When Dreams Turn Into Motor City Nightmares

 Memo from the Sports Desk-

   I wake up, a small victory, and it is Sunday, and I just close my eyes but Sebastian Owl is pestering me on the house intercom from the other side of the JCMsTown Compound, and I...just...can't...get...any...sleep.

   The house communication system was installed by Wang, the Asian bass player, and the only Asian that I know (currently I should say because there was that one girl from 2007 who was a big Dallas Mavericks fan, and worked with me, and wanted to watch the playoffs, so I naturally suggested a hotel, which turned into a motel but whatever, and at the start of the 3rd quarter she tells me she's seventeen). Anyway, the house intercom system that Wang installed is a series of cups connected by some type of high quality electrical cord, or maybe string, and they are everywhere throughout the crawlspaces. Really ominous shit.

   "Are you awake? Alive? You really should go to that Motor City Nightmares convention today," Owl says. I completely forgot it was this weekend. It is already noon. Everybody I know is "out" for it, Kentucky Pete (money), the band (domesticated), E First (in that 'hanging out with boring people' phase). Pointless.

   But then I started thinking. Owl made a great point. I really should go. I've had some great memories at these conventions, my favorite being around 2015 when I was wandering around the very same Motor City Nightmares and ran into partially famous actress/Cinemax babe Misty Mundae (but call me "Erin"). She confessed to me that she was six beers deep (it was 4pm; just my type), and I countered that I was only one behind her, a lie, it was Two. She proceeded to inform me that I was "Okay," a small victory, and that nearly everyone here was "pretty awful"

   "'Nearly' everyone?" I replied and we shared a laugh because I might have been right and even though I was "just okay" I was not completely awful. Naturally, I asked if she wanted another drink which kind of proves there are more ways than one to be completely awful. Actually, if the lights had gone out, but there were still random blacklights, one would have seen my eyes glowing a blood red.

   After getting her (and myself) another drink, I decided to give up looking for my companion at the time, not exactly ditching her, but just a temporary thing. Deal with it, rock and roll. The companion actually would have been into this, but in a trash way, and actually was left out of the equation because, as much as it sucks to say, was inexcusably sort of a boring person. At some point during this entire exchange the vendor next to her said, "She was even worse yesterday," and I kind of felt a tinge of fear and apprehension but that obviously faded into exhilaration, and then [REDACTED]. Later that night during the afterparty she was still wandering around, living it up, tossed me a smile, a drunken wave, and it was 2015 before things stopped being Too Much Fun.

   Flash, jump cut to the present. I race out of the daydream and use the elaborate intercom to tell Owl, "I never asked her if she knew how to play tambourine."

   "What are you talking about?" Owl asks.

   "Nevermind, I'm in. Going solo." And we're off...

   I arrive at the Sheraton Novi as soon as humanly possible, a small victory. I made sure to load up on all of my press passes: Metro Times (ha ha), Hour Detroit, Astronomicon, even last year's Hamtramck Music Festival wristband. During the gap in the narrative, Kentucky Pete said that he would meet me there, but had no intention of going in, which confused me. I decided to give it a test run and get my official Fiend title belt signed by Tom Savini, famous make-up dude, actor, Sex Machine. The title belt was an inexplicable, and very pricy gift from -jr who was probably on a bender at the time. This was an opportunity I could not pass up and had no intention of paying to get in.

   I stop at the main desk. Checkpoint 1. You need to establish yourself if you plan on any type of savage burn. Since it was the last day of the Con, the workers were predictably tired. Perfect.

   "Yep, here all weekend myself," I lie, "Metro Times. Pay is non-existent but it gets me to cover things like this," I half-lie as I wave the bogus press passes around. The Metro Times one is even modified to include "Dr. Bryan Metro", the "Dr" being just one more middle finger in a sea of middle fingers. It gets me in everywhere, and every day I chuckle. Thanks a lot fucko's!

Once inside I spend way too much time being an awful human being but as an unofficial employee of the Metro Times, I can write it off.

   After a few minor distractions, I head over to Savini and hit the home run. (Cracking up at the press pass).

On cue, I get a message from Kentucky Pete that he is almost there so I race out back to the car. Even though it is only $20 on Sunday, the same price as a worthless Hamtramck Music Festival wristband, you have to understand that sneaking yourself in is one task, but dragging this guy in, who obviously does NOT work for Metro Times is going to be a challenge. I take a hit of acid and try to time everything perfectly. Don't bet on it.

   K Pete arrives with a grab bag of Fun and we decide the best bet would be to get completely primed, and for me to keep the Metro Times bootleg press pass because I have already been "established" and that he use the Hamtramck Music Festival wristband which is not the same color as the Sunday bands. No issue because we modify it.

   There are probably three staffers working the entrance, not counting the people at the main desk who already know me. I break out the cell phone which has actually been dead for two hours, and pretend to have the infamous "fake argument" with my boss (ha ha) at the Metro Times and we just blow right in. After a few seconds of cackling and bumping into people, we make our way back to Savini so Kentucky Pete can get his official mask signed which he brought despite saying he had no intention of going.

   At this point, K Pete was predictably twisted and every time Savini asked him a question it was met with, "Yabba Dabba Doo!". We split that scene as people started to notice and ask questions and then really got to work. As expected, it was a mess. We must have knocked over four displays, not being assholes, actually charming, but the damn title belt kept swinging into things. After the convention Kentucky Pete said he was keeping count of how many total strangers I said, "Hey, great time. Whatever's right," to. He counted 46. At one point, K Pete had his sights set on a custom Michael Myers figure, a really beautiful piece.

   "That is one beautiful piece," I say, daring him, knowing we are both low on money.

   "I'd love to have it," he replies.

   "Just take it," I say, "Just walk the fuck out with it. Who's going to stop you? We're with the Metro Times. They can just blame them for sending two complete unprofessional psychos to cover this."

   "Hey man, you always say that we're the professionals," he says, thinking about it.

   "That's right. So take it! Let's go. My legs are cramping anyway and my allergies are acting up."

   Instead of boosting the Michael Myers figure Kentucky Pete inexplicable pops the head off of it with his finger as the vendor cringes.

   "Mother fucker, that was an original custom," the vendor yells, maybe even crying.

   "Hold on, I'll hit the ATM. Hold your horses," Kentucky Pete says, and that was when I noticed that he actually pocketed the figure's head.

   "That's an $80 figure," the vendor says.

   "ATM, I said. Be right back," K Pete says, and then under his breath, "Don't count on it."

   As we walk away he admits to stealing the head of the Myers figure so that he can do a scan of it and then make his own figure, and I decide that I need a drink so we head to the make-shift bar . By this time I have changed into one of my alternate outfits because I knew it would be this way and I run into the record store kid.

We finally make it to the make-shift bar and I gasp at the $6 charge for a single soft beer.

   "It's awful man. How they gouge us," K Pete says, eyebrow raised, a dare.

   "Damn right. But these are hard working people," I reply as I place a dollar into the tip jar but bring it back when the waitress is not looking.

   "Shameless man. Totally shameless," K Pete tells me as I watch him dip his hand into the jar and take out $5. He sees me see this.

   "For old time's sake," he says.

   "No! Not old time's! You pull this five spot gimmick every time!"

   "You're no saint," he mumbles.

   "You have at least three figures in your coat. I saw you. Plus that Michael Myers head. That's three figures and a head. In your coat! And who wears a coat in July?" I am frantic.

   "Can't prove it. I'm just a guest of you and the Metro Times. Don't judge me and my coat. I have poor circulation."

   "Good lord. We have snuck in, never paying, and you are already off the rails."

   "Hey man, you're the one with the beer."

   "Fair enough, but you destroyed that poor guy's custom figure..."

   "Accidents happen."

   "Listen, we should just leave while we are ahead. We actually turned a profit from the make-shift bar and you have three figures in your coat. That being said, I'm not ready to leave yet. Let's walk around," I say.

   "I like it. Hunt some slash," as people turn to look when somebody wearing a winter coat in July says something like "Hunt some slash". I look around to see if Misty Mundae is here this year so I can close the deal but she is not, but it's not quite the deal breaker because I will see her again. At this point too many people are following us so we decide to split. Sorry there was no real climax, but here are some other photos. Photo Blog!!

Amazing...personality....

This was probably when things started to unravel. The MT press pass is the gift that keeps on giving. At one point some woman asked, "Oh with Metro Times?" like it meant something bwahahahahaha.

Not....boring.

Jason Voorhees cosplayer eating a pizza in the lobby. He was muttering, "Too fucking hot in this shit. Hot so hot."

With a Silent Hill cosplayer. She could have been a hardbody but now that I look at the pic and her arms being much fitter than mine....concerned.

Here's a peter puffer for the ladies.

Here's a custom Michael mask that must have been from the deleted scene where somebody shit on his face.

Obviously on break from HQ or, even worse, Henry VIII's.

Somebody was actually selling a bag of dicks for $20. I almost scooped it up for Ryan Allen, or Milo, or somebody but not in my budget.

Cracking up at Creeper Kurt Angle in the background. Ahhh shit, it's late. All of the above was composed in the span of 3 hours, so no complaining allowed. I'm tired.

From the Iceman Commeth

The Boy Next Door

Dr. Bryan Metro

   

Hamtramck Music Fest Preview Part 1. Bands A-D

 From the National Affairs Desk-

   Hey all, Metro here, and to cut to the chase and be completely honest, the first part of my 2022 Hamtramck Music Fest (HMF) preview was a bomb. It had roughly, not even 25%, of the hits of the AEW wrestling/Cucumber suck-off post, and only 10% of the hits that the JCM Final Show at the New Dodge posts got. This proves multiple things. Maybe the previews have gotten old, but you can't blame me. I can't help it if it's the same bands playing every year, and for the newer bands, they have yet to realize that a Facebook event page doesn't really count as any type of promotion. Or maybe it's just because Metro, the JCM, and the cast of characters in the Too Much Fun Club actually draw after all these years. Let's roll with that. I see you right now sitting on the phone or laptop, in the afternoon (ouch), living vicariously through the Gonzo exploits of Metro, Kentucky Pete, E First, -jr, Wang, JCM Accountant Sebastian Owl, among others. I don't mean that as a knock. It's good. Soak it in. Get inspired. I'm already on a tangent, okay. The HMF Part 1 Prevue:

   In the years past, the format for these previews was that I would take each act and randomly pick a song or video, consume as much as tolerable and then give a two to three sentence review or recommendation. I can't do that this year. I've gotten old and bored with it all. Plus Part Zero drew horrible numbers. The JCM/New Dodge posts blew it out of the water so maybe....people just don't care anymore about these Fests.

   So for 2022, we are using a new format. I will look at an act's name and if I have any type of knowledge, a memory, or story comes to mind, then I will post that. If I am not familiar, I will search for a pic because the best way to judge the quality of an act is by the way they look (and if they have any Hardbodies). Sorry, I won't be posting any nudes this year even if they're out there. We are in the age of No More Fun. (Venmo/Paypal if interested). As always, this site is for entertainment/satire purposes, but hope you look up some of these jobbers on your own if my take catches your eye. Keep in mind that this preview will be the most press some of these people get in their entire lives. Deal with it. Rock and roll.

HMF 2022 Preview A-D

1magine- Oh boy, we're starting off with a bang. This is the jabroni who tried to cancel/protest/ruin the lives of people at the New Dodge (which is listed as a HMF venue btw). This goofball held a protest, but get this. He was the Only One Who Showed Up!!

For future reference Einstein, it doesn't help when you try to get people to show up for a protest (and the deleted posts show, you did try), and then show up on a day the venue is closed. What a doofus. If he had any integrity (let's be real) he should protest HMF because the New Dodge is included. Or maybe protest the New Dodge during the fest. I mean JCM protested before our actual last show and we had no idea what we were even protesting. If HamFest had any balls (let's be real here) they should book him to play at the New Dodge. If New Dodge's new owners were smart they would tell HMF to go fuck themselves because it is proven that venues actually lose money hosting the Fest. We are off to a great start and it is only downhill from here.

75 Days of Sun- State Fair band but probably nice people.

Act Casual- They have over 4k Facebook followers. The Vegas over/under on how many of them will be there is set at 9. Take the under before the odds shift!!!

Adam Cuthbert- No clue. Wonder if he knows where the money's going?

Adynation- Couldn't find anything of substance. Could be that whoever did the HMF flyer screwed up the spelling of the name which is a high possibility. "Adynation" sounds like something the tambo player would break out at a 4am binge session of the Ted Danson/Kristen Bell show "The Good Place" though I would have no knowledge of that ever happening.

Alluvial Fans- They are a band.

Ameera Bandy- Found nothing. Great job!

The Amino Acids- Peter puffers famous for ripping off their gimmick from a Jack White video and having below average cardio.

Angel of Mars- This is a band.

Anthony Retka- I see the name everywhere but couldn't tell you a single thing about him. And neither could you.

The Antibuddies- Dorks, but they do have females in the band. Hamtramck Steve I'm looking at you. No following into restrooms. It's 2022.

As Your Attorney- I would advise you to skip it.

Audra Kubat- Still hasn't responded to my friend request from 2014.

Atmig- I'm not looking this up.

Authors of Ambition- Found nothing. Wonder if they know where the money's going...

Bad Magnets- Well we have made it to the letter "B" and we have our first JSB band of the Fest. To every legit artist who applied and got the "We received a lot of submissions but unfortunately not everyone,,," message, bookmark this.

The Band Mint- Look like good people.

Barker & Broski- I wonder if Barker or Broski know where the money's going...

Ben Stalets- Looks like good people. J/K!

Bend- I think this band gave the Silver Hornet an oil change last week.

Big D & the Actual Proof- Look like nice people who live for a Detroit Music Award.

Bitchcraft- They have a song called "Hot Socialist" which shows that they at least have an amazing sense of self-awareness and irony.

The Blitzers- Dorks that make flyers (Not that I would know).

Bloody Butterflies- They still play in masks??  C'mon kids.

The Blueflowers- Probably nice people who may or may not take themselves too seriously.

Bourbon Squirrel- We have a female AND a person of color sighting! In Vegas we would call that a parlay. Crafty HMF. Crafty.

The Boy Detective- Insert obligatory [REDACTED] joke here.

BPM Tronic- Does BPM know where the money's going?

Brian McCoskys- Not even bothering to correct the name.

Bruce Farrell- Wonder if he knows where the money's going...

The Bruised Reed- Well they do have a female in the band, but I am totally stressed out because I can't tell if she's a "maybe". But they are most likely good people.

Burn Maralago- A bunch of failed theater kids that aren't even good enough for Gold House Media/Tunde LLC. Interesting that they still don't have a Facebook page. Looks like they want to keep it on the down low so they don't get fired from Subway.

Cadriane- Can't decide if a "Maybe" or a "Pass". 29 followers on FB. Ehhhhhhh

Cause & Effects- One Man Band!

Checker- The short haired girl has my attention. If I cover HMF they may be on my List. 25 FB followers. More people than that just read this sentence.

Christ Weasel- Geek playing on a laptop with props. But looks like he very well could kick your ass.

Cinecyde- Skid and his wife are good people. * UPDATE- They are already off the fest bwahahahaha.

Citizen Smile- These geeks totally can't take a joke or any type of criticism and expect everyone to think they are the next big thing despite being around for years, given many opportunities, and still haven't moved the needle. So, basically, the perfect act for 2022. Might as well call themselves Tally Hall at this point. Fuck 'em.

Cocktail Shake- For the DMA crowd. No chaser.

Confidence- I have zero confidence where the money is going.

The Corduroy Job- Probably nice people.

Cosmic Light Shapes- Ahhhhhh yes, here we go. NOW we know where the money is going...

Come Out Fighting- Generic bar punk. Probably okay.

Counter Elites- Looks like all the Spotify proceeds ($0.30) from their latest single "Abort the Court" are going to the National Network of Abortion Funds (where is that money going?) which is cool if you support that. But what if somebody doesn't? That's why it's best to keep politics and religion out of cheapjack local music and the workplace. You are Not Special and you are Not going to change the world. For example, at the final JCM show at the New Dodge last month, tambo player E First aborted herself on stage covering it in blood. What was the message? For her, I'm sure it meant something, which is perfect. For the bikers (who were loving it) it may have meant something different which is perfect. For -jr, "I couldn't care less," which is perfect. It was whatever you wanted it to be, all calculated, which is...perfect, and beautiful. Very Kubrick. Oh, the Counter Elites? I would abort their set from your schedule.

Cousin Mouth- Based off of FB I have no idea what to make of this. It's like Jason Mewes merged with the jobber from Imaginatron.

Covier- I wonder if they know where the money is going...

Crimson Eyed Orchestra- Oh, so Charlie LeDuff and my pops from the Great Beyond formed a band?

CVS RBN- I'm not looking into this so I'll just recycle a joke I had planned for an act a few scrolls up: Cousin Mouth- My nickname in college.

Cult of Spaceskull- Dumb. Not going to happen.

Dahmer's Breakfast- With a name like that you need to deliver. Trust me, I know. Either be so good it's impossible to ignore or be so bad that it's good. But this is neither. I sought out a song and it is the worst thing you can be with a name like this... Boring. Also, no photos which means they probably look like your average graphic designer.

Damn the Witch Siren- Cute, in a possibly dumpy kind of way.

David Bierman Overdrive- I just closed my eyes and pictured this instead of looking it up. I actually should have done this for most of the acts here. However, I will be pissed if they have a total Hardbody on bass or something. I'll never know.

Deadsurf- Do they know where the money is going? (I may check them out though).

Deal Breakers- Look like nice people that play music.

Dear Darkness- Couple of geezers who have been around forever yet still have an obsessive need to play every Fest despite nobody asking for it. It's not gonna happen. Somebody messaged me that one of them has an "okay chest", but they are a complete unreliable asshole so I'm just moving on.

Death Cat- Cosplay act. May be worth a look because it looks like they put some effort into it. Maybe Danhausen will sign my AEW ticket stub.

Decapoda- Found nothing. Probably a front where the money is going to accidentally included on the flyer.

Decliner- Definitely NOT my nickname in college. However, it is my nickname for this act.

Deep Sessions Detroit- Nickname in college.

Detroit 442- Been around forever. If I didn't care then, I don't care now.

Devin Jetski- Is this the guy that does the weather on tv? Also did Detroit Techno Militia drop out already? They were on the original flyer hahahaha.

Dirty Copper- Rotated my tires last week.

The Dirty News- I've got some baaaaaaad news for you. I will not be at this set.

DJ Anna S.- Found nothing and I tried because Anna is a female (I hope) and we are almost done with this part and I only have two "Yes" and "Maybe's" so far :(

DJ Blayd- I don't review DJ's.

DJ Caleb Pepera- Why are they booking DJ's when there are bands out there needing exposure? Also, where is the money going?

Dominant Hand- Found nothing. Eat shit.

Dondero- Looks to be a good guy playing music and living life.

Doug Bowen- I wonder if Doug knows where the money's going...

Dr. Wolf's Cult of Kings- Looks insufferable.

Duk Butter- The name made me laugh for some reason. Just some dudes living the dream.

   Well, that's it for A-D. I would have included more pictures but there is still a sliver of decency in me that makes me want some of these newer acts, or even some older acts people aren't familiar with, to get some type of DIY exposure, so do it yourself. Because it is HamFest, expect most of these acts to drop out, get cancelled, be replaced, no show, etc. You know the drill. Stay tuned next week for letters E through L.

From the Iceman Commeth,

The Boy Next Door,

Dr. Bryan Metro

 

Hamtramck Music Fest Preview Pt. 0 Wristbands- This Will Get Ugly

 From the National Affairs Desk-

   It's that time of year again! Time for the only surviving local music blog of the 2000's to begin its preview of the Hamtramck Music Festival..

   For the newer readers (there actually are a few), here is a quick recap: Took a DC-10 out of London where the JCM played the very first HamFest back in 2014. It went well. It was fun. Nobody had any issues, and E First wore a mutilated pig's head as an obtuse satire of Hip in Detroit as my GF at the time began the process of reassessing things, and then things began to unravel as I saw her glaring at me, shaking her head, as E First whispered in my ear "I love you", and I replied, "That would be a mistake," and then we were asked to perform again a year, maybe two, later, and me, being me, did a preview where I basically shit on every band playing the Fest which is what I always did because it gets these nobodies at least some press, and, yeah, I did maybe post some public domain nudes of one of the acts that really wasn't a local act, and we were kicked off, and I flipped, and me and Peter the Freshman exposed the money/tax issues with the charity they were pimping (Ben's Encore, which has since been corrected but no longer associated with HamFest; full disclosure), and meetings were held, lists were made, and it's a story that might bore you...

   Jump, flash, cut to 2022 and here we are again. 200 performers, 23 venues, 1 weekend of misery. Though the lineup may look the same as the last three years, there are a few changes that need to be looked at.

   This year the price is $25, If you don't buy in advance, which nobody does. While perusing their website I noticed another glaring change. They have removed all references to the Festival supporting Hamtramck schools. The verbiage is now, "Hamtramck Music Festival is a not for profit 501c3 organization dedicated to supporting local music in the Detroit area."  What...the...fuck...does...that...mean? Does anybody see a problem here? Where is the money going? Back when I exposed the initial fraudulent (but corrected and distanced from the Fest) charity I noticed that a few of the committee members had declared bankruptcy. I didn't include that in my posts because I do have some standards, but now we officially have no idea where the (your) money is going. Now, I can understand some of you thinking "Well, I just want to see a lot of bands and have a good time." Hey, that is fair. Cool, rock and roll. But 98% of these acts are playing for free. Sooooo, where is the money going?

   While still checking their website I noticed this dandy of a screenshot:

Full Disclosure, the HMF is officially filed but....

 

So, back to Square One, what is going on here? The org is unsearchable, nobody knows who is on the committee so none of you can inquire where the money is going, so what gives? To be fair, it is possible that the non-profit could be under a different name, something like "Eugene's Hair Plug Fund," or, "Dear Darkness Quest For Facelift", but in all seriousness, this information should be made public. Will it? What do you think? 

   Here is the "Bishop Meets King" moment: Any member of the forever undisclosed HamFest committee can contact me at any time (bryanmetro1@hotmail) with any information to add, then they win because it is proven to be legit. I win because you know it because of me.

   If it is business as usual and nothing is communicated to the best local journalist in Detroit and nothing is updated on their website and nobody knows where the money is going, then the JCM have a backup plan. Wizard bootlegger, Kentucky Pete has acquired a prototype design for the Hamtramck Music Festival wristband and has mass produced it for the low cost of $2.36. Members of the JCM Collective will be out and about during the Fest offering them at a ridiculous discount of, well... whatever you want. A beer? Cool, it's yours. A mention on the blog, a "Hot Take" on what the Fest means to you? Ehhhh, take one but I'll cringe. A BJ? Take two! Anyway, they will be readily available throughout the weekend. I mean why pay $25 of you hard earned (and rare) money to some "enclave" where you have less than ZERO idea where it is going when you can give it to me, the best local journalist in town bay bay.

   Finally, if anyone out there can provide the official name/Tax ID/etc. this whole HMF non-profit then they will win this exclusive wristband prototype signed by members of the JCM, Metro, -jr, Wang, and E First. Let's have Fun with this Constant Readers!

Oh geeze, I didn't even get into the band previews yet. Well I guess that will have to wait for Part 2!

From the Iceman Commeth,

Dr. Bryan Metro, The Boy Next Door

Cucumbers, AEW, and the Nine Lives of Metro

 From the National Affairs Desk-

*Author's Note: I believe that like cats, we as people also have nine lives and through a very full life, I feel that I have accumulated a few. This could be its own post but I'll include it here.

Life 1- Mackinac Ferry taking a detour because of a mental defective "captain" taking it too close to the bridge. Grade school.

Life 2- Canada with Elvis. High school. With a full case of hard liquor and minimal experience, Elvis claimed I stopped breathing, and was saved by him turning me over, a small victory.

Life 3- Carjacking 2003. Me and my future wife decided to park at a bar on 7 Mile and Greenfield to make out coming back from a show. We were carjacked by two midnight intruders with Glocks. It could have gone bad.

Life 4- Kentucky Pete and the snowstorm. 2009 (?) After a particularly hot JCM show we were driving back in a snowstorm and I thought it would be a good idea to jump a curb and wreck the car.

Life 5- The final party at the Apartment. 201?. E First brought a bag of coke that she found in the bathroom of the strip club where she served. Found... We did it in the laundry room. If it was the age of fentanyl....

Life 6- Mauna Kea Hawaii 201?. I took a van tour of about 15 to the top of the volcano for the sunset. It was an earth shattering moment being above the clouds which seemed to be on fire. I gave minor thought to just jumping. The closest to God I have ever been, thus included.

Life 7- The Liver thing 2020. Discovering a tumor and having it burnt off. Boring (but made for a fun blog post).

So that makes 7, unless I'm forgetting something. I have lived a full life and seen some things that you would never believe, but my plan for this past June was to not get number 8. Let's see how it went. The following is pure Gonzo Journalism, 80% truth, 20% not.

Part One

All Elite Wrestling

   "AEW wrestling at Little Caesar's Arena. You in, stud? Are you getting these messages?"

   Kentucky Pete, notable bootlegger and constant friend, is messaging me about this AEW wrestling show and I am concerned because I am near the end of my nine lives so I respond, "I'm not so sure."

   "No problem. I just got the tickets. We're in!" And just like that, here we go again.

   I pick up K. Pete and he is already three tall boys deep which is how I always knew it would be. He immediately notices the condition of the Silver Hornet.

   "Whoa, what happened to your mirror, man?" he asks.

   "The tambo player. I took her to this parachute skydive thing and the fucker blew off."

   "Did they drop the car out of the plane ho ho ho? Anyway, that's a decent duck tape job."

   "Yeah, we did it on the fly. She had the duck tape with her," I reply.

   "Why does she have duck tape on her dude?" K. Pete asks as we hit a bump and the mirror stays still.

   "We need it for when we tape up the kids before we bleed them."

Silence... Then broken.

   "Shit, I need a mask. I promised the wife and I forgot mine. Let's go back," K. Pete shouts.

   "No can do, compadre, already rolling. Here comes a Meijer. We can stop here."

   "I'm not paying for another one of these fuckers. Ten bucks. That could buy us two beers at the show."

   He's not wrong. Upon entering Meijer I immediately head to the pharmacy where I feign a panic attack.

   "Do you have any extra masks? I forgot mine and I'm in public and the cancer!" I croak, trying to get a little more milage out of that nonsense. The tech gives me one of the professional masks and sees me just toss it to K. Pete and I have flashbacks to Woodman buying us coney dogs.

   We are back on the road and things are uneventful, which concerns me. We arrive at Bookie's and K. Pete opens his fifth tall boy and I notice the brand.

   "Hey, that's the same thing you know who drinks!" I laugh.

   "Allll a simulation," we shout in unison and slap high five, maybe twice, and then the panic and fear begin to set in as I realize that the gear shift is frozen, locked, and I cannot shift to park. 

   "Don't worry man. Just a glitch. It's not the transmission," K. Pete reassures me despite me STILL not being able to park. We are blocking the entire lot as cars are being turned away and the attendant is shouting at us in some type of foreign dialect and K. Pete gets out and starts shouting at him in Spanish. Nobody is understanding anything. K. Pete pays the attendant which calms him down a little bit but not that much because the Silver Hornet is still blocking the lot. We eventually manipulate the gear shift into neutral and push it into some semblance of a parking spot and then manipulate the gear shift into park and that is done, for now at least. Now is the time where we go get something to eat and pre-drink.

   Bookie's was packed, so we hit Woodward and duck into the first joint available. The person at the door asked for our tickets to the show and we showed them and they were scanned. After entering we realize that we are actually in one of the LCA restaurants and thus cannot leave/re-enter.

   "Fuck it. This round is on me," K. Pete explains, probably knowing the damage to the car, no fault of mine, so we order two Bud Light's.

   "That'll be $27," the bartender says, a total hardbody who totally digs my faux-ironic fade/steps haircut I got for the last show. I look over and see K. Pete visibly cringe, wince, as he gives the girl a card.

   "Fucking insane," he says, "Robbery. Fucking robbery. That card is my brother's. It's now cashed. Only one dollar left."

   "We'll fix it. Good thing we didn't buy that mask you're not wearing," I reply/reassure, knowing full well nothing is getting fixed tonight. "Anyway, we're stuck here so let's eat."

   We order some appetizers and start counting the "Maybe's" walking around because we are at a wrestling show and want to see it all. I keep tabs on the poster board I brought from the last JCM show that says, "I came out of retirement for this!" Counting the "Passes" was pointless. The bartender didn't count in the tally because she was staff, but I found myself getting increasingly attracted to her with each French fry I ate. She was about six feet, black, impressive tits, very friendly. Kentucky Pete notices me noticing her and mutters, "Could be a guy. You never know, man."

   "No way," I hiss at him, "What demographic do you think she is?" I ask, emphasizing "she".

   "Black," he mumbles while eating a handful of fries.

   "Sure, obviously, but partially. I think there may be some Polynesian or Japanese in there too."

   "A Mulato," he offers.

   "Anyway, she's a total hardbody and almost justifies the $27 drinks," I say.

   "Mmmhhmmm," K. Pete replies, officially closing the conversation.

   While scanning the restaurant for more "Maybe's", I notice that you can access the concourse and the seats directly from the restaurant and that there were no employees there. This information causes me to lean over to K. Pete.

   "We may want to give serious consideration to jumping this food tab," I tell him.

  "Let's go," he responds, almost immediately, and we both get up and walk out, but not too quickly. I toss a five spot on the counter, at least some type of tip for the babe that I will never see again.

   Once on the concourse, we head to the merch stand which is about 100 people deep. Imagine the smell. Kylie Minogue is playing over the speakers for some reason.

   "Fuck it! We're going to miss the whole show," K. Pete says.

   "Don't count on it," I reply as I lead us through the line muttering at the "Passes" things like "medical emergency", "I work here", and "Just want to see what kind of stuff they have", and then once at the front, I semi-yell, "GO!" and K. Pete jumps the line and gets his merch. Now we are walking to our seats after shaving 45 minutes off of our schedule, and K. Pete leans in and whispers, "That five spot you left at the restaurant. I took it."

   "You rat bastard. That bartender was in love with me, man," I reply trying to be outrageous, but then start cackling and we slap high five, and we get to our seats and then the event starts.

   "I need more drinks," K. Pete says, and I just nod, and then he leaves, and then he comes back.

   "Metro, I just shit myself," he is hysterical.

   "Jesus man, keep your voice down," I say as the family in front of us turn around to look as he hands me the drinks. I notice that he has changed into some type of gym shorts. I do not know where these came from. I don't care.

   "I was minutes, no seconds, away and I lost it. I couldn't make it to the stall," he continues and I get it.

   "Fuck it," I say, already thinking of Uber options for him.

   "Damn right, fuck it," he replies, continuing, "Shit, I never got the drinks. Be right back," and he leaves to get more drinks despite me having multiple drinks in my hands, and then he comes back.

   "What did I miss?" he asks as he hands me a third drink, and I give him the rundown, but he interrupts me shouting, "My wallet! I left it. I lost it. Fuck it!"

   "Fuck it," I reply a little too passively despite my legitimate concern. We obliterate the drinks we currently have and get up and go to look for his wallet which I figure to be a lost cause but a women's match has just started and I could use the break. In an absolute amazing sequence, we are able to find the wallet with an usher who was actually looking for him. K. Pete tries to give the usher the $5 he took from the restaurant, but the saint declines it, saying that it's just his job. If you are(n't) reading this, thank you.

    As we make our way back to our seats, the women's match thankfully over, I tell him that it is probably best that he didn't take the five spot because we are probably going to need it, a warning. We get back to our seats and he immediately leaves because we need more drinks. The final tab is going to be catastrophic and it is very likely his wife is going to leave him. He returns with only one drink (which means that his card is most likely also cashed out) and promptly dumps it on the small kid sitting in the row in front of us. The boy's mother is confused yet angry and the boy's older sister, who has been eyeing me all night but in no way 18, is also frowning. We stay for the main event but there is still yet another hour of tapings for future shows to go.

   "Let's go. There are a lot of other factors going on here," is all I can come up with, and then we start to make our way out. Just to prove we were actually there:

   "I can't believe I shit myself back there," he says, but not really emotional about it anymore. We are sitting outside the arena most likely because we are dreading whether we will get the car (which K. Pete will not be in) out of the Bookie's parking lot.

   "Hey man, we had fun," I say, a rare genuine moment.

   "We had fun," he concurs.

   "Oh shit, is that FTR?" I exclaim (FTR is regarded to be one of the top three current tag teams in the business). It is indeed FTR so we grab a couple of signatures (K. Pete double dipping of course) and head back to wherever we were outside Little Caesar's Arena where I hope to run into Ruby Soho who I would like to meet and maybe one day I will. K. Pete gets up without saying anything and proceeds to start pissing on the building in clear view of everyone else not wanting to stay for additional hour of tapings. I jog over and all I can say is, "Why man?" while trying to block him by taking a fake phone call.

   "Fuck it man. Those drink prices," he says.

   "Fuck it," I reply.

   We give up on meeting Ruby Metro and head back to Bookie's to test the car. It starts and via a small miracle, shifts to drive.

   "Hey man, just go. I have an Uber on the way," he says as I have flashbacks to an event I was at earlier this month that I just can't place, and then he leaves the car, disappearing into the night, so I race home and it parks without incident. Of course. Later that night/morning, I get a message from Kentucky Pete as I was outlining this post.

   "I passed out in the Uber. I pissed all over the place. The driver had to help me to the house. The entire car pissed on. Fuck it," he says.

   "Fuck it," I reply.

   "I did leave him that five spot we kept from the restaurant," was the last thing he says before I slide. He had the nerve to say "We".

Interlude

   The next day I take the car to the shop and walk the mile back to the JCM'sTown Compound. Thankfully, no rain. I check in with K. Pete expecting him to be incapacitated, or even worse, divorced.

   "Hey stud, I'm at the mall," he replies as if nothing ever happened. The car was a quick fix, and I started to work on notes for Friday's big event, The Cucumber Suckoff Contest.

Part Two

The Cucumber Suckoff Contest

   Earlier this week I received a message from -jr that contained a flyer for something called The Cucumber Suckoff Contest/"What Dat Mouth Do" (not a question) at someplace called the State Fair Lounge on 8 Mile. There was no context with -jr's message, but I knew what he wanted. Like everyone, he wanted to know the worst.

   After ensuring the car was fixed from the Kentucky Pete debacle the other day, I became fully committed. I immediately started prepping a checklist, with the most pressing issue being, do I jerk off before or after the event? I had [REDACTED] with a black girl only once before, but this would have been in the mid-2000's, and I was curious to see if the times had changed. My loyal, overworked assistant, Sebastian Owl, was quick to point out that I would be the only white person there, and the only one of my friends to suggest that this could be a bad idea.

   "You are going to be the only white person there. This could be a bad idea," Sebastian says as I pose with my pre-clubbin' photos wearing my Fat Albert FuBu.

   "They are going to think that you are a drug dealer," Sebastian continues, not exactly wrong.

   "Probably," I reply, giving my best Sean Bateman grin, "Maybe I can turn this into a cash grab." I actually consider this, but ultimately give up when I realize the only things I have on me are some leftover hits of acid from Elizabeth First, some leftover high octane pot from Skippy at last year's Hamtramck Music Fest, and a bunch of Xanax, Ativan, Valium, and Klonopin, which would be adverse to the event and its vibe.

   The thing that intrigued me the most was not how much size, girth, heft these poor girls were going to debase themselves with, but rather, who and what is Big Chicken? As seen on the flyer above, the event was to be presented and hosted by this mysterious person known as Big Chicken. Yeah, I was on board. I ditched the Fat Albert jersey and headed to Outback for a late dinner, and in an odd bit of foreshadowing, I was the only white person there.

   I arrive at the State Fair Lounge and actually get a spot in their free lot. In an unsurprising fit of clarity, I had the foresight to shoplift a case of beer beforehand, not for me (well, not totally), but in situations like this you have to make friends, and you make friends by giving away cool drink. The key to shoplifting groceries is to immediately go to the You Scan kiosks which isn't that hard to do because they are the only things open these days because nobody seems to work anymore except for the poor, overworked, schlomo's who are so burnt out from dealing with some Indian fool who is obviously playing the "dumb foreigner" scam, disputing thirty cents, or god forbid, has fifty coupons. This type of moron is exactly who you hope for when pulling the deal because while they are babbling about the twenty printed out coupons (or thirty cents), You are dumping loads of groceries into bags, setting off the You Scan scale, but that doesn't matter because I always make sure to have some form of cheapjack alcohol to scan which automatically alerts the burnt out kiosk worker to tiredly come over and enter my ID which actually also clears the excess weight issues on the bagging area. Sometimes you may get a "White Knight" who is extra observant and is totally cool with the current prices of, well, everything, and that is when I take out my cell phone and have "the angry phone call" with my same sex lover and they understand, and nod after my shrug, and leave. One needs to know their audience.

   I park, thanking the heavens the gear shift is actually fixed and they serve food until 12, and crack open one of the complimentary beers and begin to observe the scene. I turn up the radio as a Belinda Carlisle song comes on ("Heaven is a Place on Earth"?). This sequence distracts me from a black SUV blocking me in. I panic and message K. Pete.

   "Get out of there now!" he says, and then ominously, "They're onto you. Probably think you're a dealer."

   "I can't leave," I reply, "I...am...stuck..."

   "Oh shit, the gear shift!"

   "No! That was Part One! I am blocked in!"

   "Are you alone? Did you bring Blair with you?" he asks.

   "I don't know anybody named Blair. I am alone," I say and he doesn't reply.

   All of a sudden, a fight predictably breaks out in the parking lot.

 I get out of the car to cover it, along with my can of Chemical Billy and the serrated blade. It was then where I got my first, "You at the wrong club," of the night, so I grab one of the parachute beers and toss it to him saying, "Am I?" The fight ended up being nothing so I retreat back to the Silver Hornet but not before scoping out Big Chicken's ride.

   Safely in the car I crack open another drink and wait for the SUV to move so I can leave because I want to leave. All of a sudden there is a knock on the window and I turn with the mace, swinging the knife, and it is actually another white guy. I wonder if he is a dealer, I wonder, despite me having zero money, but there are things one can do to get around that. I roll down the window.

   "Hey man, I had to ask, did you see this on Reddit too?" the guys asks, and I realize where -jr must have found the flyer. He practically lives there.

   "No, it was sent to me. Here, take a beer. Take two! Just watch my back," I blabber.

   "Hey man, thanks," he replies, no confirmation of watching my back.

   It was at this point I notice a group of people smoking crack so I take a pull of beer and commit to going for full coverage. I walk over with more of the beer and am accepted after issuing the beer and I am offered some crack which I decline and am then offered some weed which I also decline. "Then why you here?" somebody asks and I don't have an answer so I respond, "I don't know," and walk away.

   Heading back to the car I am stopped by an energetic dude also asking me why I'm here.

   "I'm with Hour Detroit or Metro Times. To be honest with you I don't really know who I am anymore," I lie, while realizing that I've forgotten all of my bootleg press passes again.

   "Oh shit man! I'm Big Chicken! I put all this together!" the man says.

   "Thank god," I think, finally cracking the case, and can officially go home now. Big Chicken is not that big of a guy. He's actually shorter than me, but to be fair I am a very (un)healthy six feet, but it is also possible that I might be shrinking. Big Chicken is actually a really friendly guy, excited for the show that he set up, and did confirm that he owns the SUV with the "Big Chicken" decal on it, which may come across as tacky to some, but it does build his "brand", and is not as embarrassing as the decals that are on the Silver Hornet, which thankfully are still being blocked by the black SUV.

   "Fuckin' Hour Detroit, man. Covering my party. Man, hey man, man I got you a booth. You can be in my booth," Big Chicken says.

   "Thanks....Big Chicken, but if you could get me my own booth that would be even better. I have all this writing stuff, these pens, plus there are no phones," I reply.

   "Hour Detroit man you got it. I got you a booth."

   "Perfect," I glare.

   "Hey, what's your name?" he asks and I freeze.

   "Uhhh, Blair," I reply.

   "Blair, we got you the booth. I gotta run and get things set up before these bitches start leaving."

   "Bitches," I repeat, "Or maybe worse," I reply, not knowing what I mean, and Big Chicken leaves to do what people do, and I return to the car. I shove one of the remaining beers I didn't give away into my shorts because now that I know I have a booth I don't intend on paying anything the rest of the night, but with no disrespect to every single person thus far who actually treated me with kindness, have been extremely polite, and fair to me. If there is anything to take out of this part, that is it. Don't believe manufactured hype. People can get along, and usually do especially if I am involved.

  

   I get a text from K. Pete, "Can you believe those drink prices at LCA?" as I am trying to find my booth and then I give up on finding my booth, so I just hang out around the bar, drinking the smuggled in beer that nobody is going to notice because nobody cares. There is a cloud, a visible cloud, of smoke and I am confident that I already have a contact buzz, and I get a few more "You in the wrong clubs," and even a few "Dude representing's", which is cool even though I want to disappear and not be seen.

   Jump, flash, cut to the suckoff and some girl is sucking on a banana and she is okay but I have seen better. Then, this girl who has to be 300 lbs comes up. I remember seeing her in the parking lot and knew that she was here because of this, specifically for this, and needed to win. She begins sucking on something I don't even know because of my angle and, well, because of her angle, and I adjust my position so I can see, but forget about the object because now there is white fluid flowing from her mouth. It looks like some type of fizz or foam and then a lot of the other girls surround her and they all start twerking. There is a ring of women twerking around a girl drooling, and then the contestant starts twerking too and the guy next to me asks if I am a dealer and if I have any coke. It was at this point that I realized that it was time to go, and I gave thought to taking out the phone, but that could have been a death sentence, another one of the nine lives, so I didn't. And then I left.

From the Iceman Commeth,

Dr. Bryan Metro