Saturday 7th September 2002 - Asbury Park NJ (Later)
There ended my first day of HITS USA. I had planned to see (and video) The Krays, but the best laid plans etc. Why? Because, after Resistance 77 went off, I espied Fish weaving around through the Stone Pony. I made a mistake. A mistake for me, that is. I shouted him over.
The little Piscine-artist was so smashed that he didn’t even know who I was until his eyes finally focused on me, some minutes later. You know how it is. His head was pointed in my direction and his eyes were looking right at me but you could tell they were focused on a spot somewhere in infinity. As he swayed and staggered around a fixed spot on the floor, I spotted two bouncers making directly for him. They were operating a zero tolerance policy and anyone who was not in full control or even looking the wrong way at someone else was picked up, carried to an exit and unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk. I grabbed hold of him and assured them I would take care of him and took him to the artists’ only area for a sit down. It was about 11P.M.
I got him to the backstage seating where it was fairly quiet. He was too drunk to sit down, believe it or not. He could stand, or he could fall over. He announced he was going to be sick. I placed him in a chair and went to find something he could throw up into. When I turned around again he had fallen out of his chair and was sat on the ground. I pulled him up and sat him down again and, placing a bucket in front of him, told him, that if he felt the urge, to throw up in it. He declared that he would be fine and promptly threw up all over his own feet.
I pointed to the bucket and told him I thought he’d be better off chucking his guts into that, but he complained that it smelled. Over the next 30 minutes or so, he alternated between throwing up into the bucket, this time via the sleeves of his sweatshirt, which was tied around his waist, and falling into an alcohol-induced coma.
Eventually, he came around long enough to inform me that he wasn’t drunk, just tired and that he was going to go back to the hotel for a lie down.
The little Piscine-artist was so smashed that he didn’t even know who I was until his eyes finally focused on me, some minutes later. You know how it is. His head was pointed in my direction and his eyes were looking right at me but you could tell they were focused on a spot somewhere in infinity. As he swayed and staggered around a fixed spot on the floor, I spotted two bouncers making directly for him. They were operating a zero tolerance policy and anyone who was not in full control or even looking the wrong way at someone else was picked up, carried to an exit and unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk. I grabbed hold of him and assured them I would take care of him and took him to the artists’ only area for a sit down. It was about 11P.M.
I got him to the backstage seating where it was fairly quiet. He was too drunk to sit down, believe it or not. He could stand, or he could fall over. He announced he was going to be sick. I placed him in a chair and went to find something he could throw up into. When I turned around again he had fallen out of his chair and was sat on the ground. I pulled him up and sat him down again and, placing a bucket in front of him, told him, that if he felt the urge, to throw up in it. He declared that he would be fine and promptly threw up all over his own feet.
I pointed to the bucket and told him I thought he’d be better off chucking his guts into that, but he complained that it smelled. Over the next 30 minutes or so, he alternated between throwing up into the bucket, this time via the sleeves of his sweatshirt, which was tied around his waist, and falling into an alcohol-induced coma.
Eventually, he came around long enough to inform me that he wasn’t drunk, just tired and that he was going to go back to the hotel for a lie down.
I didn’t want to be a babysitter. I wanted to see The Krays but I couldn’t let my little buddy go back to the hotel on his own. He would never have made it, for so many reasons. Whether it was the gangs of blacks going around beating people up, junkies looking to score the price of a fix, or the fact that he would have fallen over (or asleep) before he ever got there, that is assuming he had either been able to make it the distance or known which way to go. No, he would have ended up floating in the sea, under the boardwalk or atop a pile of used white boys in Ghetto town. I had to see him back safely, or I would never have forgiven myself, never mind his welfare. I didn’t want my holiday ruined because some asshole had got drunk and couldn’t look after himself! And I thought I’d left my kids at home. I felt like the token grown-up at the kids’ party.
Anyway, I went to find Gash. I needed some help - Ush and Chig would be no help. There was talk of roaming gangs of blacks driving around, chasing white punks around town. Fish, could barely walk, if we did get fronted by someone, anyone, I’d need some backup, someone who could handle themselves, to give me time to throw Fish to them, to save my own skin.
We got back to the hotel, to find a riot in progress. Police and Fire Depts were in attendance. Cops were running around like blue-arsed flies with nightsticks. I had Fish pinned to the wall with my forearm. He complained that I was oppressing him. I said I was stopping him from falling flat on his face. He said I was oppressing him. I removed my arm and watched him slide down the wall. I picked him up again and replaced my arm. He didn’t mention the oppression again.
Gash found some Addicts fans with a bowler hat. We had been looking for that particular piece of headgear so that Fish could do his Stan Laurel impersonation. So, Gash placed the aforementioned on Fish’s head and told him to do the impersonation. Now ask yourself, how wasted would a body have to be to then perform a Hitler impersonation? I rest my case.
We stood by the lifts, waiting for them to come but they never did. We decided to walk up seven flights of stairs. WHY? Because we listened to someone who was pissed, that’s why. The stairwells were running with water from fire hoses, not because there had been a fire but because people had been turning them on in the hallways. One of the flights of stairs was soaked in piss and on one of the landings, someone had taken a dump. I guess that’s anarchy in practice for you. We eventually got to the 7th floor and Gash took Fish and put him to bed. He then went back to the Stone Pony. I decided that another walk up seven flights of stairs tonight would kill me or cause my knees to implode so I checked out the TV.
Anyway, I went to find Gash. I needed some help - Ush and Chig would be no help. There was talk of roaming gangs of blacks driving around, chasing white punks around town. Fish, could barely walk, if we did get fronted by someone, anyone, I’d need some backup, someone who could handle themselves, to give me time to throw Fish to them, to save my own skin.
We got back to the hotel, to find a riot in progress. Police and Fire Depts were in attendance. Cops were running around like blue-arsed flies with nightsticks. I had Fish pinned to the wall with my forearm. He complained that I was oppressing him. I said I was stopping him from falling flat on his face. He said I was oppressing him. I removed my arm and watched him slide down the wall. I picked him up again and replaced my arm. He didn’t mention the oppression again.
Gash found some Addicts fans with a bowler hat. We had been looking for that particular piece of headgear so that Fish could do his Stan Laurel impersonation. So, Gash placed the aforementioned on Fish’s head and told him to do the impersonation. Now ask yourself, how wasted would a body have to be to then perform a Hitler impersonation? I rest my case.
We stood by the lifts, waiting for them to come but they never did. We decided to walk up seven flights of stairs. WHY? Because we listened to someone who was pissed, that’s why. The stairwells were running with water from fire hoses, not because there had been a fire but because people had been turning them on in the hallways. One of the flights of stairs was soaked in piss and on one of the landings, someone had taken a dump. I guess that’s anarchy in practice for you. We eventually got to the 7th floor and Gash took Fish and put him to bed. He then went back to the Stone Pony. I decided that another walk up seven flights of stairs tonight would kill me or cause my knees to implode so I checked out the TV.
The Bottle of Jameson’s
Sometime later, there was an almighty racket as someone banged on my door. Demanding that I open up and let them interview me for Punkrocknight.com. I opened the door to find the delightful Sarah, clutching a huge, almost empty, bottle of Jack Daniels, Ethan, a Maine punk, and Greg Brenner, clutching a most welcome bottle of Jameson’s Whiskey.
Now, I shall not go into all the detail of happened next, except for to say that Sarah, was both fighting drunk and falling down drunk, at the same time. Ethan was an angry young punk, from Maine, and you do not mess with the Maine punks. Sarah was less than taken with this young fellow, whose only reason for being there was that he had earlier on, been seen with Sarah’s friend, Bonnie Blue. Confused? You will be.
So, there we are. Greg and myself are sat in between the two beds drinking Jameson’s over ice, trying to ignore WWIII, which has broken out just above us. Sarah is stalking around the room and Ethan, a Maine punk, with whom you do not mess, is denying that Bonnie Blue gave him a blowjob under the Boardwalk, or anywhere else, for that matter. Sarah, now threatening violence but merely stumbling around the room and falling over and onto things is getting louder and louder, as is the privilege of the drunk, with most of her invective directed at the Maine punk, with whom, don’t forget, you do not mess.
Ush and Chig, with whom I was sharing the room, had not yet returned from HITS. It was sometime after 2AM.
Suddenly the door opened. Chig walked in. He saw Greg, Sarah and Ethan and concluded that this was not his room and walked straight back out to check the room number against his key. I discovered later that they had heard the commotion from our room and realised that somebody was having a party. Arriving at our door they concluded that it was coming from our [their] room. For some reason, this surprised them. They had me down as some nice, sensible, quiet, person who would be tucked up in bed when they got back. I have no idea where they got that notion from. That’s not me at all.
Now, I shall not go into all the detail of happened next, except for to say that Sarah, was both fighting drunk and falling down drunk, at the same time. Ethan was an angry young punk, from Maine, and you do not mess with the Maine punks. Sarah was less than taken with this young fellow, whose only reason for being there was that he had earlier on, been seen with Sarah’s friend, Bonnie Blue. Confused? You will be.
So, there we are. Greg and myself are sat in between the two beds drinking Jameson’s over ice, trying to ignore WWIII, which has broken out just above us. Sarah is stalking around the room and Ethan, a Maine punk, with whom you do not mess, is denying that Bonnie Blue gave him a blowjob under the Boardwalk, or anywhere else, for that matter. Sarah, now threatening violence but merely stumbling around the room and falling over and onto things is getting louder and louder, as is the privilege of the drunk, with most of her invective directed at the Maine punk, with whom, don’t forget, you do not mess.
Ush and Chig, with whom I was sharing the room, had not yet returned from HITS. It was sometime after 2AM.
Suddenly the door opened. Chig walked in. He saw Greg, Sarah and Ethan and concluded that this was not his room and walked straight back out to check the room number against his key. I discovered later that they had heard the commotion from our room and realised that somebody was having a party. Arriving at our door they concluded that it was coming from our [their] room. For some reason, this surprised them. They had me down as some nice, sensible, quiet, person who would be tucked up in bed when they got back. I have no idea where they got that notion from. That’s not me at all.
Greg
Greg Brenner
Anyway, Chig and Ush eventually came in and took up residence, sitting on the other bed. I must confess that they did have rather bemused expressions on their faces. Somewhere along the line, Sarah, stomping around the room in her mad drunkenness, tripped over something, the floor probably, and fell face first onto Greg. I managed to save our drinks but the ice bucket went flying, as did an ashtray. Regaining her feet, the lovely Sarah, fell over once moor, this time landing, eventually on top of Chig. The smile on his face was soon wiped off, literally, as the gallon bottle of JD that she was holding smacked him upside the head and emptied into his bed. In an attempt to make up for crowning Chig with the bottle, Sarah, now sat astride the prone drummer, began to apologise furiously.
Now, Chig, it has to be said, was not quite as injured as he made out and undoubtedly, the proximity of the female form to his nether regions was not unwelcome, even if they were both fully-clothed. The smile returned to his face. That was when the door opened again.
Gash, entered the room, looked around at the devastation in the room and did a double take at Chig. Sarah had by this time relaxed and was lying, asleep, on top of Chig, still clutching the now empty bottle of Jack. “Allo. What’s going on here then?” inquired Gash. Sarah, roused from her cataplexy, shouted, “I’m interviewing him!”
Gash, looked, smiled and very drily said, “I like your technique. Do me next.”
The next hour or so everyone became more noisy but less coherent. Gash left, we presumed because he’d taken a dislike to Ethan, the Maine punk, with whom you do not mess, to spare the youngsters intestines a visit to the sea air. Usher spent most of his time trying to stop Sarah from beating the shit out of Ethan, Maine punk, yadda, yadda, yadda. Sarah was by now unable to stand at all. Every time she stood, she immediately fell into the first thing she met, be it animal, vegetable, mineral, or Maine punk. Those bumps were going to hurt the next day.
I convinced Ethan to leave. He was concerned about his main man Poe, who had last been seen in the vicinity of the beach with some little strumpet, and I was trying to save some of the room from complete destruction by Hurricane Sarah. It seemed that my cunning plan had worked because Ethan buggered off in search of his friend. (I wondered later whether it was either he, or his friend, who would turn out to be the punk stabbed in the throat and dumped in the sea.)
By and by, Greg and I finished the Jameson’s and Sarah became more docile and Greg elected to try and get Sarah back to the room, assuming that the 5th floor still existed, that is.
Now, Chig, it has to be said, was not quite as injured as he made out and undoubtedly, the proximity of the female form to his nether regions was not unwelcome, even if they were both fully-clothed. The smile returned to his face. That was when the door opened again.
Gash, entered the room, looked around at the devastation in the room and did a double take at Chig. Sarah had by this time relaxed and was lying, asleep, on top of Chig, still clutching the now empty bottle of Jack. “Allo. What’s going on here then?” inquired Gash. Sarah, roused from her cataplexy, shouted, “I’m interviewing him!”
Gash, looked, smiled and very drily said, “I like your technique. Do me next.”
The next hour or so everyone became more noisy but less coherent. Gash left, we presumed because he’d taken a dislike to Ethan, the Maine punk, with whom you do not mess, to spare the youngsters intestines a visit to the sea air. Usher spent most of his time trying to stop Sarah from beating the shit out of Ethan, Maine punk, yadda, yadda, yadda. Sarah was by now unable to stand at all. Every time she stood, she immediately fell into the first thing she met, be it animal, vegetable, mineral, or Maine punk. Those bumps were going to hurt the next day.
I convinced Ethan to leave. He was concerned about his main man Poe, who had last been seen in the vicinity of the beach with some little strumpet, and I was trying to save some of the room from complete destruction by Hurricane Sarah. It seemed that my cunning plan had worked because Ethan buggered off in search of his friend. (I wondered later whether it was either he, or his friend, who would turn out to be the punk stabbed in the throat and dumped in the sea.)
By and by, Greg and I finished the Jameson’s and Sarah became more docile and Greg elected to try and get Sarah back to the room, assuming that the 5th floor still existed, that is.
