A gentle episode of coffee with Simon - By N.L. Belardes
Have you ever met Simon from Myndsick? He's bald. He's got a monsta goatee. He has more tattoos than you can count. And he sings some of the angriest music in town.
You'd think since Simon and I were going to hang out for an hour and talk shop that we'd do so swinging some big pieces of wood while smashing heads in local alleys. Oh wait, that's what that old publisher might have been doing when he was running that local press called the Bakersfield Californian back in the day.
You can read related fictional material in my book, if you so dare... there's an interesting scene with a baseball bat and a group of men and a kid getting smashed in a local park bathroom... that's based on a true account told to me by a reliable medical source.
Back to my meeting with Simon. No, we weren't talking shop over a 24-bottle case of Coronas. That would be Heath Dobbler over in that corner. Just kidding, Heath. Thanks for mentioning me in your kick ass blog today, "Ode to Mr. Belardes." I shed a tear then said a few curse words at the Seattle-Giants game just for you.
The Simon reality? Simon and I weren't angry at all even though we're both rebels in the scene. So in our gentleness, we went down to have a latte at Dagny's. Oh yes. You folks who keep stereotyping Simon as the angriest rocker in town have him all wrong... The guy's a kitty cat. Put some milk in his coffee and he's 1000 times calmer than Fonzie with a milkshake. But that's beside the point.
See, I had been on a mission to find a lost hockey song of his for the Hockey CD, and needed to get another copy. Some of you have seen my desk. You know how entire planets can get lost in the galactic debris floating around my computer. No, I don't have a goddam black hole by my anus (Uranus). Yes, I blamed everyone in sight who I thought had the CD with his song on it. I tried to blame chingpea, Matildakay, and Flower in the Dale. I pointed fingers, I attempted guilt trips and even heard Matildakay had ransacked her own Hawaii-bought purse and put a hole in it looking for the damn CD. Shit.
For a whole week I refused to call Simon. I was far too embarrassed. Thank God the man likes lattes. I mean, he could kill me with a stare. I doubly mean, he would but he's too damn nice. I triply mean, extra nice with sugar on top. Heath Dobbler is three times as mean as Simon for sure; possibly four. I seriously thought Heath was going to kill that freaky bell ringer by stuffing dog food into the guys shoebox, pants and mouth until the freak shut up or suffocated.
Simon. He's nice. He would have offered the bell ringer a latte, some Myndsick bumper stickers, put a ring of flowers on his head and danced off into the sunset. No, really.
Simon and I had good conversation. Sounds like Freakfest was quite the crummy deal with the promoters running off with the cash leaving bands high and dry; vendors were left without security (they got ripped off) and everyone got kicked out of the campsite... wow! What a mess! Simon told the tale like a mere bedtime story.
We also talked about band marketing, plans for the hockey CD and some cool gigs to help promote the CD, and more...
Damn it if I don't want a grande-sized blended mocha after writing all that...
Oh by the way. Another friend of mine named Bambi found the CD. All the rest of the ladies threatened my life and gave me a well deserved verbal abusing for my male blindess and inability to find lost CDs.
You'd think since Simon and I were going to hang out for an hour and talk shop that we'd do so swinging some big pieces of wood while smashing heads in local alleys. Oh wait, that's what that old publisher might have been doing when he was running that local press called the Bakersfield Californian back in the day.
You can read related fictional material in my book, if you so dare... there's an interesting scene with a baseball bat and a group of men and a kid getting smashed in a local park bathroom... that's based on a true account told to me by a reliable medical source.
Back to my meeting with Simon. No, we weren't talking shop over a 24-bottle case of Coronas. That would be Heath Dobbler over in that corner. Just kidding, Heath. Thanks for mentioning me in your kick ass blog today, "Ode to Mr. Belardes." I shed a tear then said a few curse words at the Seattle-Giants game just for you.
The Simon reality? Simon and I weren't angry at all even though we're both rebels in the scene. So in our gentleness, we went down to have a latte at Dagny's. Oh yes. You folks who keep stereotyping Simon as the angriest rocker in town have him all wrong... The guy's a kitty cat. Put some milk in his coffee and he's 1000 times calmer than Fonzie with a milkshake. But that's beside the point.
See, I had been on a mission to find a lost hockey song of his for the Hockey CD, and needed to get another copy. Some of you have seen my desk. You know how entire planets can get lost in the galactic debris floating around my computer. No, I don't have a goddam black hole by my anus (Uranus). Yes, I blamed everyone in sight who I thought had the CD with his song on it. I tried to blame chingpea, Matildakay, and Flower in the Dale. I pointed fingers, I attempted guilt trips and even heard Matildakay had ransacked her own Hawaii-bought purse and put a hole in it looking for the damn CD. Shit.
For a whole week I refused to call Simon. I was far too embarrassed. Thank God the man likes lattes. I mean, he could kill me with a stare. I doubly mean, he would but he's too damn nice. I triply mean, extra nice with sugar on top. Heath Dobbler is three times as mean as Simon for sure; possibly four. I seriously thought Heath was going to kill that freaky bell ringer by stuffing dog food into the guys shoebox, pants and mouth until the freak shut up or suffocated.
Simon. He's nice. He would have offered the bell ringer a latte, some Myndsick bumper stickers, put a ring of flowers on his head and danced off into the sunset. No, really.
Simon and I had good conversation. Sounds like Freakfest was quite the crummy deal with the promoters running off with the cash leaving bands high and dry; vendors were left without security (they got ripped off) and everyone got kicked out of the campsite... wow! What a mess! Simon told the tale like a mere bedtime story.
We also talked about band marketing, plans for the hockey CD and some cool gigs to help promote the CD, and more...
Damn it if I don't want a grande-sized blended mocha after writing all that...
Oh by the way. Another friend of mine named Bambi found the CD. All the rest of the ladies threatened my life and gave me a well deserved verbal abusing for my male blindess and inability to find lost CDs.
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Sunday, November 27, 2005.
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You have a friend named FLOWER in the Dale, and one named BAMBI..let me guess from Twaft...oops I mean TAFT?? Making up Disney character names, $10. Making them up so you don't get your ass kicked for losing the Myndsick CD, priceless. Sooo can we expect to hear about how Thumper ate your book, next??
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