein,” she said, looking pleased to see me. “Mr. Feinstein is with a client. He’ll just be a few minutes.”

“No rush,” I muttered. I set down my duffel bag and lifted the latest issue of Militant Jugz from the overstuffed magazine rack. I browsed through it for maybe 20 minutes, stealthily playing with myself. Finally, a disheveled group of middle-aged men in suits filed out of the conference room doors. Each of them wore a frown, the color drained from their faces. They resembled the ensemble from a film by the late Ingmar Bergman. In stark contrast to their colorless complexions, I noticed flecks of red liquid dotting several faces and white shirts.

Feinstein followed them out but stopped in front of the door. “Did you bring the money?” he growled at me, taking a sip from a advertial mug declaring Feinstein to be THE GREATEST AT GETTING YOU OFF!!!

“Of course.” I nudged the duffel bag full of cash with my foot.

A greedy smile creased Herc’s face. He gestured into the conference room and said, “Please, come right in.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 22, 2007 6:11 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

August 24, 2007

No Cure for Cancer

I’m not a doctor by any means, but since I’ve promised to cure my ex-fiancée’s cancer, I need to know everything I possibly can about the subject. I first consulted Cap’n Doucheman’s Guide to Ovarian Cancer, an invaluable resource for grappling with basic issues relating to ovarian cancer. At $24.95 retail, you could do a lot worse than a 680-page digest featuring photos, diagrams, and charts.

Click image for a larger view

Already, I’ve learned some astounding facts, including:

Only women have ovaries.
Cancer is deadly and incurable.
There is a genetic link with ovarian cancer. Since Sarah’s mom, two of her aunts, her grandmother, and one of her second-cousins died of ovarian cancer, maybe she should have seen this coming. Hindsight is always 20/20, though.

Reading the guide led me to consider two possibilities for a cure. Apparently cancer often strikes in the form of what they call “malignant tumors.” Ergo, if I can extract this tumor, she will be cured. Similarly, while it’s unclear, it would appear ovaries have something to do with female reproduction. If Sarah Goss can be impregnated by me, she will be cured of cancer. There is no way a malignant growth could survive against such a formidable opponent as my lovechild.

I suggested these two cure possibilities to Margo, and it led to a big fight that prompted her to leave. She’ll come back—she always does—but until then, ladies, it’s all yours. Until I hear from you, I’ll be working on my cure possibilities.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 24, 2007 3:18 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

August 27, 2007

Public Relations

“I don’t even know what I did wrong,” I muttered, trying not to make direct eye-contact.

Lacey gave me an impossibly hard look—I never expected her to be such a shark with this whole PR thing. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What did I do that was so bad?”

“I don’t know, Girth,” Lacey sighed. “You spent a month posting itemized lists of crimes you and the rest of the band were committing throughout Europe, which led to you getting arrested and escaping from a French prison and fleeing to Algeria, where you swindled $830,000 out of Nigerian scammers, then went to Japan and got involved with mobsters, played your music for five-year-old Japanese girls. You don’t think anyone here in the States will find anything…I don’t know, unseemly about that?”

“I pride myself in being honest,” I said.

PRESS RELEASE: Recently Exonerated Rocker Founds Children’s Charity

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Lacey’s Relations
1142 Wilshire Blvd.
Suite 600
Los Angeles, CA 90017

RECENTLY EXONERATED ROCKER FOUNDS CHILDREN’S CHARITY

LOS ANGELES, August 27, 2007 — Legendary rock star Girth McDürchstien, hot off a recent tour of Europe and Japan, has put his 2007 earnings toward founding his own charity, Girth McDürchstien’s Sweet Treasures. Based in Studio City, California, the charity will help wayward girls by giving them the practical advice and formal education society has otherwise denied them.

Click image for a larger view

“It’s a really wonderful opportunity to give back after taking so much,” says McDürchstein, whose band Abysmal Crucifix is slated to release its fifth album, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return,’ in November.

Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Sweet Treasures’ will open facilities in the recently rebuilt Den Himmel Clinic on Ventura Boulevard, which Christian zealots bombed in 2004. “One of America’s great tragedies is that so many girls with potential are murdered by the confused and morally unjust,” laughs charity co-chairman and Slut-Wrench Magazine founder Margo Atwater (who is also the wife of Girth McDürchstein). “Our goal is to give these girls a second chance—without murder.”

Already, the charity is not without controversy. Hank Wooster, founder and pastor of the Burbank-based Cinged Harlot “mega-church,” has promised to protest this charity’s aims and implied support of anti-Christian doctrine. “The mere fact that these musician-worshipping criminals dare to perpetuate an ideology of hopefulness to the faithless and needy—they’re simply unfit to ‘educate’ young people,” Wooster said in a telephone call to publicist Lacey Greenwood.

In response, McDürchstein says, “He can suck my big fat cock.”

Girth McDürchstein’s Sweet Treasures is slated to open its doors on September 5th. For more information, visit http://www.girthmcdurchstein.com or call the Hopeful Hotline at (310) 976-HELP.

###

Press Contact:
Lacey Greenwood
818.655.5000
laceygstring@girthmcdurchstein.com

Written by Lacey Greenwood on August 27, 2007 2:42 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

Live Blogging from the Coffee Bean on Lankershim

A few minutes ago, Lacey called my cell. “Goddammit!” she bellowed. “What is your fucking problem?”

“Can I call you back?” I asked. “I’m in line at the Coffee Bean and—”

“You will not hang up on me!” she growled. “You’ll step out of line and wait until I’ve said what I have to say.”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 27, 2007 3:01 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

August 28, 2007

To Hold My Tongue Speaks of Quiet Reservations…

“Would you stop trying to manipulate me, because I know what you’re doing and I’m better at it than you are?” She stood in the kitchenette, arms folded, glaring at me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’ve decided to dedicate my life to helping others.”

“Okay, asshole, you know what you should probably do? If you’re going to lie to my face, you shouldn’t write blog posts saying you’re lying to my face.”

“I’m not lying,” I said. “I read the book about cancer, and all my medical instincts tell me the way to cure her is by impregnating her.”

“Fine,” Margo snapped. “What about artificial insemination?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I sighed.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 28, 2007 5:06 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

August 29, 2007

Lacey’s Party

Birthdays have always filled me with a strange sort of melancholy, which is why I haven’t celebrated one since 1990. Lacey, on the other hand, loves the attention. We invited everybody we knew, except for my various arch-nemeses (why I should have more than one at this stage in my life bums me out, but them’s the breaks), to gather at one of our favorite clubs—a pseudo-dive bar called Cabo Cantina, on Sunset near Sweetzer. We’ve always enjoyed the atmosphere provided by their kick-ass jukebox, plastic-flap doors, and nachos.

Lacey met up with Margo and me at our apartment, and we drove into Hollywood. Mikey and Riffs were already at the bar, but Carl was nowhere to be found. Lacey shrugged and said, “It might be awkward.”

“What?”

“Before the tour, he tried to get me liquored up and, well—you know…”

I nodded. I knew.

“No amount of alcohol would make me fuck that—hey, Carl!”

September 5, 2007

Labor Day Weekend

I felt a little depressed after Lacey’s party. Whenever people lay heavy trips on me like that, I usually go up the mountains to chillax. When I got up to the cabin at the resort I usually stay at—I won’t mention which one because I don’t want fans to hound me while I’m deep-thinking—the gentleman who gave me the rental agreement told me I was receiving a discounted fare for staying all four nights.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are staying for the full holiday weekend, are you not?”

“It’s a holiday?”

September 10, 2007

Scraped Knees

My lawyer, Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, set up a very important meeting regarding distribution. Since we recently reacquired our old recording studio, the Paint Shaker, but remain without a label, Feinstein set us up with a group that would print our CDs (both past and future) under the old Kelleystein name. Sort of a lo-fi version of the record label, without the overhead or the board meetings or the huge capital or the funneling losses into Cayman Island shell accounts. Essentially, these distributors will print our CDs for a nominal fee, and we can sell them ourselves.

Then, disaster struck. I parked on the street a few blocks from the distributors’ office, started walking along Melrose. I hit the intersection at Gardner, stopped by a red light. I looked both ways, saw oncoming traffic in both directions. I had just enough time to get across but, preoccupied as I was with the cars coming, I failed to see where my feet were heading. I tumbled off the curb, twisting my ankle and landing on the concrete. I howled in pain as my knees and right elbow hit the ground. Because of the heat, I made the mistake of wearing spandex shorts instead of the usual leather pants. As I staggered to my feet, I could practically feel the muscles and tendons surrounding the joint tearing apart. The cars in both directions were forced to stop, but when I got to my feet and got back to the curb everyone blasted on down the street.

September 11, 2007

Trapped in the Confessional

To get to the confessional of my church, the Church of Rafelman, you have to go into the pizza place next door (they also sponsor the Church), go past the booths and tables, past the front counter, to two doors hidden in a narrow alcove: MEN and WOMEN. Go into the one labeled MEN, walk past the sinks and urinals, to the two toilet stalls on the with OUT OF ORDER signs. There, among the sounds and smells and flesh of other men, co-founder and current High Priest Gambol Gutenberg waits. Rumors persist about what he does in that stall for most of the day, but I can’t imagine anything a fey man might do in a public restroom other than hear confessions.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 11, 2007 6:44 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

September 13, 2007

Meeting the One (That Got Away?)

I first saw Sarah Goss at a club on the Sunset Strip that no longer exists. I think it was called The Golden Dragon, but who really knew? Its building had no signs, you never saw any flyers. Everyone in the knew…just knew. I’ve never been to a stranger place. It had a nondescript, almost abandoned look to it. You rarely saw anybody enter, saw even fewer people leave, but that was by design.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 13, 2007 2:02 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

September 15, 2007

Sarah Goss and Owen Autumn

We’ve received tens of messages from fans demanding to know why I find Owen Autumn so terrifying. Shouldn’t somebody rippling with muscle, confidence, and penile enormity (I should note that this public image is why I refuse to allow any recent pictures of me to surface, with the notable exception of my unfortunate mugshot) kick the fucking shit out of a fat, washed-up loser, like I do in my song “Thunderbird”? The answer may surprise you.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 15, 2007 4:15 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

September 18, 2007

Husbands and Lovers

“I don’t want to leave,” Margo whispered, biting her lip to stop the tears. “Not again.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Margo,” I sighed as I flopped down on the couch. “I’m not the one with the problem here.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Fair enough.”

September 21, 2007

Redstain Attack!

I stood next to her in the darkened hospital room, watched her eyes get that rare, distant look in them. Owen sat in the corner, reading a magazine.

“Girth,” Sarah whispered, not looking anywhere near my direction.

“Owen…” I said.

“Girth,” Sarah repeated hoarsely, “Girth, why have you forsaken me?”

“I…have?”

“Girth…”

September 24, 2007

Funereal Disease

I’ve always hated the custom of the wake. Maybe it’s just a Catholic thing, but wakes always bring out the worst in people, starting out as a period of group mourning, descending into a lively party, and then—when everyone gets drunk enough—into a writhing lake of fire, with each friend or family member airing his or her grievances about everyone else in the room. By the end of the evening, we’ve all forgotten why we’ve bothered to get together—that we should both mourn and celebrate the life of the departed.