The Ultimate Face Turn-In Defense of Queen Kwong

 *The following is an Op-Ed, opinion piece, and if you feel anything should be removed just drop me a line and I'll do it per the rules of Lavender (est. 2015).

From the National Affairs Desk-

So as I wait for the sun to rise I get a message, a link, ominous, a warning, sent my way regarding an ongoing litigation/court case between indie artist Queen Kwong and has-been attention seeker Wes Borland. Because it is an ongoing situation I can't really give my legal insights to it out of respect to the judicial system (and my wallet), but since those rat bastards at Rolling Stone did my work for me and posted everything online before me and I am going to link it right here, then I feel that I can dip my toe in the pool (not that pool), just a taste. Here is the link. Once you are done closing the 50 fucking ads that pop up come back here. I'll be waiting. Let's chat.

Wes Borland Vs. Queen Kwong

All set? Ya got the gist of it? So I'm guessing this is the part you are waiting for. Let's go back to the past...

The Lavender Blog/JCM had a very minor run in with Queen Kwong, the band, back in something like 2016. The posts are currently down undergoing maintenance. As usual, we were a little miffed that this act (which was never from Michigan) was getting all these high caliber bookings, taking spots (and money) from home grown local musicians/bands. The local media was all over them, just absolute fawning. I think the peter puffers at the Metro Times even said they were going to save the Detroit scene, which was later actually used by TMZ. Our argument was logical: Two transplants being declared the saviors of Detroit at the expense of other local bands who were busting their asses at the time. I don't even include the Jesus Chainsaw in that group because A. We've never busted our asses as a band, and B. JCM and "expense" should never be in the same sentence. But we did have a grassroots following. I routinely received messages saying, "Thank you for saying what most of us cannot". This is true. Of course you had the local "star fuckers" who tried to worm their way in bills with them (you know who you are and have to live with it).

So when we found ourselves booked on the same music festival (the name eludes me) as Queen Kwong, and we posted a semi-rude preview of all the acts that may or may not have included some very tastefully shot photos of some of the bands. We were promptly removed. For months, it was the only thing people were even talking about. Meetings were held, threats were made, the festival happened, it was a dud and that was that. Unfortunately, due to this we were officially banned from pretty much everything until we retired as a live act.

Jump, flash, cut to today and Wes Borland and Carrie Callaway are divorced and as I am waiting for the sun to come up this Rolling Stone article comes across my desk. It kind of made me feel a little....icky. I knew that they (let's be honest, she) did a lot of work with rescue animals, a cause that is very near and dear to me. The last few JCM shows/events, all of the money has gone to animal rescue. Coming from a band that has made next to nothing, I like to think that as pretty nice. So when I saw some of the details involving the divorce including the animal rescues, specifically a cat named Daisy. Well now you have made an enemy.

Wes Borland comes across as the type of failed theater kid who has to make up for his marginal talent by dressing up like a complete flake, all the while indulging on the "Jack White Diet". To be fair, I do believe that Queen Kwong's "push" had a lot to do with him. I mean you have acts like the failed drug kids in Jamaican Queens trying to break though when we all knew it would never happen. Why not hitch the wagons to the act with the failed theater kid who has to make up for his marginal talent by dressing up like a complete flake on the Jack White Diet? I called it out in 2016, but today I understand why. The local scene is kind of lame. I don't know what I am trying to say. Just tossing thoughts at the wall waiting for the sun to rise on a day in 2023.

Is Kwong a clout chaser? Maybe. Is Borland a bloated has-been? Possibly. Like I said up there I'm not exactly where is post is meant to go, but the funniest thing in the Rolling Stone link is this quote: "They adversely affect Mr. Borland's public image and reputation that he built over a twenty plus year career."

I'm going to need a minute to finish my laughing.

Okay, I'm back. One thing that I really despise is tone deaf irony and that last statement just really takes the cake. Actually better than any satire written here over the years. So, to close, here is a top ten list of my favorite Limp Bizkit lyrics all of which are at least partially credited to Wes Borland. Not sure if he contributed to them but at least signed off on them to turn a profit. In no order, how could there be?

10. "First one to complain, leaves with a blood stain."

9. "I'm broke and for that you deserve a smackin' for a slackin'"

8. "I crawled up your butt from hell."

7. "Got lost in Boston, looking for a tea party. Met a child molester in Worchester."

6. "Why is everybody always picking on me?" Bwahahahahahahhaha

5. "This is dedicated to you Ben Stiller. You are my favorite motherfucker."

4. "Imma fuck you up, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you up Douche Bag"

3. "Pop off the rock ship, pop pop pop, off the rock ship."

2. "Yeah, kill that motherfucker."

1. "I've been looking for my Mrs. Right, but she don't exist, but chemistry is everything and we're anything but this."

So this ribbonhead is suing her for $5000 and "sanctions" whatever that means, because SHE is ruining his reputation??!! I give up. This is a guy that is pushing 50 that has a band called "Big Dumb Face". Just total tone deaf embarrassment. Just sign to Third Man Records already and do a collaboration called "Mid-Life Crisis".

To be fair, the riff for "Rollin'" is a total banger. Undertaker agrees.

From the Iceman Commeth

The Boy Next Door

Dr. Bryan Metro

The Ice Cream Truck in Winter- A Prologue

 Author's note- I'll be the first to admit that I can't write dialogue from scratch. I accept it. However I will take credit for stealing conversations from friends, even strangers overheard, and fattening them up, adding a little bit of seasoning and claiming them as my own. I've done this for over a decade in my writing, and I'm doing it here. The following is a prologue to a future post about a show review. The writing styles would give you a seizure if you read them back to back because they seem written by two different writers (and maybe they are). So I decided to split it into two parts, a Prologue, and a Gonzo show review. I also never include dedications in my regular posts, but this post is dedicated to Melissa, Elizabeth First, and Kentucky Pete (are you happy now Sis?).

The Ice Cream Truck in Winter

   "Jesus, there it is again. Don't you hear it? Doesn't anybody else hear it?"

   Matt is hysterical, yet nobody says anything. We are all out at the pool at the House By The Beach and it is January and we are dealing with the remnants of something called a "Bomb Cyclone" and it is uncharacteristically cold, especially for the West Coast and we are trying our best to just be comfortable. "We" are myself, Trent who is a DJ and amateur photographer, Matt who is an unemployed homosexual, Scott who works in the film industry, Amy who is Trent's wife, but is currently dating Scott, and occasionally sleeps with me, and also has no job. There is also Oakley, who is our personal trainer and the only black person that we know, and Ribbonhead who I just met and may have already OD'd on the damn patio.

   We are comfortable because of the four giant heaters that Trent's father installed around the patio and pool (which is also heated but no one can dip into). There are also elaborate artificial heat lights suspended above us so that we all can maintain our tans during this brutal winter. At one point Scott mentioned, "Do you realize the hazard of one of those falling into the pool?"

   "That would be the least of our worries. Also, who says 'hazard'?" Trent replies as he writes something into a notebook I have not noticed before.

   There is a line of eight heavy, fur-lined coats hung up near the pool, all stolen by Ribbonhead, in case any of us need to make the sixteen foot walk from the pool to the house in this cruel weather. The extra coat is ominous, a warning. Who is it for? Is there actually someone else here at the house by the beach that nobody knows about. It is a large house and we basically stay at the pool all day. Is this person also trapped here, unable to leave?

   "Jesus Christ, don't any of you hear it?" Matt cries again, and I imagine the set director administering glycerin tears to his face to really nail the point home. Nobody says anything. But I do hear it. It is the ice cream truck again.

   All of us at the House By The Beach are trapped here. There is no possibility of leaving, and for the past few days we can hear an ice cream truck drive by once a day. The reason we can't leave is not part of this story. The reason we can never leave is up to you. It is whatever you want it to be. At one point we actually took time away from watching "The View" to discuss the ice cream truck.

   "Who is driving an ice cream truck in January?"

   "Why is somebody driving an ice cream truck in the winter?"

   "Could they be sick?"

   "Why does it always stop here outside the gates? It fucking lingers, man. Lingers."

   "What if nobody is driving it? Green comet was spotted," Amy says, finally speaking and then swallows a Valium.

   We spend the next 15 minutes watching the trailer of "Maximum Overdrive" whooping and hollering, slapping high fives, and then I have to break up the party...

   "It could be Roddy Hogan," I finally say, getting the joke out of the way so I can continue with this story and Constant Readers would no longer be distracted. (Look it up).

   The ice cream truck finally drifts off and we get back to watching "The View", but it is boring so everybody starts shouting out topics: Dana White, Spike Lee, a transgender dragged for sounding too much like a man, The Munsters but in Washington, famous voice actors, and clones.

   "All of this is boring. I need a story. I need a saga. Metro, tell us a story, one of those zany ones. Flip the writing style," Trent shouts.

   "I dunno. I went to this show with some zany people. I guess I could spin that," I reply, not ready to flip the writing style.

   "Let me guess... 'Me and E First get drunk and then stuff happens.' You're so predictable," Scott says and slaps high five with Trent as Amy glares at me.

   "Nahhh, she's not in this story," I start as we all hear the ice cream truck coming back, "But I'll give it a shot."

   "Can't wait," Trent says, possibly sincerely.

   "Yet you couldn't leave her out," Amy mumbles.

   "Hey guys, do any of you realize that this is the first time the ice cream truck has come back twice in a day?" Matt asks, tears in his eyes maybe, and none of us reply, and then we hear a door open and close. Someone has gotten out. Multiple thoughts and questions run through my mind: What is really in the ice cream truck? What happens when somebody in the outside world stops the ice cream truck in winter? Will it even stop? Does it stop even if nobody is flagging it down? What is on the film reels that Trent keeps in the Darkroom?

   I am shaken by this absolute paradox by my messenger buzzing. I check and see that it is from E First. Before I open it I look to see if Amy is watching. Amy is watching with a look that can only be described as "I told you so" merged with sheer contempt. I ignore Amy and click the message.

   "I fear October/November might not be good for me," the message says and I flinch, which puts a subtle smile on Amy's face. "Oh fuck, she's pregnant," I immediately think and then wait three minutes before replying with a vague, "What do you mean?"

   "I just hate my birthday," she replies, oh thank god.

   "I understand," I reply, "That's actually an obtuse synopsis of my debut novel 'The Invisible People'."

   "I know. I was there," she says, a reminder tinged with a warning.

   "Well hey, there's nothing that says we can't evolve and make the most of it," I counter, and Amy gets up, whispers "Asshole", takes one of the fur coats, and goes into the house.

   "We've never fit in," she says, either a lie or another warning, "Why would we want to now?"

She clicks off.

   This entire exchange has left me exhausted so I turn my attention back to the ice cream truck. The music is still playing but I am positive that someone(thing) has gotten out of it. I scan the pool area. Matt and Oakley are making out, and Scott is working on a film script that is about a fractured, dysfunctional family isolated in a cabin in a forest, but maybe a desert, and the cabin or maybe the area is haunted by a ghost (named Janet) which ultimately brings them all together with help from a medium whose car breaks down because a deranged gas station attendant, this real crazy guy, sabotages it (a possible spin-off). The current title is "The Corrections".

   I turn and notice that Ribbonhead might have actually OD'd which, surprisingly, would be a first at the House By The Beach, and Trent is reading the latest issue of Esquire, the headline "When Did Hollywood Get So Puffy?" Everyone is too lazy, or dead in the case of Ribbonhead, to go to the sentry post to go check on the ice cream truck. Then again, maybe it's too cold.

   All of a sudden the buzzer on the front gate buzzes and some of us jump. The ice cream truck is still playing music but somebody wants something.

   "Metro," Trent says, putting down the Esquire magazine he was pretending to read, "About that story. How about you spin it. And spin it quick. I told you I can't wait."

   "Right on. Got it," I start and then continue because we might be running out of time, "So I get a call from my friend and bootlegging Wizard Kentucky Pete and he says, 'So I have this extra ticket for you if you want it. These guys have been around for 40 years. This could make a good post.'"

"I'll make sure it will be," my reply.

From the Iceman Commeth

The Boy Next Door

Dr. Bryan Metro