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9. College Students Love Pizza
�Krazy Horse III�, a bar in Kokomo, Indiana, former Midwestern seat of the Ku Klux Klan, where we were scheduled to play with Everdown and Amplified Swastika, a local band. Tim ordered another plate of lasagna: �All right. Who�s the fairest princess of them all?� Jason nodded: �This show is absolute bullshit. I hope Krazy Horse III is as good as Jaws II.� Through the window, into the garbage. One thousand halogens racing to the dungeon. US 31 brought us to the Chrysler Plant, from there we crawled through the back alleys to the Great Flourescent Cowboy Boot. Once there we learned the three Krazy Horses had consolidated at this location, but the �III� remained for beauty and flair. Michael, still in the mood for kneejerk vows, vowed his first words into the mic would be �I need three crazy whores from Krazy Horse III to bring me some fucking nazi Cheetos.� The place was way too big, a two-story nonstop bar enclosing this huge open floor and balcony, both devoted either to severe line dancing or to low-level rap shows on the weekends. No joke, one week: Ricky Moonshine and the Funnel Cakes, another week: Stoopid Funky, a Digital Underground tribute act. How Scrote worked out our Thursday night slot I have no idea. He probably played the �rap metal� card again, a favorite of his. I�ve said it�s where the worst elements of popular culture come to die. That�s true, but it�s a corrupt nursing home frozen in time: The elements never actually die, they�re just adopted and abused, beaten into some sort of suspended ugly culture, completely incoherent, distinctive only in reference to the hose culture which has long since rendered it useless. And so you get this place like a tumor, frequented by guys in bad sounds system pickups who can�t decide between 2Pac and Garth Brooks: Too much mesh, bad nipple rings, confederate flag bandanas and cowboy boots, something even Axl Rose wouldn�t slip into. They wear L.A. Kings hats backwards because somewhere ten years ago they learned that�s what some west coast gang did in 1982. The Bloods, or maybe the Crips. �Yeah, dude, the Crips, that�s it,� they tell themselves. Guys who where L.A. Kings hats backwards are Crips. And the terrible gotees, they all have gotees and most can�t even grow a decent one. A bar full, they act as thug as Katie Couric tells them to but they�d rather be riding scooters to the bat shop. Whoever created Kid Rock understood the $$$ to be made from this demographic. That rat-life superstar must be the offspring of sweaty businessmen and the litter of fads from the last twenty years. Some jackass in a marketing session got all jacked up and said �He needs to be Hank Williams meets Dr. Dre, with a HEAVY METAL ATTITUDE! And a HAT!� But there were four huge silent television screen offsetting the stage, each flashing out some kind of lawnmower mud bog. Amplified Swastika was already there, on the floor eating pork rinds and sharpening their switchblades. Despite their name they took themselves seriously. There was a good crowd for some reason, I guess to support the Aryan Nation. They stuck to the bar for the most part, waiting for divine signs of the fake rodeo from the mechanical bulls. Otherwise there were fourteen tables directly in front of the stage, it looked like a fve-year high school reunion. And there we sat before them like a zoo exhibit, an hour away from the show. Sit and stare, no aspirations, they just stared at us, a bored showdown in Kokomo fueled by mozzerella sticks and hot wings. 2 Live Crew was blaring. �Me So Horny�, I believe, was the song title. Michael started to write the song �Trust Me, Jesus is sick of You AND Your Shit�, but never got it finished. Tim and I watched the mud bog. Jason talked to the soundguy. There are times when you might drive through an unfamiliar area of town, you�re at a stoplight and some scumbag on a snotty payphone stares at you for a lifetime, so you distract yourself until the light turns. Distract yourself until you�re gone forever. There you go: Krazy Horse III. Finally, they cut off the reggae remix of some Beach Boys song and we were on. I�m not sure what�s happened to Mel Brooks since then, but Blazing Saddles stands on the landscape if you can dismiss the misogyny. I felt obligated to start the set by clambering up to the mic to scream �THE SHERIFF IS NEAR� three or four times. We giggled like nerds then kicked out
which was just the Mortal Kombat! theme followed by experimental material which would, down the road, contribute to our Grand Prize album, An American Tragedy. Jason and I ran around on stage pretending to ride Valkyries, Tim and Michael acted like members of Stomp. It was all pretty spastic until I crouched in a corner and yelled �TURN THE CRANK� into the floor about six times. This led into the first song, �Peanut Butter Cereal�, which put the crowd on edge.
�Let the DAMN squirrels eat the DAMN peanut butter. I want something ELSE.� We tried to lighten things up with �2 Honks and a Negro�, a cover song, overlooking the probable presence of a few grand wizards. Jason ended it by rapping �This is hard-core, IS IT NOT� while looking around uncomfortably. Some guy threw out a distant derogatory exclamation, so we played �2 Honks and a Negro� again. A �woman� at one of the fourteen tables then flipped us off and someone else threw half a can of Shasta ginger ale on to the stage. The two fat bouncers got all heated and told us to �stop dicking around�, so we played �Bookstore Manager II�, followed by �Trolls II�, �Coach Hole (Satan Loves You) (Pt. 1),� and �Trolls III�, all in honor of meaningless numerals. We then played what Tim claimed to be a �Fire Angels� cover of �Crazy Train�, which ended with Michael shouting things like �KOKOMO 2000� and �SHAKE IT OVER MY WAY�. But it was all futile, no one was watching, we couldn�t even pick a fight. The BABES had taken over and the crowed ignored hating us in favor of watching two topless women with beer bellies the size of fanny packs duel it out on the mechanical bulls. I�m not sure what the competition entailed, but the women had trodden the earth for 40+ years and this was the best they had to offer. That�s when we noticed Jeremiah Dawg and Scrote in the doorway, Scrote�s huge Kentucky smile asking �What the hells� goin� on?� The guy�s name, by the way, is pronounced �jeerMAH-DOWG� for those keeping track. He was wearing a �The Power Team� jacket.
monetary donations While we tore down, Amplified Swastika�s drummer set aside his Rambo-inspired survival knife and told us he failed to find the humor in our act. The slimmer of two fat bouncers told us to �go pull [our] shit somewhere else�. He called Scrote a �piss-poor manager�, banned us �for life�, and told us we couldn�t stay for a wet t-shirt contest we had no interest in staying for. A hush equivalent to a Southern gentlemen�s �AH do De-CLAYa!� overtook Scrote�s demeanor. He fanned himself with a coaster from the bar. In honor of half-hearted billboard rebellion against the steel industry, Jason barked �No boBLe� and steadied himself on a nearby chair. The bouncer muttered something profane while Tim dumped scotch over himself and explained he was �crying tears of alcohol.� Michael and I took a more subtle vengeance, spray painting a bright yellow �MY BUTT� on a patch of asphalt in the Krazy Horse III parking lot. Vengeance Rising.
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