A few years back, I was having one of those what-does-it-all-mean crises. It must have been obvious to everyone, and soon I found an equal on this low emotional plane, a nineteen-year old co-worker who had tired of the game called You Just Started College So Let's Fuck And Barf. I enjoyed female company (attire tips, lotsa Laguna Beach) with none of the ahem demands of female company; mostly we just got down to the business of barfing about town.Where was I going with this. Oh yeah, at 5 a.m. one Sunday she and a friend had gotten thrown out of some party; the friend had essentially pissed all over this guy in her sleep. Blondie and I laughed about it back at my place (while the friend took a shower) but I was surprised to hear that she, too, had once snuck out of a dude's place after drunkenly tinkling in dude's bed. "Almost every girl I know has done it," she explained. "It just ... happens." I was happy to hear that -- she wasn't some busted-out hag, screeching at politely turned backs for someone to buy mama a shot of rail vodka. She was pretty normal. So what's wrong with normal, hard-drinking young people today?
I should've known all along that the answer lies with Robb Flynn of Machine Head. Our relationship has been ahem crappy since I blew a backstage interview in fucking St. Paul don't ask me why. That is, I blew the interview cuz I couldn't tear myself away from this new nine-piece freak-metal band from Iowa; just don't ask me why I had an interview scheduled with a very nu-metally Flynn at the lowest point of Machine Head suckdom. Anyway, Flynn knows a thing or two about soiling himself, both figuratively and literally.
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