40 Oz. Of Hell: Forever Wild -- “Sebastian Bach Rhymes With…”
Wednesday, February 20, 2002 @ 3:02 PM
The Rock n' Roll Ranting Of A
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Welcome to the dump where Jeff Kerby lives in his Pinto and swills mind numbing alcohol case after battered case. I have been assured that every couple of weeks I will receive a column from him undoubtedly written on one of the torn up bags which he uses to house his malt liquor. It seems this poor guy lives with all that society throws away only to find solace in a bottle of fire. Here it is, Kerby’s 40 Oz. Of Hell. Be glad you only get to visit -- he has to live there. – Ed.
I never really thought I’d ever be saying that, but if anyone should know that life has a tendency to degenerate into a fucked up mess, it should be me. I spent the whole duration of my stay in jail bitching about being there, yet when faced with the prospect of actually getting out, I found that I wasn’t nearly as exuberant as I thought I’d be. See, during my incarceration, I always knew that upon release, my job prospects would generally range from limited to nonexistent. A bleak occupational outlook was a given, but just as I stood outside the gates of the jail and the doors closed, it suddenly occurred to me that not only was I damn near unemployable, I also had no one that I missed or even really cared about either. In retrospect, prison wasn’t all that bad—at least my food was taken care of, and my cell did have heat. Now that my relationship with Sweet Annie the hooker was on extended hiatus, I would have just as soon stayed incarcerated until the weather warmed up a little. Hell, I wouldn’t have even faced this conundrum if my attorney hadn’t gone digging into the past of a certain female midget and found that she had previously been involved in another incident about ten years ago wherein she flew through the roof of a certain local congressman’s Cadillac convertible. Of course, given the stature of the car’s owner, no criminal charges had been filed in that case, but there had been a hefty out of court settlement. My lawyer said that some in city government were concerned that if my case went to court, the past was certain to be a focal point of debate. Since the politician in question now had his eyes set on the governorship, the political wheels started churning, and the charges against me were eventually dropped without a helluva lot of fanfare.
Once I got back to Albuquerque, I checked into one of the homeless shelters downtown and got a job at McDonald’s. I had to hide my uniform and everything at night because I would have automatically been discharged from the shelter if they had found out that I was employed. Nevermind that I couldn’t even afford a Tuff Shed on what I was currently being paid for my role in fulfilling the breakfast needs of our drive-thru customers and lunch time patrons. Over the course of the next week or so, I learned how to make assorted breakfast sandwiches, Big Macs and French fries. This was a huge accomplishment for me too, since I hadn’t actually made anything edible since those Rice Krispy treats I created in Foods and Baking class during my sophomore year of high school. Since graduation, most of my meals have consisted of sandwiches made from Vienna sausages or cold pork and beans that I dug out from a can. I knew that many would consider this a shit job and all, but there was still a sense of accomplishment that came over me when I’d cook the meat and slap that special sauce on those buns before wrapping up the burgers and placing them under the humming glow of a heat lamp. My satisfaction came from being a productive member of society who was helping to quell the disposable culinary rumblings of the masses. If this wasn’t exactly my idea of an ideal occupation, it was at least tolerable. I was considering trying to work my way up to shift manager when Mr. Osbourne, my current boss, screamed, “Kerby, phone call!”
Only two people have this work number -- my attorney, and KNAC.COM’s Editor in Chief, Frank Meyer. Frank even called once awhile back and arranged that Dokken interview because I think he felt sorry for me and thought that the experience might help me in my rehabilitation process. For a guy like me though, a phone call is hardly ever a good thing, and in this case I was afraid that maybe Mushroomhead was coming to town and Frank wanted me to interview them or something. I also knew that if he asked, I’d probably would have done it too. Fuck, it wouldn’t have been so bad. I could have asked them about how it felt being a second rate version of a band whose life expectancy is about up in its own right. Not to mention potential inquiries could be made about their masks or how they managed to write lyrics of such depth. Touching base with them now might not be such a bad idea considering one or more of them will probably be working right next to me in the next few months. You could imagine my surprise when it wasn’t Frank on the other end of the receiver at all but instead it was someone who said they were in charge of programming at VH-1.
Hell, I wouldn’t have faced this conundrum if my attorney hadn’t gone digging into the past of a certain female midget and found that she had been involved in another incident wherein she flew through the roof of a certain local congressman’s Cadillac convertible.
“Hi Jeff, this is Milton Lemmy over at this country’s number one television music channel, and the reason I called is that I’d like to talk to you a little bit about our rock oriented show.”
“You mean, THE Rock Show? Oh, in that case if you want my opinion or are taking a poll, I don’t mind saying that I think Scott Ian does a pretty good job with that.”
“Uhm, well, he doesn’t do the program anymore, Jeff. Sebastian Bach is now the host of this….uh…other rock oriented show on Friday nights called Forever Wild.”
“Ok, ok, Sebastian Bach -- Skid Row. I gotcha. Well….how’s it going, then?”
“I’d really rather not get into it over the phone. What we’d like to do is fly you out to our west coast office in Los Angeles to meet with us.”
“That’s gonna be hard, Mr. Lemmy. See, next week I’m going to get trained in advanced fry cookery and that, my friend, could someday mean the difference between remaining stuck in the kitchen here and eventually obtaining a potential office job with McDonald’s if ya know what I mean. You know, I just can’t go pissing away employment opportunities like this my whole life.”
“Fry cookery…hmm. Well, I suppose I should let you know that we are willing to pay you one hundred dollars a day for your time. Is that agreeable?”
“You’ve got a point—I guess the fries can wait.”
During the long flight I was constantly struggling to keep the 80 oz. of malt liquor and two custom made triple decker Big Macs I ate for lunch from spewing forth into the domain of those around me. Upon landing, a limousine was there at the airport to take me to my destination where I was eventually led up to the nicely carpeted VH-1 studios. The whole place reeked of the kind of opulence that I don’t normally experience. Inside the building there were all sorts of people dressed in attire that were actually purchased -- not acquired from a donation basket like mine. I’m sure I made quite an impression as I wore the only clothes I now own which are a pair of really tattered, greasy jeans that had to have been previously inhabited by some type of auto mechanic and a t-shirt with Krokus emblazoned on the front. You know the shirt, it had the Headhunter logo on it. I was never much of a fan of their music, but they did have a few decent songs. I think the reason I never got more into them probably had a lot to do with the fact that Marc Storace’s overabundance of chest hair and bushman afro frightened and intimidated me when I was in high school. Shit, I guess I have nothing to bitch about -- at least it isn’t a Winger shirt. I think I would rather experience a cold numbing frostbite over my entire chest than sport an homage to Kip Winger in any form.
I was finally led to a conference room with a long table equipped with plush chairs and a TV on the far end. One person stood over by it, and when he asked me to sit down, I recognized the voice as being that of Milton Lemmy, the man I spoke to on the phone.
“Hi, Jeff. I’m glad you could make it out here this evening. What I’d like to do is kind of get a feel for whether or not you might be interested in taking a position in our rock show -- “
“Yeah, we think you might be just the person to bring some kind of authenticity to the show.”
“What’s wrong with Sebastian?”
“I figured from our conversation that you may not be familiar with the program as it is now, so I took it upon myself to bring in the last episode we cut. It hasn’t been edited yet, but I think you will be able to see some issues in it that I will allude to later. Now, please Jeff, let’s watch the entire show. Then, later we can discuss the station’s vision for the program and where you fit into the equation.”
He started the VCR, and as it clicked and whirled, my mind ran through all I knew about Sebastian Bach. Well, I knew he used to be the lead singer of Skid Row. I also knew he was in a Broadway production of the Rocky Horror Picture Show recently. I was never really into his band or anything, but I thought their first album was pretty strong. That’s when the screen exploded.
“Th-Th-Th-This is Sebastian BBBBBacch, and you are walkin’ on the wild side. Wild! Wild! Wild!”
Good Lord. The camera kept switching angles—each one only three inches from his face. It was sensory overload like an explosive mixture of MTV and shit. I suddenly craved another beer. Sebastian instantly reminded me of an anorexic, long haired Max Headroom.
“Ok, rockers,’ he continued, ‘this is the f-f-f-f-first (camera angles again) anniversary of the Fffforever Wiiiild, baby. And THEY—SAID—IT WOULDN’T LAST. What the hell do they know? For this special occasion, we’re going to go b-b-b-b-back in time. Yeeeeaaaah, you know what that means. That means, it’s time for the original metal god, Rob Halford to make his return appearance. Last time, he came to the studio to rap about being a legend, a legend, a legend. Do you know what I’m sayin? Do you know what I’m sayin? I said, DO YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYIN? You’d better because we are going to go and hang with Halford tonight. Maybe I’ll ask him, “how’s it hangin?” Get it? Get it? Didya get it? This time we are going to catch him at one of his favorite haunts just off the strip. While the crew and I drive over there, lets spin a little mmmmusic for you. Our first video comes from Puddle of Mudd entitled, “Blurry.” Let me get serious for a moment. This song, I say, I liked it, and when I saw the clip for this, dammit -- I have kids too. It is cool. They rock. Children rock. I know we’ve played this every week, but I can relate to this song. Dammit, I love my kid. Anyway, here it is and it’s comin’ at you. NOW!”
That’s when Sebastian went psycho. He ripped open the door and said, “what are you saying about me?!?” He started throwing those crazy roundhouse punches just like he did in that “Monkey Business” video
The video started. The mere sight of Wes Scantlin’s backward pointing baseball cap combined with nauseatingly saccharine-covered shots of him holding a child’s hand angered me and caused me to wonder if there wasn’t some type of understated theme of pedophilia going on here. I halfway expected to see Michael Jackson or a monkey make a cameo appearance. If Puddle of Shit wasn’t trying to celebrate child groping with this clip, thoughts of Wes procreating and filling the world full of little poseur children wasn’t much better. The whole context of this abomination incited me to an inner cranium riot and my consciousness ached.
“Hey…hey. Lemmy, I appreciate the fact that I’m getting paid here and all, but you just can’t come up with enough cash to make me sit through this….Another thing, you guys got any beer in this place?”
Lemmy hit fast forward and sent an assistant for a beer. Wouldn’t you know it? He came back with a bottle of imported. I didn’t think they stocked 40’s in this place, so I didn’t even ask. After the video blurred past, Sebastion could be seen standing in front of some brightly lit bar just off the strip in LA.
“Yes. Here we are. The night is young. Woooooow. Young. Wow, young. Wow, young. This is it. Just look at the sign. We are here right in front of Willy Nilly’s. Yep you read their motto correctly -- “Get Your Buns Wet Off Sunset.” This is where, this is where, this is where I say! This is where we’re going to meet Rob -- Meeettttal God -- Haaaalford. Let’s go in.”
The camera followed him into the bar. The lights were bright and the motif seemed to be a jungle theme. There were plastic green palm trees and many assorted fruits—both along the walls and in attendance. Sebastian continued to amble through scantily clad, mascara wearing femme boys who were writhing around each other as YMCA by the Village People thumped through the speakers. I was expecting to see Halford appear any second when instead, I saw a person who looked one helluva lot like….no…it couldn’t be. Yes, yes it was. It was Ted Nugent and he appeared to be with Marc Storace from Krokus, and no, his hair hadn’t become any less gargantuan in stature since 1985. Wait, it wasn’t the vocalist—it appeared to be Richard Simmons. Seems I got my afros confused, but the tiny red tank top gave him away.
“Hell viewers!!! What have we got here, here, here, here? Ted! Ted! Ted! It’s Terrible Ted Nugent. What’s up bro?”
The figure in front of Sebastian just looked down and mumbled, “I don’t know you, man.”
“Yeah, yeah you do. C’mon Ted. Dontcha remember? We did that two part show last year where we hunted and shot stuff. You know that big pig we killed—POW, POW, POW, POW. We killed those squirrels too. They were DEAD, DEAD, DEAD, I say. Dead. Deeeeeaad.”
“Not me buddy.”
“Oh, juth tell him. Thed. Thed, you’d better tell him. I’m thired of you not claiming me.”
The small figure with the hair was now visibly upset -- he was starting to look like a pissed off, gay hobbit. Yeah, shit it really was Richard Simmons -- I knew for sure when he started looking for someone obese to preach to about the virtues of self esteem and a balanced diet.
“Look, you aren’t going to make Terrible Testosterone Teddy Bear Ted say anything or else you aren’t going to experience the Shooting Spear of Sonic Semen later on. I mean, you can’t eat the steak if the meat is rotten.”
“Look, Richard. You aren’t going to make Terrible Testosterone Teddy Bear Ted say anything or else you aren’t going to experience the Shooting Spear of Sonic Semen later on. I mean, you can’t eat the steak if the meat is rotten.”
“Huh? H-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-uh? Sebastian says huh? Huh, I say!”
“Oh, shit. Yeah, yeah, of course I know you Sebastian. How could I forget, right? I’m just here to…uh…ridicule some fags. You know what I’m talking about. Those pansies who don’t like to hunt. All they want to do is use their entrances for exits if you know what it mean. Not me though. Nope. I’m not into anything except wang dang sweet poon tang.”
“That ithn’t what you thaid latht night Thed.”
Nugent then looked directly into the camera and said, “For the record, I don’t even know this little guy. I may have just seen him once on some fruity exercise show or some type of thing like that. I don’t even watch that crap though. Nope, real men do push-ups. So…uhm, what I think I’m gonna do right now is I’m gonna go and kill me some small animals with some big Ted-terrific bullets because I am the epitome of Ted-tosterone. I’ve bashed these abominations against God for long enough tonight. Before I go, I just want to tell all those red blooded Americans out there to make sure they eat plenty of meat, poon tang and carry at least three guns at any given time and beat up some homos. See you boys at the next NRA meeting!!! Go Charlton Heston!!!”
With that, he stormed away. It was the first time that I noticed that the cowboy hat he’d been wearing had a red feather protruding from the back and that he had also been wearing white tiger striped pants as well. Very sexy. Urggh. Anyway, now poor little Richard was crying into his Zima lamenting the loss of Terrible Ted’s Tempestuous Testacle Tornado. Sebastian just looked confused at first but composed himself quickly enough to utter, “Wow, wow, wow, wow. I said, wow. To think, I slept near that guy. Anyway, we were here to see Halford. Halford. Halford. You know him -- he’s the Meeetal God.”
Then, Sebastian starts walking around, and before he gets thirty feet, this guy in a painter’s hat and parachute pants comes storming the scene.
“Yowza, yowza, yowza!!! This is Uncle DDDDDave. Buy me a drink. I am the king of entertainment and have the skills to pay the bills….can you buy me a drink? Funny thing, it seems I’m a little short of cash right this minute, but I promise that I’ll pay you back. Hey, Uncle Dave’s no dead beat.”
“Hey-hey-hey. Say hi to Diamond Dave, folks. This guy was the front man for one of the greatest bands in the world—ever—ever—ever. And he’s here, uh, Dave, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Nothing going on here except, drinking, partying and hanging out with all sorts of colorful people. Oh wo wo, why’s Richard crying?”
“Long story—long story—long story. Hey, Dave, do you know where we can find Rob Halford, MEEETAL GOD!!!!”
“I’ll tell you, but you’re gonna buy me a drink, right? Anyway, he’ll be here in a few minutes. Now, you could check the bathroom—if you’re desperate or you could just buy me a beer and we’ll wait together.“
“We’re in kind of a hurry Diamond Dave -- you know, the Fooreeever Wiiiiild won’t wait for anyone. Come on folks, let’s take a look in the illustrious bathroom of Willy Nilly’s.
Shit, all I saw once the cameras had entered were exposed navels and the tops of heads bobbing along a wall in unison.
“Man, this is wild—wild—wild. Sure a lot of monkey business going on in here. Just as you’ve come to expect from us at the Forever Wild, we will leave no rocking stone unturned.”
Or bathroom stall, undoubtedly. I knew this part would probably get edited out of the program, but Sebastian actually started pounding on the doors to the stalls. The first stall was occupied by two gays snorting coke while the second seemed to have more vocal inhabitants that he listened to before intruding…
“Wes, Wes, Weeeesssss. Oh yeah, baby. Everything’s so blurry. Everything’s so fake. A little faster. Yeah, yeah, there. Just keep it that way. Just keep it like that. You got it goin’ on, baby. Oh yeah, I just got you a sweet deal with VH-1. They’re gonna play a Puddle of Mudd video on every one of those. Oh, Oh, Oh. Wild Side, Forever Wild, I think. The show’s a piece of shit, but it’s exposure. It only cost a couple thousand in the hands of the right guy. OOOOOOOh, shit. Yeah. Yeah. Carson hooked it up for us…”
That’s when Sebastian went psycho. He ripped open the door and said, “what are you saying about me?!?” No shit. He went crazy. He started throwing those crazy roundhouse punches just like he did in that “Monkey Business” video. The two guys in the stall just cowered in the corner with their baseball hats askew. Eventually, one of the camera guys came and pulled the host off.
The crew then went out onto the street where the police had been called to deal with the disturbance. They were about to put some handcuffs on the show’s host when he looked at the camera and said, “rock and roll, rock and roll, rock and roll. Dammit, here we go—let’s go with a little “Eighteen and Life” for you. “Eighteeeeen and life you’ve got it, Eighteeen and life to goooo, your crime is -- see you next week, rockers!!!”
As the video started, Lemmy mercifully cut it off and went to sit down. “Jeff, the reason we wanted you here is that we’d like to…”
“Give me my own show, right?”
“No, not exactly. What we’d like to do is have you tape a two minute short every week. We envision kind of a rocker style Andy Rooney type of thing. Just kind of say what you write in the 40’s. Just be you -- but keep it toned down.. We just need someone to make sure that Sebastian’s not the most hated person on the program. With you around, I’m sure this won’t be a problem anymore. There are only a few rules we want you to look over.”
That was when he pushed a piece of paper etched with neatly typed rules toward me.
1. No profanity—definitely no use of the f-word.
2. VH-1 has the right to edit any and all content.
3. You can NOT mention Axl Rose, Ted Nugent, Fred Durst or Wes Scantlin in any of your sketches as we must maintain a positive relationship with all musicians as they are valuable sources of revenue for the station.
4. No malt liquor is allowed on premises.
5. You are to have NO contact with any of our female employees.
It was evident to me after even the first rule that there was no way that this was going to work, so I took a dime bag out of my pocket, sprinkled it on the sheet of rules, rolled it up and smoked my way on out of the building. Since VH-1 and I weren’t exactly on good terms, there was no limo ride back to the airport. I did manage to sell my plane ticket though and was able to take the bus back to Albuquerque with a few extra bucks in my pocket. When I got back home, I found that the fry cook training wasn’t nearly as life altering as I had hoped, so I requested to be moved to the counter where I could interact with hundreds of people a day. I think I’ve finally found my calling.
“Would you like to super size that? Oh hey, you ever heard of a guy named Wes Scantlin? What about Fred Durst? I know you’re in a hurry, and yeah, I’m gonna get you your damn drink. But let me tell you something first—funny story….”