Friday, November 28, 2008

Oh, what the hell . . .

Here's that sentence I promised you, three-quarters of the way to it's final revision, with the word count standing at around 530 in the subject and 1 in the predicate (at least for the main clause):

None of my first few abortive attempts to form a band, neither the Island Puddles, whose entire line up was me and one friend, to whom the name was revealed in a dream on a vacation to the British Isles during the summer after sixth grade, two twelve-year-olds who had never so much as held a guitar let alone attended a lesson, but nevertheless wrote songs (or the lyrics of songs) such as "Brown Bear's Gonna Get You" and "Satan Sucks," a timely attack on the seizure of Devil Worship that then gripped the country; nor Stone Monkey (which was named by me this time), a rotating gallery of thieves and stunted post-adolescents (including one fellow, possibly from Sweaty Nipples, who regaled us with tales of leaving his seed in equal parts in his ex-girlfriend and his parents' hot tub), who thundered, on equipment mostly stolen from the middle school, stumblingly --in a shower of orange paint chips from my too-thick drum sticks-- through renderings of the current MTV rotation, such as Queensryche's "Silent Lucidity" and Tesla's popular update of the 5-Man Electric Band's "Signs," and the easier tablatures from the guitar magazines, such as Kiss's "Deuce," often while loosened of our teenage (or somewhat older) inhibition by whiskey or vodka purloined (or, as we said, "kyped") from unsuspecting or maybe permissive parent's liquor cabinets and wet bars, a loosening of judgment which found us committing one caterwauling afternoon to tape, capturing a stab at Faster Pussycat's "Bathroom Wall" alongside an original from my own pen called "Charon" (which I pronounced as though it were etymologically related to "charcoal") during which I embellished my lofty poetry by screeching "bitch!" every few bars; neither Krass Bantam, a flock of my high school friends who gathered in a hayloft overlooking one of the local Stake Houses in order to give protracted birth to multi-segmented chug-rock songs, like the hate ballad throat-wailed by our spectacularly unmusical singer who called it "The Box," along with the unavoidable Sex Pistols covers, all of which we recorded, trembling with performance anxiety before the tape machine, and played back, again and again, on our smoking trips to the abandoned cannery, trying to discern, without any critical faculty to do so, whether what we heard was genius or diarrhea; nor the true glistening carbuncle in this Crown of Zits, the Grease-Eatin' Hootenannies Rock 'n' Roll Combo, a high-school tribe (of my younger brother's friends this time) who specialized in highly enlightened punk- (by which I mean the Bad Religion videos we saw on, once again, MTV) inspired rants against the Drug War as continued by Bill Clinton, paranoid fantasies about the cameras in UPS trucks, even a (rhyming but unmetrical) sonnet that deployed the knowledge gained from an hour's perusal of an electronic component handbook to mock AC/DC --oh, and an elegant, eloquent complaint about my first work experiences called "I'd Rather Be A Diaper" a title I was so proud of that I emblazoned a sweat-stained t-shirt with it in black marker as a slogan and badge, and wore it practically every day of my first two years at college; no, none of these bands, hard as it may be to believe, lasted.

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