I’d like to thank my family for loving me and taking care of me. And the rest of the world can kiss my ass.
~ Famous last words before execution by injection, Texas.
~ Johnny Frank Garrett, Sr., d. February 11, 1992
A couple of weeks ago, my brother had his wedding in on the beautiful Jefferson Island (which isn’t really an island) just outside of New Iberia, LA. The Gardens were absolutely gorgeous. And the sunset on Lake Peigneur couldn’t have provided a better setting for such a celebration.
A good portion of the night I sat on the lawn, watching the sunset with my Beam & Coke and some good company. I had an interesting talk with some locals about the incredible history of the lake in front of us and that day in 1980 in which it had a fast-moving whirlpool a quarter of a mile in diameter swallowing everything around it.
Well we lost a kick ball again on Friday. We may just be the most losingest team in the history of all kickball. And now it seems the fun is starting to run out. Well, I’m still having a good time at it but more and more people are missing games and nobody on my team goes to the bar to “celebrate” afterward. Granted, the weather the past couple of weeks has effected my participation as well. At least everybody has a good time when they are on the field. Maybe next season I’ll try to recruit a little younger. The old marrieds can’t seem to hack it anymore.
After the game Pandy and me went out bar hopping (my brother was out of town at a bachelor party) We first stopped by the Irish Snug (I think it was snug, correct me if I’m wrong). Inside the bar are the snugs. They’re little booths, or stalls, with little tables in them. After walking in the snug and shutting the door behind you, you knock on this little (1 foot x 1 foot) door that opens up to the bar. Drinks are served to you through the little cubby hole. The snugs started in Ireland as a way for priests and politicians to drink anonymously. After that we headed out to Dulcineas 100th monkey, after trying the hippie bar which was one-in-one-out. We had a good time listening to live reggae music and chatting. Each of us got free drinks and a few free dinners all from different drunk strangers who ran into us.
I can’t remember how I stumbled upon Hammers Of Misfortune, but I sure am glad I did. As far as purely creative metal goes, these guys (and gals) got it. I’m not quite sure how to define them – black metal, heavy goth, prog rock, theatrical fantasy, dark opera, celtic metal. Really, they are a little bit of all of these mixed and played in a way that creates a genre of its own. Mostly they are just pure unadulterated metal. These are incredibly talented musicians that buck convention and create a sound that is fresh and exciting in the world of metal. The band consists of five members: John Cobbett (also of Ludicra), Chewy Marzolo, Mike Scalzi, Jamie Myers (ex-Like Flies on Flesh, South Mouth), Sigrid Sheie (ex-Menstrual Tramps). Jamie and Sigrid are not only incredibly hot, they also provide instrumental prowess and the female vocals which really round out their sound. Plus, we all know I’m a sucker for female voice. Fans of exclusively polished and commercial melodic metal should avoid this like the plague. This shit is the real deal and KHUBS radio has some for you. The first six songs are currently out of print. They off of Hammer Of Misfortune’s first album, “The Bastard”, a concept album in which a different member in the band sings each character. The next two songs are from H.O.M.’s most recent album called “The August Engine”. Before they were called Hammers Of Misfortune, they were called Unholy Cadaver. Unholy Cadaver released one three-song album called “Demo #1”, the song “Unsheathe The Sword Of Blasphemy” is off of that album, which I believe is no longer in print as well. The last song is an extremely really hard to find one; it’s a song called “Galactic Police” by Thunderchimp, which was the seed for Unholy Cadaver which then became Hammers Of Misfortune. Anyway, screw the history lesson and go listen to the music. Enjoy.
On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare ’twas the ninth he was born,
And ’twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock,
And some blam’d the babby and some blam’d the clock
Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know
If the child was too fast or the clock was too slow.
Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick’s birthday;
Some fought for the eighth for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn’t see right, sure they blacken’d his eye!
At last both the factions so positive grew,
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two,
Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said, “No one could have two birthdays, but a twins.”
Says he, “Boys, don’t be fightin’ for eight or for nine,
Don’t be always dividin’ but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,
So let that be his birthday.” “Amen,” says the clerk.
“If he wasn’t a twins, sure our hist’ry will show
That, at least, he’s worth any two saints that we know!”
Then they all got blind dhrunk which complated their bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.