Abysmal Crucifix - OFFICIAL WEBSITE

Colby & Perdida Archives

April 30, 2008

Back in L.A.

Getting back wasn’t too bad. To our surprise, we got most of the deposit back for the van, despite driving it through several cornfields and streams during our unfortunate mushroom tripping in Kansas. The flight was only 15 minutes late leaving Cincinnati, but it got into LAX early.

After touring the snowy, then rainy Midwest, I was happy to get back to the sun-dappled majesty of Southern California.

Click image for a larger view

Huh.

May 5, 2008

Mildew Meeting

Dean Charleston had a smarmy look about him—skin so deeply tanned it had begun to develop premature wrinkles, teeth so blinding white I would have needed sunglasses if I hadn’t already been wearing my mirrored aviators, hair so greasy you could plant a flag in it. He sat at the end of the conference table with some other A&R people—one go-getting blow-combed junior-executive wannabe, the other a bored-looking goth chick—when I walked into the room.

“Girth,” he said. In person, his voice oozed game-show host affability that I hadn’t heard when I spoke with him on the phone.

“Mr. Charleston,” I said, shaking his hand. I extended my hand to the others, who looked at me like I had offered them a shit sandwich. I withdrew my hand and sat.

May 13, 2008

New Intern

We weren’t going to do this again, because the last guy was a disaster, but because Colby’s been such a flake lately, Margo decided we needed to bring someone else in to help us out with the website and blog.

So we’d like to introduce Marty Rabinowicz, this summer’s intern. He’ll be making things hum behind the scenes, in more ways than one.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 13, 2008 7:19 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

May 8, 2008

Colby’s Blog

He mentioned it, so I finally got around to checking out Colby’s blog. It’s fucking terrifying. After this, I hope I don’t hear from him.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 8, 2008 2:36 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

May 11, 2008

Mildon’t

I took the contract to Feinstein. The band had absolutely no complaints about the deal (in fact, the phrases “thank fucking God” and “holy fuck why didn’t you sign already” were tossed around liberally), but I figured I should take it to a lawyer to make sure Mildew wasn’t trying to fuck us in some way.

Feinstein checked it out as thoroughly as he usually does, and he said it was fine—“nothing objectionable,” he said. “In fact, it’s a suspiciously good offer, all things considered.”

May 17, 2008

The Obsession

Margo and I were in the middle of a pretty typical Saturday afternoon. We decided to go coffin-shopping because, now that the hectic pace has slowed down a little, I got the opportunity to relive Abysmal’s recent greatness by checking back over old blog posts. It reminded me that we never bothered to buy matching coffins for sleeping. Optimally, we’d find a nice old casket-maker whose eyes would bulge to the size and brilliance of agates at the mere thought of a customized king-size coffin, a creation of such opulence and comfort we really could spend eternity lying on it. With our recent advance and sale providing financial freedom we haven’t experienced since I swindled those Nigerians, we could afford to live in style.

Unfortunately, we found ourselves confront with aghast stares rather than sinister grins. Nobody liked our customization plans; they especially disliked it when I informed them the coffin was for living occupants, and what’s worse, we couldn’t find any single-occupant coffins that suited our comfort.

While trying to think of how to take matters into our own hands, I got a phone call.

“This is Girth,” I announced into the phone.

“It’s Colby,” a ragged, panic-stricken voice replied. “I need you.”

May 20, 2008

Recourse

“You obviously don’t understand,” Feinstein whined. “There is nothing we can do about Mildew.”

“There has to be a way,” I barked.

“I’m the lawyer here, kid. Trust me.”

I didn’t know what to say to him. He’d been my lawyer for over a decade, but his expertise seemed to have slipped over the past few years. Was it time to seek out someone new?

May 23, 2008

Finishing Crocodemon

Today, I had to go back to Perdida Cheyenne’s apartment. Last time, she mistook me for Vance Sloane’s enforcer and promised she’d finish her latest script (Dinocroc 3: Crocodemon) by today. According to Colby, who has monitored her like crazy since I implanted that bug, Perdida hasn’t worked on the script at all since I left her apartment.

I didn’t want to do it, but Colby’s my biggest fan. I’d give that up, but my second-biggest fan, at the moment, is a Seattle-based actuary who reads this blog and mails lengthy letters each month, describing what my actions have cost various insurance companies over the years. His writings have tempted me to insurance myself for a high amount, then fake my death, but I couldn’t even get away with the prison scam.

So anyway, I went up to NoHo, to her apartment, and beat down the door.

Read More of "Finishing Crocodemon" »

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 23, 2008 10:09 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

May 26, 2008

Mildew Recording Artists

“We’ve had a change of heart,” I blurted. “We really would like to become officially sanctioned Mildew Recording Artists.”

Dean Charleston’s watery eyes gazed at me, lips forming a hostile smile. “You missed your shot, McDürchstein. We own the Kelleystein label, and although Redstain albums still sell well, especially since Sarah’s unfortunate passing, but will draw attention to the label until the next Abysmal Crucifix release.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Look, I’m not unreasonable,” Charleston sneered. “I know you’re hurting for money.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 26, 2008 1:27 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

May 29, 2008

The Poz Gala

Yesterday afternoon, Colby called me up and told me to get on my least-stained tuxedo t-shirt and track down an invitation to the biennial Poz Gala in West Hollywood. For those not in the know, the Poz Gala is a $2000-per-plate charity dinner “designed to raise money for research into virginal curative properties associated with AIDS” (quoted from their literature). More to the point, there’s a long-standing theory (possibly untrue) that the AIDS virus can be destroyed if a person has sex with a virgin, and the Poz Organization wants to back this up using science. Good luck!

Why did Colby have such a desperate desire to go? Big shock: his love muffin, Perdida Cheyenne, is a scheduled keynote speaker. Considering his obsession with her supposed imminent death, he wants to keep an eye on things. He also seems to believe, if it’s a murder, it’ll most likely happen in a public place. I always felt like the best way would be very private—no witnesses, nobody around to chase you down. But what do I know?

June 4, 2008

Imperfect Pitch

Earlier today, we all pitched concepts to Dean Charleston. He told us that he’d take the best ideas to the board at Mildew, but he was less than receptive to our ideas. Because we couldn’t agree on any one concept as a group, I decided last week that we should each take our individual pet projects and pitch them separately. Here’s how it broke down:

I pitched a bunch of recent songs we’ve written, like “Meth Amp City” and a kind of hip-hop/R&B sound I’ve been experimenting with since Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’ for a song about craving black cocks. I just pitched 13 polished gems of rock bliss, along the lines of our most commercial successful effort (Backseat Delightlah!, 1998), and Dean Charleston shot the whole idea down with a hand-wave—he doesn’t want songs. He wants a concept album that will live up to the artistry we very nearly achieved on our uncompleted masterpiece You Can Touch It for a Quarter. Keeping that in mind… I had nothing, so I turned the floor over to Margo.

Margo’s idea is about a sassy, brassy exotic dancer who struggles against adversity to marry a prominent heavy metal star. Dean Charleston, turned around, placed his hands in his lap, and started making strange arm movements as Margo described the idea. At the end, he asked her to sing a little bit—since the idea is about a woman, he correctly assumed I wouldn’t be singing the lead vocals on (m)any of the songs. Margo gave a demonstration of her honking, Brooklyn-cum-N’Orleans vocal stylings. It lasted maybe 15 seconds before Charleston, scowling, whirled around and made her stop as he tucked in his shirt-tails.

Little Riffs Nicky tossed out an idea about a teenage Lothario, raised from infancy in a brothel, who spends his life seducing and murdering rich women. The moment he compared it to Sweeney Todd, Charleston looked around the room and said, “What else you got?”

Mikey stepped up, insisting he had a “good one.” Mikey Parker’s Jazz Destructor, a solo album he’s been promising since he got fired from the band two years ago, could be converted into a full-scale Abysmal Crucifix affair. Instead, we’d merely call it Metal Destructor and give it our usual hard-edged, guitar-driven sound. Unfortunately, when Charleston asked Mikey to give an example of what these songs were about, every single one involved the everyday problems associated with forklift operators. Although Charleston admired getting in touch with the blue-collar mindset, he thought an album about working such a pointless job would drive too many fans to suicide. Mikey agreed.

Finally, Carl called back to “Meth Amp City” and suggested expanding it to a full concept album, detailing the harrowing meth addiction that is plaguing many parts of this country. He described a hopeful album where we could show, in song, how far a person can fall, and then, in the second half of the album, build that person back up, and the album as a whole could serve as a metaphor for addiction and recovery.

Dean Charleston leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin. He said, “It’s all shit. You kids should be ashamed.”

“Aren’t you younger than we are?” Carl asked.

“Maybe in years,” Charleston said. “But, come on… Albums about teen sex and recovery from addiction? What are we, fifth-graders?”

“But—” I started.

“This is terrible,” Dean Charleston sighed. “I can’t take any of this shit to the board. Look, I’ll give you another week. Maybe…” He opened up his calendar. “Six days. We’ll meet on Tuesday, same time. You give me a really good idea, one I can take to the board, one we can market and get the ball rolling on. You’ll have a deal. Okay?”

We all looked at each other with uncertainty, then filed out of the office.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 4, 2008 11:14 AM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

June 6, 2008

Chance Meeting

Last night, I got trashed. For some reason, I felt like total shit this morning. I guess after what happened at Mildew, I couldn’t help feeling like the end was near. Nobody will book us thanks to our last tour, we can’t get a new album off the ground… How can I survive if nobody wants to hear me express myself through music? For so long, I’ve identified myself as the musician/poet/novelist/actor/laxative pitchman—how can I change gears now?

I wanted to turn to Margo for help and guidance, but as soon as we finished the pitch, she packed her bags for a modeling session in Vancouver. I can’t help feeling we may be drifting apart. With her gone, I helped myself in the only way I knew how. This morning, after spending a few hours in Vendome replenishing the liquor supply, I made a stop at the Peet’s Coffee on Ventura for a nice americano pick-me-up.

As I waited in the line contemplating adding a snickerdoodle cookie or two to my order, a familiar voice called, “Girth?”

June 10, 2008

Pitching Fuck Machines

“…and in the end, it’s our heroine’s job to dismantle the unloved robot.”

Down on one knee, tears streaming down my cheeks, I leaped to my feet. Riffs tossed me an acoustic guitar, and I said, “And he sings a song that goes a little something…like this…”

As I strummed a haunting chord progression, Dean Charleston clapped slowly, almost sarcastically. “Bravo,” he sneered. “You’ve managed to waste my time yet again.”

“Are you kidding me?” I roared. “Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’ is a moneymaker endorsed by no less a Hollywood hack than Perdida Cheyenne.”

Charleston raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I came up with the idea years ago, but I actually forgot about it until I ran into Perdida and she reminded me. She helped me flesh it out a bit, in more ways than one.”

“In more ways… I hope that’s a joke, McDürchstein,” Charleston snapped. “You’re a married man. And on that subject, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines’? We’re gonna go ahead and drop your name from the title.”

“What?!”

“It’s simple: Star Sex sold 16,000 copies. Two Berries on a Twig sold 18,000. Backseat Delightlah! sold an impressive 175,000 records worldwide. Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge’ sold 93 copies, many of them in Finland, where you, shortly before that time, hosted a successful drive-time radio show and Piru Paska pitchman.” Charleston chuckled acidly and added, “Try saying that three times fast.”

I did as he asked without much effort.

Charleston scowled. “Impressive—more impressive than McDürchstein name recognition. We will not put it on the title. Ignoring the formidable brand-association problems, our market research suggests music fans want to see a cohesive band unit, working together. Abysmal Crucifix has always had a reputation for in-fighting and disastrous break-ups and reformations. They’re not planning to release Axl Rose Presents Chinese Democracy—it’s Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy. It no longer matters that Mr. Rose is the only original member of the band.”

I sighed. “This is a labor of love. My love.”

“Do you want me to cancel your labor of love?”

I looked down at the floor, shuffling my feet. “No, sir.”

“Well then,” Dean Charleston said sunnily, “we’re in business! Abysmal Crucifix’s Fuck Machines is a go! I expect you guys to start writing and recording as soon as possible. You still own the Paint Shaker, right?”

“I honestly don’t remember,” I muttered. “I think you bought it.”

“So be it,” Charleston said. “As long as it won’t be foreclosed in the near future. Good luck, gentlemen.”

We all shuffled out of his office.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 10, 2008 12:51 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

June 14, 2008

Under My Skin

Perdida Cheyenne breezed into town last night after spending a week in Capetown for preproduction meetings on Crocodemon. She gave me a call, knowing full well that I pitched her Fuck Machines idea to the assholes at Mildew. She wanted to know how it went, but she happened to catch me at a bad time. I had to clean the whole Paint Shaker before the cats from Mildew came around. Riffs, Mikey, and Carl have been living there for months, and it’s turned into quite a sty as a result.

I shut off the vacuum and asked to call her back in half an hour. She told me she wouldn’t be around and told me, instead, to drop by her apartment and hang out when she got back. I couldn’t say no to that.

June 18, 2008

Friends for So Many Years

“You’re not understanding me!” Lacey roared, throwing a drumstick at my head. I ducked, and it sailed over my head, missing me by inches, and clanked against the eggshell wall of the studio. “The cocksucking label sent me to make sure you assholes do things right.”

“What’s ‘right’?” I asked, carefully standing. “They think it’s wrong to keep the formula that’s worked for years?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Girth, but the formula hasn’t worked in years,” Lacey said.

“She’s right,” Carl said softly.

“Fuck you guys!” I shouted.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 18, 2008 6:12 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

June 21, 2008

It’s Chinatown

Things got a little hairy this afternoon, in more ways than one. Perdida Cheyenne called me up and invited me to celebrate the Summer Solstice with her at the annual Chinese Food Festival in Chinatown. At first, I was reluctant, but then I remembered how hot she looked at the Poz Gala, so I agreed to meet her.

A few minutes after that, Colby called: “I have a fix on Harmonica.”

“Who?” I asked.

“That’s my code name for Perdida,” he explained.

“What?”

“She’s going to the Chinese Food Festival,” Colby said. “She’s meeting someone there, and I think it may be her murderer. We need to do some recon.”

“Today’s not a good day,” I said. “I’m really busy—”

“Fine,” Colby snapped. “I’ll go by myself.”

“No!” I yelped. “I’ll… What time should I meet you?”

June 23, 2008

What’s Wrong with Being Sexy?

Well, we spent the past few days putting together demos for the Fuck Machines project. I submitted them to Dean Charleston yesterday; today, he called me in for a meeting. I asked if I should bring the band, and he hung up on me. I took that as a “no,” but I told the boys to stay on call in case I misinterpreted Charleston’s signal.

At the Mildew office, the receptionist led me to a large conference room overlooking Hollywood. The long table was lined with scowling men and women of all ages, creeds, and colors. At the other end of the table, barely visible in the hazy distance, sat Dean Charleston. Even from this distance, I could see that smug, white smile.

“Sit down, McDürchstein,” he said.

I sat.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 23, 2008 3:53 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

June 24, 2008

So Perdida

Still smarting from Mildew’s rejection and my frustrating conversation with Margo, I decided to blow off some steam by showing up at Perdida’s apartment unannounced. I suspected from her blog and Twitter that she mostly sat around her apartment, lying about having an active and exciting social life. This turned out to be true, so when I knocked on the door, she popped it right open.

“Girth.” She sounded surprised.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Can I come in?”

She pulled the door wide open, nodding her head toward the lip-shaped couch. I took a seat, and she flopped down next to me, gently putting a hand on my knee.

“So listen,” I said, “things went real bad with Mildew yesterday. They think the album needs more feminine perspective, so I figured maybe you could help with it.”

“What about your wife?” Perdida inquired.

“Forget about her,” I grumbled. “I just thought… You said you wanted to work on a script, and I thought since we made such a good team for Crocodemon, maybe we could team up again on a Fuck Machines screenplay, and I can use that as a template for the album’s storyline.”

Perdida looked pensive for a moment before exclaiming, “Yeah, that’s a great idea!”

We had some Chinese food delivered, then spent the next two hours doing little more than hashing out the details of the future dystopia in which the story takes place. Before we got into the nitty gritty of the story itself, Perdida excused herself to shower.

While she was in there, I snuck into the bedroom, climbed on the touch-sensitive rotating bed, and removed the bug Colby made me plant. I thought it’d take a lot of effort, but I managed to yank out the bug pretty quickly and smash it on the polished hardwood floor of her bedroom long before Perdida had shut the water off.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, I was back on the couch, jotting down notes for the storyline. I noticed her standing on the doorway, motionless for far too long. I glanced up and got a double-eyeful of her glistening, hard body. She wore nothing but a push-up bra and granny panties. Despite this, she still looked totally hot.

“Holy shit,” I gasped as all my blood rushed downstairs.

“Listen,” Perdida said, “I’m a little tired. You can keep working if you want, and it’s cool if you crash here, but I’m just gonna go in the bedroom and lie down. Alone.”

“Y…” I trailed off, uncertain of how to finish the word.

She crossed the room to the bedroom and shut the door—but not quite all the way. Through the crack came tantalyzing dots of spinning light from the overhead mirrorball. I stared at the pages of notes we compiled, trying in vain to continue working.

All I did was stare.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 24, 2008 3:54 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

June 30, 2008

Paint’s Peeling

After hour seven of attempting to record “In the Future…,” the pivotal opening track for Fuck Machines, Mikey and I went out in the dusty alley behind the Paint Shaker for a cigarette break.

“She’s drivin’ me fuckin’ nuts!” Mikey complained.

That’s right: Girth, in his infinite wisdom, dragged screenwriter/skank Perdida Cheyenne into the studio. See, Margo’s been out of town for weeks shooting what she calls a “multi arc” on this shitty TV series, Black Belt Irish. Last week, Mildew told Girth the record needs a “feminine perspective.” Since Margo’s not due back until the fourth, Girth decided to bring in his new best friend to give her perspective.

July 4, 2008

Fourth of July

I stood in the baggage claim, waiting for Margo. It felt like years had passed since the last time I’d seen her, even though it had only been a few weeks. For those not keeping up with the blog (or the trades), she was offered a one-off guest appearance on an ABC series called Black Belt Irish last season. Her character, a sexy Canadian arms dealer, proved so popular, they’re giving her a six-episode arc to launch the new season. She’s been off in Wilmington, North Carolina, shooting episodes. The combination of 18-hour days and our recent marital problems have prevented us from speaking much, which I guess is why it feels like she’s been gone forever and a day.

July 6, 2008

Weighted Lure

“You’re fat,” Dean Charleston said abrasively.

“I know,” I replied softly. “I’ve been out of the limelight too long… Margo loves me the way I am. So does Perdida.”

“Unfortunately,” Charleston said, “they’re not accurate gauges of what America’s youth wants. There’s a documentary you should see called Bigger, Stronger, Faster. The takeaway from it is that both boys and girls respond to men with ripped abs and bulging biceps. You used to have them. Now you’re a ball of failure and stretchmarks.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Diet and exercise.”

“But—”

“I’ll be sending a dietician and a personal trainer by your apartment this afternoon. Be there.”

I nodded solemnly.

“Dismissed.”

July 10, 2008

Dirty with You

Hey, assholes. You fans of Abysmal Crucifix are gonna be in for a real shock. That Judas cocksucker of a hero of yours, Girth McDürchstein, has no loyalty to family or friends. He’ll fuck anything in a skirt, including the woman I love, Perdida Cheyenne. I mean, look at her. How could he do that?!

For those who don’t believe me, check out this audio clip of the deed. I recorded it with my surveillance equipment. I know what you’re thinking, because I thought the same thing, but no, they aren’t moving heavy furniture. Keep listening, and you’ll hear a few good “Fuck me”s coming from Perdida.

I know it’s shocking to think that a married man and a woman of virtue could do such a thing, but it’s the truth. I just want to set the record straight.

~Colby~

Written by Colby Witherspoon on July 10, 2008 3:56 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

July 15, 2008

Studio Effects

Holy fucking Christ. I can’t tell you guys how nice it is to have Margo back in the studio. It’s a weird thing―none of us really liked Margo. Like, at all. She’s treats us like shit, always gets preferential treatment from Girth, and generally isn’t as great at playing as she’d like us all to think. Girth knows it―we all know it―but hey, not everyone can be Jam Malone. She does what she can.

But I guess I’m just defending her now because Margo Atwater is a breath of fresh air compared to Perdida Cheyenne, who’s worse than incompetent―she’s dumb as a fucking rock and obsessed with the sound of her own voice. I know she’s hot, and I’m sure that’s why men in the entertainment industry “respect” her so much, but come on… Don’t people have to have at least some talent? Like Kathryn Bigelow―she’s quite a looker, but she also directed Point fucking Break. There’s a lot of talent inside that super-hot body. But Perdida? She’s got nothing in her but rhymes and irresponsible AIDS conspiracy theories.

Anyway, now that Perdida’s gone and Margo’s back, we’re actually making some headway with the album. I’m not convinced it’ll be… Oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Right: good. It may not be good, but at least we’re making a record. And yes, guys, this record will come out.

Written by Carl on July 15, 2008 3:56 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

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
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

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
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

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 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
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

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.

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.

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 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
Permalink | Comments (0) | Digg It

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 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 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 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 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.