Punk Rock Articles | My Life With the Thrill Kill NOFX

The Loudmouth (LOUDMOUTH?!?!?!?LOOK WHOSE TALKING!...ms) Bastard Mikey Snot gropes at me with his nagging little taunts to contribute something to this “boy the eighties were great” archive of his, so here you go. I spent a lifetime one week last spring with a nifty little west coast quartet called NOFX (No Fucking Straight Edge? No Effects? Noticeably Obese Fag Crossdresser?). Punk Rock.

Friday The Chicago show-I kill in this town.
Fat Mike is greeting the faithful at the door, and looking very sweaty. Some kid asks him for an autograph and he replies “that’s kinda lame” as he proceeds to scribble psychotically across the front of the insert. This kid’s friends will surely doubt his claim. I say “you think that’s lame” and proceed to tell him of our plans to spend our anniversary vacation following them around the mid-west. He understands, and states “Great, now we have to change our setlist. God Dammit.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“SHITTING BRICKS!”

“Yeah right-write down some other songs and we’ll try to play them.” (This is my first sign that this is the nicest millionaire I have ever met) “Just don’t play Champs Elysees-I hate the French.”

The show is awesome, except for Mike making fun of Tamara and I (“Stalkers”,” weirdoes”, etc.) This band is great. Afterwards Punkrock Patrick kidnaps Melvin from backstage and drags him to the bar. I empathize with him about being sick of interviews and everyone bothering them for interviews and then ask him all of my interview questions. None are about the band and they play along. I will not reprint their responses but know that Bushmill’s and Skyy are good and yes, the bass player from the Teen Idols is attractive.

Melvin is tracked down and returned to the bus. We finish our 67th shots and try to get some sleep.
Saturday-runny turds
We turned down Pontiac to get some rest. Fuck You, I’m old.

After three hours sleep I wake up to a vomiting wife, one cat hacking and another with horrendous breath. I squirt out some sort of continuous wet noodle from my ass, pack and the load the ride. I pour my bride into the passenger’s seat and hit the road. Blow past a cop at 90 through a construction zone in Indiana. Tamara shrieks with delight when she sees the cherries-“You’re finally gonna get a ticket, and I’ll be here to see it!” (I have no respect for traffic laws). Needless to say, the cop never shows up in the mirror ( I am blessed by the driver gods) and we tool on to Cleveland.

On the cue of Patty we check out a club called “The Grog Shop.” Very punk rock, and I have the best fucking lamb at a vegetarian restaurant. Only a little irony here. We drink, fuck, and drive fast. I love America.
Sunday-Solid Stool.
The Rock and Roll hall of Fame is overpriced, interesting and devoid of Punk Rock.

Fat Mike is again greeting people at the door-sweatier, glazed and wearing some really cool shorts. He and the tour manager Kent grab us before we can even get in, emasculate a doorman and whisk us backstage.

“…want some Vicadan?” I have just met Fat Mikadan, and he is a fun guy. We load up on free beer, shots, and I make a sandwich. This is a pretty fucking nice way to start the evening. “I learned Champs Elysees again last night you guys.” What the hell do you say to that? You say “Thank You” and have another beer. We try to keep out of the way and offer to get our own beer and hear “WHY?!” We feel special. I alternate between the stage and the crowd, and exchange witticisms w/Fat Mikadan. He is one funny fellow.

After the show a groupie girl slides backstage and proudly shows off her panties and garter. This is cool to us, especially to the little Japanese man from Hi-Standard, who is videotaping the whole thing (no stereotypes, please). We drop Drummer Eric at the hotel and meet up w/the others at some nudie bar. Beers are consumed, Tamara is hit on by the strippers and I meet Frank “The Big Hurt” Thomas, local hero and all around big motherfucker. Another little Japanese man from Hi-Standard cums in his shorts.

We are talking about marriage. Mike has been married for over five years. “How’s that going?” I ask. “Better every day” he replies, “Of course, being out of town alot helps. And swinging.” His wife Erin must run Frisco.

Monday-High pressure likely, followed by meat shits in Columbus
You can’t throw a rock in the Midwest without hitting a decent rack of barbecued ribs. We load up on some, hot tub and begin to cocktail heavily. We cab over to the show and it is one smelly heap of tattooed coeds. Someone is slinging ink in this town, and it looks good. There is a large pack of anti-nazi skins at the door, and of course we bond. The last true punks-disturbed skins. Crusties are misplaced bourgeoisie, skins are genuinely touched.

Hi-Standard had entertained us so much in life (“Tittie bah roowas”), we decided to actually watch them on stage. Kicked ass like the Toy Dolls, and we were thrilled. When Tamara goes to buy the CD she is greeted with a sign saying “HEY ROUNDEYE, GIVE ME DOLLAR SO ME CAN GO BACK TO TOKYO.” I respect truth in advertising, and they were one dollar for the better.
The show, once again, leaves the audience dead.

PIC 1 PIC 2
We are strapped for a ride back to the hotel and hitch aboard the Tour Bus. It is nicer than our apartment, and has more food in the fridge. We discuss Northern Ireland, Feminist Literature, Higher Education, Current Trends in Schools, and Masturbation. It is enlightening for all.

We meet Melvin, El Hefe, Jay and the others at this cheap, cool bar. Consumption occurs, and touring musicians whine about missing their “loved ones.” Drunk horny bastards who were too dumb to bring their own. For Christ’s sake, you pack your toothbrush don’t you? And really, what’s more important?

We take what’s left of Melvin back to the hotel where en route, to a rousing chorus of the Business’ “Drinking and Driving,” he hurls Trix all over the side of the car. For the quantity expelled he sprayed nay a drop on the interior. What a pal. Tam throws him through the door of his room and we are off to “make the world a better place” for awhile.

USA!

Tuesday - chunky and warm
It is our first anniversary, and we skip going on to Pittsburgh. Good-byes are exchanged, and we take a nature hike. We had left room for six shows on this tour and had only seen three. I need to recharge the battery in the sole company of my better half, and take a break from “the scene.” We are true to Punk Rock, and it has always been true to us. From supporting our local scene to hooking up with this huge band and being treated like royalty. Fucking Unity. NOFX write songs that stick in your head like a virus, and leave you glazed, gray and drooling. It’s a nice little break in the day.

Crowd Surfers Note: YOU ARE GOING FUCKING DOWN! I do not got to shows so my head can serve to launch you further into your narcissistic suburban “hey look at me” fantasy. If you question my integrity, watch me kick you in the teeth repeatedly until you comprehend my point of view. After I hurt you, I steal your shoes. You do not get them back, and there isn’t shit you are going to do about it. Bitch.

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