Long live rock, I need it every night

Sunday, January 06, 2008

The Dirt -- One More Time, for Old Time's Sake

The response to Rock Club's excerpts from The Dirt has been tremendous, and frankly, a little insulting. I look at our Google Analytics reports all the time and most people are coming here to read these short blurbs. Here we are going the extra mile to attend and review shows, and turn out trenchant cultural critiques, and all you philistines are interested in hearing about are the exploits of a 1980s hair metal band sticking their dicks in egg burritos.

And furthermore, I just checked on Amazon, and the book only costs $10.85, so with shipping, that would come to under $15. So in addition to being lowbrow, you're all fucking cheapskates too. And when I say $15, I am assuming, no doubt correctly, that none of you pennypinchers are members of Amazon Prime, with free second day shipping.

Incidentally, I am a member of Amazon Prime.

In spite of all this I have decided to run one last excerpt. Even though it's no longer National Drink and Drugged Driving Prevention Month. To the best of my knowledge, January is National Yeast Infection Awareness Month. But, as the Kennedys say, "ar-ah, nevathaless":

I had been listening to him brag for an hour. He had dirty red hair, shaven in a halhearted attempt at a mohawk, and a cuff in his ear--not even a real piercing. Like every other punk-rock poser, he had been hanging out at the Whisky A Go-Go that night, watching the dying gasps of the L.A. punk scene. David Lee Roth and Robbin Crosby and Stephen Pearcy from Ratt were partying with us at the Motley House that night. And the little punk kept trying to prove that he was more rock and roll than any of us, that he was tougher and more street than me, though he was clearly just a rich, self-deluded brat from Orange County. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"You ain't a fucking punk, you motherfucker!" I leapt off the sofa, slammed his head against the table, yanked his ear, and pressed the lobe flat against the wood with my fingers. Then, with the whole room watching, I hammered a nail straight through his earlobe and into the table.

"Aaaaaaauuuuuggggghhh!" he yelled, and writhed in pain, stuck to the table like a dog on a tight chain.

"Now you're punk rock!" I told him. We turned up the stereo and kept partying like he wasn't there. When I woke up the next afternoon, he was gone, but the nail was still mysteriously in the table.

(Nikki Sixx, p 71)


Steve said...

According to this, January is, in fact, California Dried Plum Digestive Month. The liberal media has ignored this important holiday for too long.

Anonymous said...

Ugh. Gross. What a fitting end to THE DIRT excerpts. My stomach actually turned.

Still, a new affection for the Crue, something akin to pity and disgust, but affection nonetheless.