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The return of ‘Tales from the Jizz’ By Jizzy Pearl

The return of ‘Tales from the Jizz’ By Jizzy Pearl

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An old familiar face – returns to Metal Sludge

 

      I emerged from my Unibomber shack, shook off the dust and greeted the Light. Its another beautiful day in the Bunker.

      “Good morning.” Its Osama bin Laden, he owns the shack next to mine. Actually his is more of a townhouse, part of his severance pay from the CIA.

      “Good morning Mr. Osman.” I do that to piss him off, he hates being called Mr. Osman.

      “Don’t call me that,” he said gruffly.

      “You look tired.”

      “Long night,” he said “I had to make an appearance in Libya. You know, scare the troops.”

      He produced two large totems. When he shook the rattles he looked like a three-headed snake. He was, indeed, very scary.

      “I see someone rented the Unibomber shack next door.” I said.

      “David Koresh.”

      “The Waco Kid? I thought he–”

      “Died?” he said. “He did die..” Osama scratched his beard. “And then He rose. Turned out he was God after all.”

      “Looks like you’re fucked.” I said.

      Osama shook the rattles in my face.

      “Aren’t you SCARED??” he leered.

      I sighed, unwrapped a Clif bar.

      “I’ve got iodine sushi, 2012 around the corner and everyone I know is playing Farmville.”

      “I hate TV, MTV, Snooki and the cast of Scared Straight. Big government, Big Pharma, Big Brother and the Cosby Kids. In that order.”

      “Where you off to next?” I asked Osama.

      “Syria,” he said.

      “Another day, another dinar.”

      Welcome to the world of make-believe. Who’d have thought we’d be living in such interesting times. We’re the lucky ones people, at least we got to experience good rock ‘n’ roll. Oh sure its all Steel Dragon now but take a look back if you will, brush the dust off that fringed leather Bon Jovi jacket STILL hanging in your closet, look in the mirror and dream.

      Music was fun way back when, I don’t care what anyone says. Nikki Sixx was cool and is still cool…no matter what anyone says. Teenage girls hopped the bus clutching their Appetite for Destruction cassettes, demos were played at Hollywood parties, we all wanted to make it. And some of us did. However most of us didn’t, most of the L.A. crowd never got to experience the big G, glory, the Hammer of the Gods. We weren’t poets, we weren’t preachers, we just wanted to fuck chicks and get rich…

      The year was 1986. We were all in a huge dog race, neck and neck. Love/Hate, Junkyard, Faster Pussycat, LAG—Guns ‘n’ Roses had gotten signed and the record company Dogs were sniffing the air for more Blood. I didn’t understand how important Image was to the game so I just drank more to try to fit in. Faster Pussycat got signed, LAG got signed, the race was on. It felt like the 20 thousand dollar pyramid, you felt like there was only going to be so many deals doled out and the clock was ticking. When Junkyard got signed I sorta lost it, I remember shaking their hands grimacing, thinking Jesus Christ THOSE fuckers got signed? Nothing against them but you see another slot got filled, another gig taken. One less tour bus for me.

      Some people couldn’t handle the obstacle course. A friend of mine had a huge showcase at the Troubadour and he got fucked up the night before and lost his voice. There was his chance, shot. He fucked up. His one chance, gone. Now he sells insurance or something. Another guy was courted by the record company and on his own decided to strike his own deal. Without his band knowing he walked right into Capitol records and demanded a new Corvette as a signing bonus. Bye bye record deal.

      Then of course there were the junkies and the drug addicts, very cool to look at on stage but unable to function off stage without heroin or blow. Courted, then discarded. Where are they now? Sitting behind a desk, UPS, dead? Do they ever look back at those old photos of themselves on Facebook and think about what might have been? Remember the Limelight? The Scrap Bar? Remember Hammerjacks? Or the Button South?  We dressed silly and wore too much make-up but we were also free, no guilt, just a hangover in the morning as payment for our Wicked Ways.

      That’s why people still go to see Poison, even with the impossible ticket prices. They go because a certain song takes them back, they close their eyes and are transported back and that’s OK, we all do that, Pink Floyd and Zep does that for me. A simpler time, before stupidity and Osama and all the radiated shit…

     Oh, by the way, I have three books I’m selling…

For more information on Jizzilla and all he stands for go HERE

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