DXE ENEMIES #1 (THRU 7)

prologue: while this entry is pretty hate-filled, please note that both ts and sb currently live in the woods, don't wear shoes, and, like, make their own bread and shit. we both look/feel like old school neil young and have generally burried all the drama from our new york days but sometimes it's fun to go thru ye olde feuds, like a clip show on yr favorite sitcom. so enjoy!

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as if we haven't stressed this enough, we love atlas cafe on 2nd ave. we eat their food, gossip with their employees, and spend overnights there painting the menu on the wall in exchange for pocket change and all the cake we can eat. while those nights are usually good times that leave us with positive memories, renewed appreciation for team dresch, and a drawer full of pants that no longer fit thanks to unlimited chocolate-encased strawberry shortcake, the one downside is that somebody keeps ripping the datexedge sticker off the wall that we've strategically placed right near where we've signed our names under our menu craftsmanship. aw rootbeer thought to laminate it right to the plaster, *and it still got defaced/stoled/toe' up*. so while we used to think people loved the stickers and wanted to give them good homes (teet's note: one did end up scanned on some brazilian post-hardcore chatboard, no lie), now we think it's more likely somebody hates them. or rather, hates us. and we're not actually that surprised.

you see, if yr gonna be as loud and proud as we are, AND live in the same city for decade give r take, AND occasionally fraternize with people from wrong island, yr gonna make enemies. so here's our suspect list for stickergate2000. we lay the case, partner in crime serves as judge. all the parties listed should be ashamed of themselves, really, whether they f'd with the sticker or not.

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SB Suspect/Enemy #3: college people. wait, not people-- actors.

the beef: i don't really know, cuz they started it, but whatever, they're actors.

the motive: i went to nyu for writing, but a lot of people in my department were writer/actors, maybe because they were *so* self-involved that they could not imagine better lines to deliver than those written for/by themselves. anyway, i was young and a recovering actor myself so i befriended these people, and we tried to make a movie together which i a, financed from my savings, b, filmed in my hometown which meant everyone had to stay at my parents' house, and c, pretty much single-handedly organized, so naturally, the experience ended with everyone hating my guts and resenting the fuck out of me. if you've never been instantly hated before by a small group of people, and i hadn't been, let me tell you, you really aren't missing out. it was like the most psychotic mean girls scenario, except some of these girls were really just girly men, we weren't in high school anymore, and i had to live with/share a bathroom with 2 of these people, one of whom took more of my resources than my dog does in that i not only fed her (she stole my food), cleaned up after her (never met a dish she couldn't not do), and managed her toilet time (only suckers like me buy tp), but also had to hear her run lines. at the time i didn't get how people could be so quickly hateful-- and en masse, no less!-- and i still don't, but at least now the disdain is mutual. if they've taken my fucking sticker, they can shove it up their insane, meisner-trained assholes. none of them were particularly punk rock, but maybe they're just going wherever the eating disorder wind blows them, ie, to a vegan cafe.

teet's side/verdict: Ok Ok, the only actor I ever knew SB to know in college was that kid who now stars in that superstupid sitcom which, natch, is not very good and films in L.A. There was also one other medium fameous dude, oh yes, that's right, Jason Schwartzmann's best friend whose name I cannot recall, who, at the time, was most intriguing to us, because, Rushmore was still life-changing then (Karen Patch 4ever!) and JS had yet to become a classic case Hollywood full-tard. That said, if these dudes are in New York at all, they are likely spending time uptown with Bijou Phillips or that Latina VJ from Fuse. And as long as Atlas leaves their vegan chicken salad unwrapped overnight, has pools of standing water in the kitchen and roaches cruising all throughout the espresso machine, it will probably always be located in it's cozey dirtnook at 2nd ave and 5th street. That said, unlikely candidates indeed, SB don't hate, hearmenow.

sb's response: dude, none of the actors i'm refering to ever were/will be successful. duh. those famousy guys were aw rootbeer's friends who i cannot remember so well as i met them in the post-actorpocolypse fall-out. my former friends are now doing dinner theater in branson or selling appliances. just fyi.

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SB Suspect/Enemy #2:hockey people

the beef: for calling them out on being babies, telling them to go fuck themselves, ignoring pissy emails, and generally not hand-holding spoiled man and women-children in the way they think they deserve.

the motive: for what seems like 293893 years, i've run a hockey league in the LES. i founded it with the intention of meeting people and playing a fun sport badly, but around season 2 or 3 we got some people who didn't really have a sense of humor and kind of changed the league from being casual friday and silly to rules intensive and, for those of me running it, a job. some of those people were just investment bankers letting off steam, some were people who were repeating the psychotic hockey dad cycle, and some, natch, were from long island. all could easily be pissed at me for being the place where the buck stopped/the wielder of the hammer when it went from an upright to a down position/head nigga in charge, like when i was the deciding vote to punish a guy who *punched someone in the face*. nobody in the league had the courage to kick him out, and i had to be the one to say, hi, he punched someone in the face, goodbye. so now a bunch of ex-hardcore kids-- scratch that, just hardcore kids, because hardcore kids are like alcoholics and must always be referred to as hardcore kids in the present tense since they're tied with high school football stars in terms of owning property on memory lane and never ceasing to relive their glory days of wearing t-shirt sleeves on their heads and crying (teet: also, finger-pointing also) in the front row, at least if they've had a few beers which is funny since the days they look back so warmly on were probably all about not drinking and wearing many, many xxl t-shirts with slogans relating to that fact (with sleeves sometimes removed to be used as headbands), but i digress. anyway, this group of kids with regrettable straight edge tattoos, homies of the puncher/a doucheload* of kids from long island, would all have no problem calling me a cunt to my face if they saw my in the street. and i'm pretty sure they're all vegans since sietan must taste great with whiskey.

^=i am just now realizing that the second season of hockey was best, third almost as good, 4th hit a rhythm, and it all sort of got boring from there, and now i'm pretty much leaving after the seventh season, which means THE HOCKEY LEAGUE IS JUST LIKE BUFFY HOLY SHIT MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH.

*=as whales come in a pod and crows come in a murder, long island kids come in a doucheload. you can look it up.

teet's side/verdict: Dudes, from what I've been able to gather, hockey people don't care about anything cepta drinking themselves and each other under the table each Sunday at Welcome To The Johnsons, winning games, and spreading word that SNL hockey-loving Canadian laugh-factory Mike Meyers plays in their league. Oh, that and working their part part part-time dirtbag Generation Records/Kate's Joint/Beacon's Closet jobs or crunching endless numbers from their Wall Street high-rise/glass-encased conference room/ bullshit executive posish at Globo Chem-Corp (Ed's note: Since the dawn of BTSH, two equally gross yet opposing social worlds have fully collided in the name of the sport. This upsets SB greatly as she hates dude TMs.)

For as far back as I can remember, each weekend SB would have a crush on a nerdy new hockey dude, who in many cases was way gay/short bus/pterodactyl looking and still holding his V card, and who, within 3 games, she oft ended up hating anyway - which is funny and classically SB - although they nevs s'much seemed to hate her back.

Even double moreover, the one time I watched all of them closely interact with her was when she threw last years end of season hockey party at the Delancey Lounge – and, at their drunkest, wiliest and most offensive they still treated her much like I would imagine Warren Jeffs insanebrains Mormon followers treat him, ie, like an EFFING DEITY.

In summing up, although she is a full-whiz on all other subjects, SB is kindof a paranoid half-tard on this one, I think, in part, because years ago she had to kick off that whole team of (shock!) poorly raised, full-tard Wrong Islanders – and has since convinced herself that league-wide everyone hates her gutz, when, in fact, as previously mentioned, they think in total tunnel vision about only the few things listed above, and as for the dudes, probably about quiet Asian girls as well.

Also also, just this very second, on the Instant of Messengers, which, much like teenagers, we communicate on incessantly, SB just asked me to please please mention that: "now no one knows who i am cuz i've been away and they're just all drunx anyway", which, also, unfortchunately, totally blows up her own tenuous spot, cause if someone doesn't even know who you are, how can they shanghai yr much-adored vinyl sticker collection from a restaurant they don't even know you go to? In summation, I win. Verdict overturned. Thank you. That is all.

sb's response: whatevs, motion granted.

*

SB Suspect/Enemy #1: misc ex-boyfriends.

beef: my ignoring emails in which they tried to sincerely/aggressively passive-aggressively "apologize", their having too much pain in their man-ginal regions to confront me to my face, general bad vibes since our long ago, regrettable naked times.

their motives: ever since my falling out with the acting community, i've tried to purge my life of drama on all other fronts as well. i know when to hold em, know when to roll em, and when things start to sour/i am dumped on my ass, i know when to walk away and when to run (but kind of the other way around). that said, if things start to dissolve between me and a co-sexer, i don't want to prolong the entropy; let's just say it's over and maybe reconvene one day when we don't give a shit anymore and the thought of each other's genitals makes our respective stomachs turn. natch, it never really works out that way, either because i'm pissed or because i'm pissed, and with rare exceptions, relationships end with me never wanting to speak to that dude again. the problem is that that dude, if i've dated him at least, is a metaphorical eunuch (see: milton photo above), so, while he wants to talk to me, he fears my wrath if he tries, so instead he "tries." i've had ex-boyfriends declare their yearning to talk to me on internet message boards, via friends in very, very awkward moments, and by naming their bands after their desire to kill me, so if one of said dudes was trying to get to me by ripping down my stickers, it would be both pathetic and par for the course.

seriously, for whatever reason, i have the world's worst taste in dudes, because even if all of these dudes aren't awful people, we were awful together, hence the dxe lifestyle i embrace today. what they don't realize is that the real wrath comes out when they pull shit like the acts mentioned above, ie, try with just half of their asses. someday, i will date a grown-ass man who can fix his car, has an insanely well-trained dog, and has felt a wounded woodland animal's lifespirit leave its body due to an injury he has caused it in order to use all of its parts down to the hooves, and the wound is most likely caused by a bow and arrow and my future man's excellent marksmanship, but if it's a firearm wound instead, i'll deal. because if this magical dude wants to talk to me and/or call me on some shit, you can be shit sure he'll just show up at my door-- no crazy voicemail, no myspace postings (dude ain't even on myspace, duh), no breakdowny word salad emails that he's written after i've said i need time off because said emails don't violate the time off rule according to him for reasons i'll never understand-- and he will make his thoughts known and generally take action even if he's totally wrong like most dudes usually are.

honestly, i would rather have these guys come up and fight with me than pull the shit they seem to be pulling now. then again, these are the kind of lads famous for projecto-pologies, ie, apologies that are actually passive-aggressive insults. eg,"i'm sorry you won't write me back, i'm sorry you've decided to hurt me, i'm sorry you're such a cold hearted supercunt," etc. if you're a dude and you do this, heads up, you're not being contrite, you're being a manipulative, passive-aggressive asshole. and if you look up passive-aggressive asshole on wikipedia, you'll see pictures of pretty much every dude i've ever boned.

and of course they all know atlas since 10 years in nyc put me in a scene jail that managed to rival the one i grew up in in terms of incestuousness and gossip, cept a boston is the size of a single block in long island city and new york has 3990teen million people, although only a 7teen million of those people are vegan record nerds and of that scene there are only a handful of dudes who don't find me instantly terrifying/strictly date japanese women/immediately suck. and oh yeah they all enjoy cake. not that magical dream guy doesn't like cake, but his cake probably has meat in it. and cheese. oh my god i love him.

teet's side/verdict: Ok check it: this one is not as improbable as the others because, even though she is the single most cynical, judgmental and hysterical person I know; near constantly mocking bike messengers, Philadelphia, Long Island, Mumia, quiet Asian girlfriends and each years crop of awful new bands - SB's past men, with the exception of one, who is an unabashed ginormo-tard, have seemed relatively harmless and well, pretty loving, even if full-on awkwardly so.

Howevs, they have also, most ironically, been the knee-deepiest scene dudes this side of the Mr. Roboto Project or Sean Agnew. And even though the owners of Atlas, a gaggle of well-intentioned skeeezy young dude TM's from Tunisia, can't for the life of them figure out why the "kids who smell awful, wear a lot of black and always always order the Mississippi Chicken Chops" love their cafe so much, let's not lie: we all know that for chow, this place is a scenehog prerequisite, that's why, everytime we go, since the year of Our Lord 1998, we see that medium-cute quiet kid who played in Antarctica, eating by himself. With that in mind, I think, in specific regard only to the ginormo-tard scene-king ex-bf, that he is totally likely jacking our goods over a romantic Mississippi Chicken chops dinner with his quiet Asian girlfriend - because someone once told me that he covertly lurks on the dxe.com and curses SB's good name on chatboards.

sb's response: you call it full-on and awkward, i call it suffocating and self-centered, let's call the whole thing off.

***

TEET Suspect/Enemy: #3: Long Island, New York

Beef: A History Of Violence.

Motives: Ah, Long Island and anyone on the earth entire raised outside of Long Island - two worlds that, by the grace of its giant non-universal moral fiber and sense of propriety, were never (ever? ever ever. - whattup Outkast!) meant to collide. I'd never heard of this special place until I was 20 yrs old, which is bizarre because I grew up a scant hour away, but, apropos of nothing, I am also 100% F'reals Attention Deficit With Hyperactivity Disorder, so it is simultaneously not that weird.

Without getting into too much detail, cause Mom would be way bummed, Long Island and I, Nassua County if we are to be detail-oriented, waged all-out war on each other during the years of Our Lord 1999 to 2003, with the final months seeing the most shrapnel fly. This war entailed not only yr standard procedure emo chatboard sabatogery, but bicycle theft mixed with equal parts intense emotional abuse and scandalous job loss. 3+ years later the legacy of some of these dynamic events lives on negatively in the heart of many a doucheload (all of whom eat at Atlas and never tip,) including but not limited too that mouthy Hispanic dude that I've never met who plays bass badly in Cobra Starship. That's not too say that gaggles don't look back on it fondly too: as getting a slutty 20th wave mainstreamo superfan who was stealing limited edition Nike colorways fired from her super sweet job at Foot Locker fer snaking yr man is kindof effing awesome, no matter how you slice it. 5 out of 5 non Long Islanders agree.

In summing up, those kids love claiming straightedge even though they all ultimately break it - and since the DXE stickers in question are a parody of said meaningless movement - stealing them seems like a natural extension of everyone's collective letting go issues. Howevs, in retrospect, if I the chance to do it all over, I would have just joined the Peace Corp or would have waged war on Connecticut instead, as though kids don't hang out in the city quite as much. Hell, hindsight is 20/20.

SB's Verdict: first of all, i'm shocked that teet can talk about wrong island without invoking the Guido Overnight Toiletry Drawer, ie the drawer of he-products her soon-to-be-cokehead, at-the-time-cheating-cocksucker boyfriend left at her house so he and his chinstrap beard could start every day looking their very Guido best. second, with apologies to my two friends from long island who seems normalish (sup sheela and brendan who will never read this!), teet is 100% dead on, those kids are broken and should never venture further inland than floral park lest they contaminate the rest of civilization. i say that they are very likely guilty, or at least one of them is (see below , C.Blech), and i sentence them to being barred from the texas is the reason reunion show and having go to p.f. changs with their moms instead. they also have to pay because mom probably does their laundry right down to folded underwear and deserves a little gratitude.

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TEET Suspect/Enemy #2: The Locust

Beef: Musically inaccessible, Murder-On-Yr-Ears Rock Band That Can't Handle Criticism.

Motive: In the year of Our Lord 2001 I participated in an invite-only pro-Locust/anti-Locust roundtable for a controversial punk rock fanzine (whattup Jessica Hopper!) where I was staunchly anti-Locust. As it was, I had just seen them fully destroy an Elks Hall in suburban Michigan as the elderly Elks stood by and watched in frozen old-guy shock and sadness. Also, even prior to that, I had been unable to appreciate their catalogue of sonic hellscape-ery, even if their (kindof hot) rexic frontman was in Swing Kids. The threatening phone calls from band member Joey began shortly after the Hit It Or Quit It issue was published and continued for quite some time after, years, I think. Negative chit-chat to mutual friends followed suit, with the most recent case dating back to last week (whattup 5 years later! Dang, do my acts of negative awesomeness have staying power or what?). Even the sending of an apologetic greeting card, (ie, drawing of a little little man holding a white flag ((made of a toothpick and construction paper) with a thought bubble that read 'truce', handmade by me, natch), to Justin Pierson (lead screamers) San Diego PO Box did not help improve the sad state of affairs, which is total drag city because, as you can see from above, it is ever so rare that I make conflict-ending efforts.

Far be it from me to understand how a band that makes weird music for dirt merchant social Outkasts (whattup Outkast!) can't take a little smack talk from a lowdmouth Tardbonics loving lowdmouth. In conclusion, Justin is apparently vegan, although I've heard from a credible source that he rarely eats, and we all know that Atlas is tops for meeting complex sets of vegan needs (even those that do not exist.) Not to make hugely self righteous assumptions, but I bet he Google searches my name, see the endless text about our love for Atlas and then tries to think of ways he can get revenge during those times when he is in NYC not eating. Hence, his sworn vendetta against my stickers.

SB's verdict: ok, ignoring the fact that talking shit is a national pastime for people who have the internet, opinions, and haircuts - the locust, at least when they were at their height/relevant (ooh, did she just say that? here we go again!), were constantly getting into feuds, including one involving a fake florida band that called themselves "ton-e loc-ust" and came into fake-existence only to threaten to open for the locust during their local show (story courtesy of roy styles, tm). when yr sparring with bands that don't exist, on top of wearing costumes and making music that, if it's not the mythological frequency that makes people shit themselves, can still be described as "the brown sound," you need to relax. and maybe have a little nosh. so i doubt it was them who destickered us, but if it was, i would sentence them to 48 hours in a room watching the 40 year old virgin, coming to america, anchorman, airplane!, etc brazil-style with their eyeballs pulled open so they can learn what humor is. that or a scared straight-style intervention where the aforementioned elks confront them on how their feelings were hurt by the locusts actions so everyone can have a good, cathartic cry.

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TEET Suspect/Enemy #1: "C. Blech" [i made teet give him an alias because i truly believe he's nuts and that if we put his full name on the internet teet will wake up in the night with him standing over her, face done up in camo paint, knife in hand, trying to steal the breath from her mouth before stabbing her many, many times. -sb]

Beef: A Raging 5-Year Run of Sporadic Hater-y.

Motive: Although he fits squarely into the straight-up terrifying LI category on a number of levels {whattup, Suffolk County!}, this weasel merits his own {fr}enemy standing based solely on the swiftitude with which he has created dramatsunamis around me, ever since the day we first met, in the year of our Lord 2001, in Long Island, ewh, but natch. Dude is 18 or something now and is a primo fibber of the most highest order. Case in point - he just "hates" Atlas and sposedly "never goes there" because he's "so sick" of the Vegan Chicken Sandwich, and well, frankly, all of the ten million 999,947,585,82 8,000 and a 1/2 other menu items available are "gross." Howevs, shockingly, my non-bitches in attendance at Fat Club meetings have reported seeing him there on something like 3 to 16 occasions. And those sightings were all way late at night too, total covert ops style, almost as if he knows he's being watched - which would, on nites when I'm slacking on having the surveillance team on duty out in the field - provide his wildly Sketchy D style a perfect chance to yank our stickers. Even though they are now LAMINATED TO THE WALL, dudes hate runs deep.

Motives pt 2: C. Blech was sposed to drop 3 hundy to help pay for the first ever wave of DXE merchery in 2004 or something when SB and I were at our primo most broke ever into perpetuity and beyond throughout the universe. Sadly, before we were able to secure his cash moneys - he and I stepped into the ultimate battledome and didn't speak for like 3 to 16 years or something. Hard truth is, he must be feverishly jealous and filled with regret that he missed his chance to be an integral part of this unabashedly retardo mini-empire and can't handle those constant in-his-face graphical reminders at such times when he is NOT at Atlas at midnite ordering a sandwich he totally hates.

Also, as previously mentioned, he's kind of a liar, but one can only hold that medium against him considering the geographic surroundings in which he was raised. In the history of history of all time ever ever - no honesty, justice or righteousness has ever come out of that place -except fer Public Enemy, Long Island Iced Teas and Foot Locker in the Garden City Mall (sup, slut!).

Also also, back when he was like was way young and I was the make-out bandit and before his first wave of dramatsunamery hit I would occasionally kiss his face and touch his 1950's style bathing suit region, that is, until I skipped town to do the same with someone else. Oof.

Also also also, he constantly asks for presents that he gave me back and, natch, I always say no.

SB's verdict: have to say, of the doucheload of LI kids that want yr head on a steak and gaggle of passive fucks who curse me under their breath, this lil' guy is our most likely candidate. unlike the other people on our lists, C. Blech gives hating you his all, texting/calling constantly, sitting outside your house, and generally living his own one-man lifetime movie of the week that, were you to appear in it, would co-star you played by tori spelling. he also embodies what frustrates me most about 99% of the LI-ers i know (so close to liar yet so far!), which is the little-boy-victim attitude; why is the world against me, why won't you be my friend anymore, where are my mommy's ever-loving arms, etc. and it's like, dude, remember the way you were an asshole? said mean shit to me? or, in my case, punched loud adam in the face? and remember from, ya know, being alive that doing bad shit often has consequences? and that "friendship" is usually defined by two people who enjoy talking and keeping each other's company, not one desperate guy who unrequitedly stalks his "friend" and then, as a token of his friendship, tears her stickers off the wall? i swear to god there's something in the water coming out of plainview or wherever that stunts the drinker's emotional growth at age 12. cb practically swam in that shit, but also he's nuts, and ps, he has since found work for american exploiter, er, apparel. which is really all we had to say in the first place. so, long story short, i'm pretty sure he's guilty, pretty sure he's standing outside teeter's building right now wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with love and hate tattoo'd on his knuckles, pretty sure his punishment should be carried out by the proper authorities. ie, the nypd. most of which probably live on long island.

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BONUS: OUR CO-ENEMY

Suspect/enemy: G+ra$d C<>L=Y (Google-proofed) - President and Owner, Matador Records.
Beef: A (most retarted amazing ever) Myspace related e-war (myself, SB and J. Ho vs. G+ra$$d C<>L=Y and his nationwide team of dying hipster indie elitist minions.)

Motives:

teet's take: Mid-sweetbeef, my (Rest In Peace) party blog, where said sweetbeef was being detailed and commented on, was receiving up to 6,000 hits a day. Our continuous, now web-fameous claims of G+ra$d C<>L=Y eating rotisserie chicken while getting his back waxed and plucking messages into his Sidekick earned us a fleet of insta-enemies and devout superfans. Let's not lie, we said some of the meanest things ever - many of which, natch, I penned, and so, as you, our (micro, if any) readership may know, involved not a cohesive though t in the bunch - thereby giving G+ra$d C<>L=Y the opp to name my style of writing "Tardbonics," which, I'm fairly certain, he was hoping would e-bum me out, but instead this (effing brilliant vocab overthrow) only heightened my manic stoke and helped me kick out weeks more worth of mouthy, music related linguistic incomprehensibles. Also, from what we've been told through the gossip grapevine, this e-war put a sad end to his hipster baseball blog. O.w.c.h

Granted, dude lives in London, but with the release of the new Chavez record, it is not ridiculous to suspect that he would have the dough to fly the corporate jet over to 2nd Ave and 5th street to jack our wares.

sb's take: i got into this whole mess by stating my opinion re: myspace, which is an opinion i stand by to this day: if you are putting a profile on the internet that showcases you to your e-fullest, you're doing it to get attention and play the game of "whoever has the most friends wins." this is truer than ever a year .5 later, since "thanks for the add" now counts as a heartfelt exchange in the myspace world of e-friendship, but why g3r8937rd, or anyone, would refuse a "friend" is kind of beyond me. you can ignore that "friend," i guess -- i do that in real life all the time, i live in new hampshire! -- but to reject someone for not making it past your e-velvet rope is just sad. it's fuckin' myspace, dude, so yr pristene profile is already forced to share most of a URL with a community made up of half-naked 15 year olds who mistake attention from perverts for love (and often have their toddlers wandering in the background of their noodz), a zillion fake larry the cable guys, and juggalos. while i still think g5r43d c000sl*y should get over himself, i concede that teet's stream of consciousness e-tantrum was a little below the belt, if only because the shrapnel hit other members of the matador staff, including at least one who didn't deserve it. it reminded me of that moment playing with friends as a kid when someone would get hurt or the baby of the group would start crying or someone else would out of nowhere want to take their toys and go home. ie, it was the moment the fun died. but still, conflict! was a long time ago, we're all old now and in the scenester retirement home, let's all listen to tom petty and make fun of sufjan stevens together, shall we?

also, sorry for using e- so much.

also also, who would have thunk that sub pop would emerge from the 90's major indie clash of the titans with their cred intact and with a better roster? or is it just me, or is cred kind of a passe notion now that a blogger can pick up a demo by ratfuck and the asshats and say that it's changed his life, and then a million bloggers fill flikr with pictures from the RF&TAH show at cakeshop, and then pitchfork gives them an 8.3. no, 8.4. meanwhile, ratfuck and the asshats used to be a fuse-style 6 piece (guitar, drums, bass, two screamers [one a former horn player from his days in ska-tological humor] and a guitar player again) whose name was just the image of a single tear and who happened to make really awful music that would probably garner a pitchfork review in the negative integers and not even make it to warped tour's 8th stage on top of the portashitters?

but i digress. anyway, his sportsblog lives on, so much for wishful thinking.

SB's Verdict: since g cissy is in town for the latest jean paul sartre experience ep, i'm guessing he's spending all his time dining at michael and zoe's and angelika's with stephen malkmus and liz phair, hitting shows at brownies and tramps, boasting about the atlantic deal, and just living it up 1996-style, because that is where i imagine him to be frozen in lucite, because part of me is frozen there, too. [insert quiet, sad moment of reflection here.] [i'm just going to shut up now because my fingers ache from verbiage.]

teet's verdict: Dude didn't remember me from my year long torcherous unpaid internship, hence refusing to accept my fake bands Myspace friend request; and thusly inciting the wellspring of hateful web-wordery, but Lord knows he remembers me now! To be honest, from the tone of his text during said e-war, nestled snugly between his moments of total e-maliciousness aimed squarely at me, I think it is fair to say that some of his words read like we really hurt his feelings; in part, because we are young and he is not and we said as such, repeatedly, and being at the receiving end of someone pulling the youth card always cuts like a knife. My guess is that, as a 65+ year old dying hipster, who is desperately holding onto his last moments of relevancy through the work of Chan Marshall - and who is surely taking stock on what his life has become (a la the 'Hurt' Johnny Cash video) that he would rather just avoid the painful memory of us altogether. So what if on the internets he gold-fronted like he came out on top in all of this blog drama; in the confines of his London based, Railroad Jerk funded micro-castle, I know he cried himself to sleep while snotting all over his No Pocky For Kitty pillow case, wishing earnestly for the Homestead Records days of yore.

With all that meanness aside, he's defs no suspect for stealing our dxe stickers, dude's too busy putting out bad records.

***

Teet's Editors note: In summing up, despite how this whole featurette may read, I am not an awful person, was just bored and feisty in my younger years. Now I live alone in the woods (for real). Thank you, that is all.

SB's Editor's note: i also live alone in the woods, but soon i'm moving to the west coast, so fuck all the haters, keep yr stickers, i'm out.