"I don't mean to bust your shit up"
“I don’t mean to bust up your shit,” were the first words of the last conversation I would have with Johnny Conspiracy Nut tonight. It all started when I walked into a bar in our producer paWL’s Brooklyn neighborhood around 10:30 Sunday night. We had just finished mastering our new album, and decided to celebrate with a few beers and relish in the glow of a job well done.
The night before we were in our engineer Fred’s South Bronx studio until about 4:30 AM, putting the final touches on the record for the next day’s mastering. I ended up going back to Wind’s place to crash because the fifteen-minute car ride to his house sounded much better than the inevitable three-hour train ride to Brooklyn from the BX, which was way too much to deal with on a belly full of beer and a head full of trees.
Since I had no plans of staying at Wind’s place, I didn’t have a change of clothes. In an effort to seem somewhat clean, I took a Hangar 18 shirt out of our merch bin to wear for the day. I usually don’t wear our shirts unless I haven’t done laundry or I’m just chilling at the cribbo. It comes off kinda tacky and attention whoreish when one wears one’s own band shirt. It would be like Michael Vick wearing a Ron Mexico jersey to a dog fight on his Virginia property.
I get to the bar to order a round and I hear someone yell across the bar from a dark corner “Whatchu know about Hangar 18?” so I walked over to see what this dude was talking about or if it was someone I knew. It wasn’t anyone familiar, it was some lonely guy scribbling in his notebook asking me if I knew about Hangar 18, which of course I did. I told him, “They were the greatest hip-hop group ever,” to which he responded “Hip-hop group? I might have to report this.” He seemed normal, but I guess his tin foil hat was at the cleaners.
I walked away and went over to our table to drink some beers, talk about women from other tables’ titties, and just relax. Unfortunately, Mel Gibson had other plans. He came to the table with a little scrap of paper and asked me to write down a website for Hangar 18, so I gave him the url to out myspace page and figured that was it. He then handed me a scrap of paper that had three names on it and told me “If you know Hangar 18, you should know these guys.” The list included notorious nut jobs Paul Craig Roberts, Alex Jones, and Thom Hartman. I had no idea they were fans. Being that I am polite, I thanked him and then turned my attention back to the conversation.
About twenty minutes later, he came back to the table and informed us that he didn’t mean to be a dick but was wondering if we were in Hangar 18. paWL informed him that only I was, and the guy asked for my e-mail. I notified him that he would have a better chance of sitting with Dick Cheney and discussing U.S. policy towards torturing the Greys, and once again turned my attentions to the conversation at hand, which I believe this time was about some chick in the bar’s tits.
Guess what happened twenty minutes later, on his way to the bathroom dude slips me another piece of paper with “FEMA prison camps” written on it and walked away. At this point, it became as funny as it was gay. paWL suggested blogging about it so I decided to save the papers and told the fellas about this girl sitting by the bathroom that had great tits.
Right after wind got caught pointing out a set of great tits on the woman sitting behind us, this dude comes back and sits at the table next to us and proclaims “I don’t mean to bust up your shit, but if you’re in a hip hop group called Hangar 18, you need to read this,” and tried to hand me his notebook which was filled with what looked like a child’s hand-writing. At this point I had to tell him to fuck off, I declined reading his chicken scratch and told him “We are named after a Megadeth song.”
“Do you know about the FEMA prison camps?” he replied.
“No, I don’t. There are things I know about, things I don’t, and things I could give a fuck about,” I informed him.
He was convinced he could turn me. “Well it’s all around us, man,”
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, and gave him the “you’re about to get fucked up” look.
I think the last part broke his heart, because the look of crazy that was so dominate in his eyes changed to one of utter disappointment and sadness. I can relate to that, because it really does suck when your rap heroes disappoint you. He left the bar with a shattered heart, but I hope even more resolve to spread the word of raving fringe lunatics.
See how lucky you are that you don’t have to deal with this bullshit? Why do you think us famous types like to go to places that refuse to let in common, every day roustabouts like you, my loyal readers.Until next time, remember: I’m better than you.
The night before we were in our engineer Fred’s South Bronx studio until about 4:30 AM, putting the final touches on the record for the next day’s mastering. I ended up going back to Wind’s place to crash because the fifteen-minute car ride to his house sounded much better than the inevitable three-hour train ride to Brooklyn from the BX, which was way too much to deal with on a belly full of beer and a head full of trees.
Since I had no plans of staying at Wind’s place, I didn’t have a change of clothes. In an effort to seem somewhat clean, I took a Hangar 18 shirt out of our merch bin to wear for the day. I usually don’t wear our shirts unless I haven’t done laundry or I’m just chilling at the cribbo. It comes off kinda tacky and attention whoreish when one wears one’s own band shirt. It would be like Michael Vick wearing a Ron Mexico jersey to a dog fight on his Virginia property.
I get to the bar to order a round and I hear someone yell across the bar from a dark corner “Whatchu know about Hangar 18?” so I walked over to see what this dude was talking about or if it was someone I knew. It wasn’t anyone familiar, it was some lonely guy scribbling in his notebook asking me if I knew about Hangar 18, which of course I did. I told him, “They were the greatest hip-hop group ever,” to which he responded “Hip-hop group? I might have to report this.” He seemed normal, but I guess his tin foil hat was at the cleaners.
I walked away and went over to our table to drink some beers, talk about women from other tables’ titties, and just relax. Unfortunately, Mel Gibson had other plans. He came to the table with a little scrap of paper and asked me to write down a website for Hangar 18, so I gave him the url to out myspace page and figured that was it. He then handed me a scrap of paper that had three names on it and told me “If you know Hangar 18, you should know these guys.” The list included notorious nut jobs Paul Craig Roberts, Alex Jones, and Thom Hartman. I had no idea they were fans. Being that I am polite, I thanked him and then turned my attention back to the conversation.
About twenty minutes later, he came back to the table and informed us that he didn’t mean to be a dick but was wondering if we were in Hangar 18. paWL informed him that only I was, and the guy asked for my e-mail. I notified him that he would have a better chance of sitting with Dick Cheney and discussing U.S. policy towards torturing the Greys, and once again turned my attentions to the conversation at hand, which I believe this time was about some chick in the bar’s tits.
Guess what happened twenty minutes later, on his way to the bathroom dude slips me another piece of paper with “FEMA prison camps” written on it and walked away. At this point, it became as funny as it was gay. paWL suggested blogging about it so I decided to save the papers and told the fellas about this girl sitting by the bathroom that had great tits.
Right after wind got caught pointing out a set of great tits on the woman sitting behind us, this dude comes back and sits at the table next to us and proclaims “I don’t mean to bust up your shit, but if you’re in a hip hop group called Hangar 18, you need to read this,” and tried to hand me his notebook which was filled with what looked like a child’s hand-writing. At this point I had to tell him to fuck off, I declined reading his chicken scratch and told him “We are named after a Megadeth song.”
“Do you know about the FEMA prison camps?” he replied.
“No, I don’t. There are things I know about, things I don’t, and things I could give a fuck about,” I informed him.
He was convinced he could turn me. “Well it’s all around us, man,”
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, and gave him the “you’re about to get fucked up” look.
I think the last part broke his heart, because the look of crazy that was so dominate in his eyes changed to one of utter disappointment and sadness. I can relate to that, because it really does suck when your rap heroes disappoint you. He left the bar with a shattered heart, but I hope even more resolve to spread the word of raving fringe lunatics.
See how lucky you are that you don’t have to deal with this bullshit? Why do you think us famous types like to go to places that refuse to let in common, every day roustabouts like you, my loyal readers.Until next time, remember: I’m better than you.
