21 August, 2009

It's Friday: Let's Piss Off Scot T.

I realized last night that I didn't have anybody to piss off, or at least nobody toward whom I had the drive to go out of my way to piss off. I think that needs to be reiterated ad nauseum around these parts: I'm really not that much of a dickhead. I'm a dickhead when I'm provoked, sure, but I just don't ever get the inkling to go out of my way to maliciously fuck with someone. No matter what Chris Allen might have told you.
Granted, the butt-fuck jokes went a little far, like three or four years too far, but I think they were born out of jealousy. Not only did he have a really hot girlfriend who didn't give a fuck about his near total lack of income, but he had a really hot sex freak girlfriend who asked to be fucked in the ass. Do you have any idea how awesome that is? I can ask to go in the backdoor until I'm blue in the face and I still have only a 3% success rate and the only reason I say "three" is because I'm rounding up from 2.5%. You know what that means, right? You can't ask half of an instance, you can only ask in whole instances. So that means I've taken my Led Zeppelin In Through the Out Door five times out of the two hundred times I've asked. You find a hot-assed girlfriend whose whacked out enough to ask you to take the ol' Studebaker on a family trip to Hershey, Pennsylvania, you, sir, are a lucky bastard and any other man would be a lout not to applaud your good fortune.
But that her instructive phrase "keep it wet and take it slow" became the joke for years, even after we began beating the shit out of the subject of Bob McKenzie's taste for fucking minors "... and by minors, I don't mean those guys with the funny little lights on their hats", I can't blame Chris Allen for telling people that I'm a gigantic asshole...
... Kind of like what he left Sarah with afterward!
BOOM! Right in there! You see that, Chris Allen!? Do ya!? It's been twelve damned years and you still can't get your dick out of this broad's ass! HAHAHAHAHA!! HA!!!
ANYhoo, I'm working through the list of people I have to piss off which I guess could be anybody but, like we've been discussing, my options for subject matter and the depth of research I can conduct are limited as I'm borrowing this computer. It's while I'm in the bathroom (where I do my best work) (and I work with my hands) that it dawns on me: Scot T never exactly quit KRAKOA. He joined, we practiced, and then he moved to Benson which is two and a half hours away.
He tossed the idea out there once or twice in passing; he had thought about moving back home. His old lady had left but had proven how shit house rat insane she was by kicking him out, moving in some other schlub, demanding that Scot keep paying the cable bill, and trying to guilt him into letting her use his car.
Now mind you, getting kicked out is not easy. You have stuff. In a place. That you lived in. Now you don't live there. How do you move all of your stuff?
Over time. In that time, he was suffering a debt so crippling that he couldn't pay the rent and was borrowing a ton of money from his folks to keep a roof over his head, too. This prevented him from getting a place of his own temporarily, meaning he was stuck living with his ex. So who does he go to for advice and commiseration? Who would you go to for advice and commiseration? Somebody who's been there and done that.

Twice.
And his band had broken up.
Scot T's life was receiving a Chris Allen-styled lubeless anal reaming right in front of him.
It's while commiserating and advising and whatnot and the exchange and the back-and-forth over a twelve of Schell's Special Dark that Scot tells me, "You know, Scot T plays drums." Now that Jackie wouldn't hassle him about being in two bands, he could finally join KRAKOA, he explained. I found no fault with this proposal. I liked the guy, I liked his band, and I liked his style of playing, so I accepted.
In a week, we were practicing at "The Quadruple Double Deuce" (known for its address marker of "22222222"). We got two practices under our belts and after that, nothing. Next thing I knew, he was living in Benson. And it was a week later that whatever breakthroughs and healthy developments and yada yada yada had been made had gone right out the window and into the drainage ditch like the time I tossed the envelope out of the window that Liz Eckle had been using to catch ice cream cone drippings (Who eats an ice cream cone while driving?) which she spazzed out about because she had her debit card in there (The same person who thinks it's a good idea to catch ice cream cone drippings with your fucking debit card.).
Where was I going with this again? Oh, yeah...
Scot T had up and moved in with his parents to get his mind right, so when I call him up about our third practice, he tells me that he doesn't even live in the suburbs anymore. But he's got a decent, well-paying job lined up, living in a healthy, loving environment far from the bullshit of the cities, doesn't have to deal with any band bullshit for a while, not drinking... Just hitting "reset", getting out of debt, getting his shit together and then a week later...

Just do a Google Image Search for "DUI" and enjoy the ensuing hilarity.
I'd never received a call from Hennepin County Jail or any county jail for that matter before Scot T's DUI, and while I was pissed off that he called me up from the hoosegow at five in the fucking morning, I am flattered that I was the guy he blew his one phone call on. He spent a lot of time that morning talking about ultimate human potential and then a bunch of Alex Jones-esque conspiracy theories before he disappeared to be seldom heard from again and last I knew anything, he moved to Montana this past summer.
He had come over the night before his DUI, all the way from Benson, working on a bottle of whiskey over the course of the two and a half hour drive. When he pulled into my driveway, he seemed calm, rational, and you couldn't smell a drop but he declined a tallboy, admitting that the Taco Bell cup was loaded with whiskey. As we sat around, shooting the shit, I remember playing him the recently finished 5 Songs while he talked about human potential, DMT, and conspiracy theories involving lizard people masquerading as humans.
You read that right: Lizard people.
A calm, mild-mannered, level-headed person believes our world's various political infrastructures are infested from the top down with lizard people.
Yeah, I think the lizard people thing is goofy but at least he wasn't trying to get me to read Dianetics. That would have been insane.
As I said, though, he moved to Montana, where the land of crazy-assed theories bound freely and playfully like a litter of puppies in a field of posies and now I never hear from the guy.
Through out all of this, though, he never actually quit KRAKOA.
In his stead, I have been using a computer for drums.

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