Sugar Coated Bastards Rock!!

You ain't got no job, you ain't got no money and it's Friday.  True.  And no gig.  Then let's go see Asian Halen in his side project, The Sugar Coated Bastards in BFE at some place called the Dawg House that is next to a Korean karaoke bar and a strip club.  OK!

I dragged The Pool and our friend Jax* out to the City of Industry to check out this (in the singer's own words) "abortion".  How right he was.  It was so bad it was freaking awesome.  I loved this train wreck.  What is better than watching 4 dudes dressed like morons, cranking out hilarious yet crappy punk rock tunes?  Not much except if drunk dude playing pool would have stopped bumping into me on purpose and trying to drool on me.  Really?  I mean, he was shorter than me and I'm short.  Jax thought that was his lame attempt to hit on me, but I just thought he was trying to cause trouble.  Well, if he kept that up, he was gonna find it.

I absolutely cannot wait to check out the next show.  I am there, so long as I don't have my own gig.

Knowing there is a karaoke bar within a 10 mile radius means that The Pool must check it out.  After the show, we made the required trip to the Korean bar where The Pool proceeded to sing an Elvis tune and I belched out Total Eclipse of the Heart, badly, while enjoying Chinese beer.

Actually, I totally dug this place.  I am often called an egg by some of my Asian friends (white on the outside, yellow inside) and they might be right.  I felt right at home here drinking Tsing Tao, watching the other Koreans smoke (yes inside!) and gamble.   We were also treated to a song by the old Korean guy in the eye patch who was cleaning up in poker.   Heck, we even made some new friends, of whom we were to go to the strip club next door with, but, the cover charge was way to high, ladies admission was not free and you weren't allowed to bring in a purse.  Uh, ok.   Do they know that they are located in Industry?  To top it off, the guys coming out of the place told us not to bother.  Ha!  So, that saved us a few bucks.

We opt to head down the street to Tacos Mexico for some carnitas and horchata.  That's the way to end an evening.  A belly full of juicy pork and spicy salsa.

Mercifully, the trip around the world I forced upon my gullet failed to result in gastrointestinal WWIII as I feared on the way home.   Everyone got along deliciously.

Kanye the Douche

I would be remiss if I did not start blogging about music, since it is my life.  So let's start with the the Double Douche, Kanye West.

At the risk of further publicity (bad publicity is good publicity, just ask Kathy Griffin) I will rant about his juvenile behavior at the VMAs in an open letter.

Dear Colostomy Bag West:

Really, Douche Bag (Squared)?  What's the matter, record sales sagging?  Don't have enough talent to keep anyone's attention with your music?  Why not kill two birds with one stone by solidifying your rep as a Douche and continue to perpetuate the stereotypical rapper's image as moronic attention whores by making an ass of yo'seff (again) so we can all Twitter all about your antics the next day?  Why don't you pick on someone your own size?  I doubt you would have done the same thing to Jay Z, Snoop, Ice-T, 50 Cent or to someone that would shank, shoot, or squash you like the diseased filth you are.

I have always dreamed of receiving a VMA and if you would have done that to The Rocker, I would not have behaved as graciously as Ms. Swift.  There would be no hesitation as I yanked the mic out of your grimy hands, bitch-slapped you with it, then mercilessly shoved it, along with my fist, elbow deep, up your man-gina while you quivered, crying out for your body guards (but see, they are busy laughing at your beat down by a chick), showing the world what a cowardly, worthless pile of vomit you really are.  And, I'd have gladly spent the night in jail for it.   Then perhaps *my* records sales would flourish.  You are undeserving of your accolades and all the cash you are rolling in.

Do us all a favor: hurry up and OD like DJ AM (another undeserving douche that collected ungodly amounts of money for pushing a few buttons) or better yet, go back in time and trade places with Randy Rhoads, Buddy Holly, or Jam Master J so we can have one of them back and be rid of you.  Hell, I'd even take Tupac back.

Very Truly,

The Real OC Rocker