Clutch at The Orbit Room

This past Saturday, my girlfriend and I had the pleasure of attending the Clutch concert at The Orbit Room in Grand Rapids.  Now I’m not normally a hard rock kind of guy, but let’s face it, Clutch kicks ass, so I was glad we were able to attend this sold out performance.

Speaking of the show being sold out, I am here to tell you that this fact was very apparent in the bathroom line that seemed to extend into infinity.  I can’t be more serious about that.  If you’ve ever been to The Orbit Room, this next sentence will mean something to you.

The line to the men’s bathroom extended into the concert area.

It was fucking incredible.  That line was actually longer than the women’s line, which says all kinds of things about the male to female ratio that night.  I heard the phrase “sausage fest” uttered no fewer than ten times, and yes, it was very appropriate.

All in all, though, it was pretty standard fare as far as a packed hard rock show goes.  The enormous bathroom line saw random drunk guys ninja-pissing outside at the border of the smoking area while security attempted to catch them in the act.  A couple of people attempted smoking inside the venue, apparently oblivious to the fact that a smoking ban has been in place for some time.  And all manner of individuals were beyond a level of intoxication fit for public viewing.  So really, an average Saturday for many.

But enough about all that shit.  Right to the point, Clutch completely fucking killed it, and it looked like this.

If you haven’t read it already, I actually had the honor of interviewing JB for an article in Revue Magazine.

There he is, completely tearing shit up.

They’re actually on tour right now promoting their newest album, Earth Rocker.  And from what I heard, if you’re a Clutch fan, or even a hard rock fan in general, you’ll love this shit.  But why wouldn’t you?  It’s Clutch.

“Goddamn right.” – Not an actual quote from Neil. Probably.

Also, Tim’s Les Paul is pretty damn sexy.

It was also cool watching their improvisational moments.  Right at the beginning of the show, JB and Dan just kind of had a little moment where they fed off each other and let the music flow between them.  I love that kind of stuff.

If you’ve never seen a Clutch performance before, I recommend it.  But if you’re heading out to see them at a sold out show at The Orbit Room, take a piss before you go.  Or bring a catheter.

“Thank you for coming. Please dispose of your piss pouches in the appropriate receptacles.”

My Progression as a Writer, With Unrelated Photos of Flogging Molly

When I began writing for a local music blog a few years ago, I really never anticipated that it would amount to much of anything.  Sure, I liked to write, but at the time I was just happy to be contributing in some way to the local music scene.  I had been in a few bands and put together some shows and things like that, but writing about what was happening meant I was doing something that mattered, even if it was on a small scale.  People were interested in what I had to say about it, too, even if it was just to tell me that my opinion was wrong and that I could shove my words into my turd bazooka.

Then that blog turned into a magazine, and I found myself riding the very momentum that that publication was gaining.  I was interviewing local bands for feature articles and was even fortunate enough to have my very own monthly column in each issue.  And as all of this was occurring, I was not only thrilled that I was making a difference to local music, I liked that people knew me, whether it was recognizing my face at a show or my name or even that I was “that guy who rants about stuff.”  I’ll be honest, I was enjoying the recognition I was receiving.  People sought me out.  They wanted to talk to me.  I liked the free drinks and free shows and free albums and all the other free shit.  I was really liking the fame, albeit on a local level.

And as my notariety grew, so did my ego.  I wanted to be known.  I wanted privileges not extended to others.  I wanted to walk into a venue and have people point me out.  I wanted to be able to tell people, “Don’t you know who I am?” and have it actually matter.

Honestly, I wanted to be a fucking rock star writer.

I was envisioning myself as some Hunter S. Thompson or even goddamn Tucker Max, going out and getting fucked up and documenting the hilarious antics that ensued, or at least the parts that I was able to retrieve from my alcohol-ridden brain, the scribbles in my notebook, the embarrassing evidence on my phone, and even the bits and pieces that filled in the blanks from those around me who were more sober than I was (which, honestly, was most everyone).  I was getting there, even if it meant making an ass of myself or getting kicked our of venues occasionally.  Sorry, Shakespeare’s.

Then some things happened that initiated the somewhat slow process of me pulling my head out of my own ass.  First, I started writing for Cracked, which not only provided me with the opportunity to share my writing with, quite literally, millions of people (5.5 million as I write this), but also taught me a metric shit-ton about being a writer.  And I don’t mean I was taught proper sentence structure like when it’s okay to end a sentence with a preposition, but about things like constantly improving your skill and knowing the audience you’re writing for.  I also learned how to be humble, and that just because I could craft a fairly decent dick joke didn’t mean I was Lord Awesomecock, Distributor of Literary Orgasms.

Next, the magazine I had been contributing to went defunct, which forced me to start seeking another outlet for my contributions to the local music scene.  Honestly, this proved to be a bit more difficult than I thought it would be.  I contacted a variety of different people from various publications, both print and online, to try to find a new home.  A couple of places told me they had no current openings, but really, I was mostly just plain ignored.  That is until I was invited to contribute to Kalamazoo Local Music, which I was very excited about since it would allow me to continue being involved in the music scene I had fallen in love with.  And while they weren’t completely on board with the snarky, foul-mouthed style I had come to embrace in my previous endeavor, they did welcome my unique approach to local music coverage.

Shortly thereafter, I was contacted by the editor of REVUE West Michigan magazine about an opening they had in their music section.  To say that I was excited about this opportunity would be like saying R. Kelly looked forward to a golden shower themed high school prom:  grossly understated.  I quickly found myself writing primarily for REVUE’s On Tour section, interviewing a variety of national touring acts, from Christina Perri to GWAR, and even one of my own, personal favorites, Flogging Molly.

Oh, and as I’ve mentioned before, I also quit drinking.  Completely.  If you’ve heard or read any of my drinking stories, you know how ridiculous some of them are.  I don’t mean they were far-fetched, exaggerated or hard to believe.  In fact, all of them are quite true.  I didn’t embelish at all, and quite honestly, I didn’t share a lot of the crazier ones.  And even though there were many insanely fun times had with some great people along the way, with wacky, hilarious events that in some cases had to be seen to be believed, there does come a time when you’re sitting outside on a Saturday morning trying to cure your hangover with whiskey and beer, listening to your friends describe you as “a danger to yourself and to others,” that you eventually realize there is such a thing as “too much.”

Now you might be sitting there thinking, “Dwayne, this is great and all, but how is it relevant to anything in the universe?  And furthermore, why should I give a shit about any of this?”  That’s a good question, and I appreciate your insightful inquiry.  What I’m trying to say is that I’ve discovered that if I put forth some honest effort, focus less on myself and more on what I’m sharing with others, and stay sober long enough to actually write instead of waking up half-drunk with my dick stuck in a gopher hole, I get to do some pretty cool shit.

Case in point.  That Flogging Molly interview I mentioned earlier?  Not only did I have an awesome telephone conversation with the band’s multi-instrumentalist, Bob Schmidt, and write an article on what they’re currently up to, I also had the opportunity to attend their show as a photographer and take some pretty kickass photos.  Seriously.  And instead of taking a stab at describing that experience to you, I’d rather just show you, because sweet fucking Jesus just look at these goddamn pictures.  Look at them.

The aforementioned Bob Schmidt, in the middle of a haha-fuck-you-I-play-mandolin-in-a-badass-Celtic-punk-band moment.

Seriously though, despite being new to this whole concert photography thing, some absolute fucking magic was captured.  And I’m not saying I supplied it.  On the contrary, I was only pointing the camera at it.  I just happened to be fortunate enough to be closer to it than most people that night.

And my personal favorite of the night was this shot:

I’m not sure what I like about this shot.  Maybe it’s the lighting.  Maybe it’s the energy I felt at the time.  Maybe it’s my recollection of the enormous fucking boner I was sporting because I got to be right up there, capturing this moment.  Whatever it is, I still think it’s awesome, and I like to think it happened because I grew up a little bit.  Apparently you can become capable of some pretty cool shit when you mature.

But it’s probably because of the whole boner thing.

Yes, I’m Still Alive

For those of you who sit staring at your monitors all day with a browser window open to my blog, frantically clicking Refresh in hopes of seeing a new post, you may have noticed that I haven’t updated in about three months.  Three goddamn months.  For someone who claims to be a writer, that’s completely fucking ridiculous.

I do have an excuse as to why I have neglected this space, though.  No, not a reason.  An excuse, and a pretty shitty one at that.

I’ve been a complete drunken idiot.

Well, not recently I haven’t, as I can proudly say that as of the time of this writing I’ve been completely alcohol-free for exactly 66 days.  Now I know some of you may be thinking, “But Dwayne, what about all of the pants-shitting hilarity that resulted from your booze-filled adventures?”  And to that I can only respond that they were bound to come to an end sooner or later, and at least this way they’re ending on my terms as opposed to, say, my untimely death due to liver failure.  Seriously, even if it didn’t kill me, have any of you seen how unsexy cirrhosis can make you look?

I have no desire to take douchetastic photos of myself in a bathroom mirror sporting washboard abs, but I would definitely prefer to avoid this kind of stomach.

So if I haven’t been drinking myself into a reckless cyclone of alcohol-fueled dumbshittery, why the slow down in my writing?  To be fair, I have still been doing some things here and there, like an article for local blues rock outfit Top Heavy, and even none other than the mighty fucking Gwar.  Submissions to this blog and to Cracked, however, have noticeably ceased, and really this can be attributed to the process of alcohol detoxification and the complete mindfuck that goes along with ridding your life of booze.

But I aim to change that, effective immediately, and I could really use your help.

I wrote an article for another comedy site that does fact-based list articles (very much Cracked-style), but long story short, I haven’t heard back from them in weeks.  As a result, I will be posting that very article here on my blog, probably yet today, and would really appreciate some feedback.  In addition, and as always, if you have any news to share regarding the local music scene, please let me know.  I can’t promise I can cover everything or make it to every single show, but I can guarantee that if you don’t let me know what you’re up to, I likely won’t hear about it.  Your Facebook updates only reach so far.

Even if you employ some magical computer girl to perform updates for you.

Also, if you’d prefer to just send me correspondence rife with blind, lavish praise, be it for my literary skills or the size of my genitals, you’re welcome to do that, too.  Your move, Internet.

Stupid Breeds Stupid

By now you’ve probably heard about the Kalamazoo police officer who wrote a letter to the editor about his encounter with two men in a park in Calgary.  If not, the story’s right here.  Basically, it reads somewhat like a work of satire: a guy visits Canada with his wife, completely misinterprets the intent of some of some people asking them if they had been to a local event, gets a bit too paranoid and refuses to interact with them, while lamenting about not having his handgun on his person.  He then goes on to criticise Canada’s gun laws that ban citizens from owning handguns.

I’ll be honest in that when I first read it, I thought it may be a joke, either by the Herald or even the author himself.  But it is very much legitimate, and now that it’s in the hands of the Internet, it has completely fucking exploded.  News outlets from our own Kalamazoo Gazette, to Huffington Post and even Gawker have latched on to it, with the comments section of each going crazy.  Hell, a meme is even developing over on Twitter.

Let me be right up front and say that this post has nothing to do with gun control laws, for or against.  You can throw stats at me all day long on how allowing civilians to carry concealed weapons increases or decreases crime rate, and not a single fuck will be given.  You may be thinking, “Oh yeah Dwayne?  I’ll bet you’ll care when one of your family members gets shot.”  No, I still won’t, and you want to know why?  Fuck you, that’s why.

It also has nothing to do with my opinion on the ridiculousness of the letter.  I’m not going to dissect the situation to offer my viewpoint, nor am I going to write on some sandwich board or post some hilarious tweet.  Though admittedly, some of them are pretty humorous.

Gentlemen, if you do not read the entire story, you won’t get the joke. Goodbye.

Instead, I would like to draw your attention to some of the opinions being thrown around.  I’m not referring to the people defending this guy or even to the others calling him an idiot, but to the ones on the “LOL AMERICANS!!!1″ bandwagon.  Here’s an example:

Wait, so even though I’m not some overly paranoid, gun-toting police officer, it’s a good thing that I don’t come to Toronto?  Fuck you.

Look, it’s not like I’m some patriotic individual who’s offended that people are picking on Americans.  If you don’t see the problem with lumping the entire country in to the same group of gun-crazy idiots, let me point it out to you.  Take that tweet and replace “Americans” with “black people.”  All of a sudden it doesn’t seem so funny anymore, does it?  Stereotyping is stereotyping, whether it’s by race or by nationality.  And it’s all fucking retarded.  Allow me to elaborate further with this quote from David Wong, Senior Editor of Cracked.com:

“If you’re ever making an entire race or gender the watermelon in your Gallagher routine, you’re making yourself a worse person and making the world a worse place.”

But this idea is lost on people like Naomi Lakritz over at Calgary Herald.  In fact, according to Lakritz, “Americans argue that they need to carry guns, because having a concealed weapon makes them feel safe.”  Really?  That’s funny, because I don’t remember ever having argued that, or ever even fucking thought it.  Apprently I’m mistaken though, because she goes on to say, “And so, Americans, unaware of just how sick their handgun mentality is, continue to fight like crazy to prevent any kind of handgun-control legislation from being implemented.”  Were you aware that you have a sick handgun mentality?  Neither was I.

If you want to hang someone out to dry because they did or said something stupid, go for it.  People who put their actions and opinions out there publicly are knowingly subjecting themselves to criticism.  But don’t lump hundreds of millions of others in to that crazy shithead group.  Speaking of crazy shitheads, let’s go back to David Wong for clarification on this:

“In every single group of human beings, you have a certain percentage of crazy shitheads. Find me an organization of a million charity workers who have devoted their lives to saving homeless golden retrievers, and I’ll bet my life that within that group I can find a faction of crazy shitheads. Hell, I’ll bet I can find at least one in any group of a dozen people. Liberals, conservatives, moderates, weed advocates, anti-drug advocates, cupcake bakers, window washers. They all — all — have their crazy shitheads that can be pointed out. I bet I can find at least one in your family.”

So when you make remarks like this:

It just makes you sound like an asshole.  For the sake of humanity, at least attempt to direct your frustrations and child-like comments appropriately, otherwise you’re really no less of an idiot than they are.

An Open Letter to Technology Users

Dear friends,

This letter is not only addressed to those close to me.  It’s also intended to serve as a plea to the general public, an outcry to my fellow man to help combat a serious affliction that is plaguing our world.  This far-reaching, deep-seeded problem needs to be tackled immediately for the sake of humanity.  It’s called idiocy, and if we don’t attempt to put an end to it soon, we’re all pretty much screwed.

Accordingly, I have put together a few pointers for you to share with your friends and family to assist in finding a cure for this rampant spread of stupid.  The sooner we adhere to the following guidelines, the safer we are from becoming a flaming bag of dipshittery.

I implore you, while communicating with the rest of us online, please see to it that you…

Check Snopes Before Blindly Reposting Some Random Link

Back when the Internet as we now know it was still in its infancy, I recall receiving e-mails from people with alarming consistency claiming that I could earn cash simply by forwarding the poorly worded message that had found its way to my Inbox.  I still remember thinking, “How in the goddamn hell can anyone track all of these e-mails?  And what’s in it for the company who supposedly is going to pay me?  Obviously these people are full of shit.”

Delete.

Sadly, there are a metric shit-ton of people who don’t share my skeptical eye.  The reposting of “FORWARD THIS AND A PEGASUS WILL EJACULATE MAGICAL AIDS-ENDING AWESOMENESS ON TO THE WORLD” stories continue to find their way to many mailboxes and social media slums.  There exists a certain number of individuals on this planet who fully believe that Facebook will track the number of shares on a sad story and donate a dollar to a noble cause.  I’m not saying that Facebook doesn’t have the technical ability to track it, nor am I saying they don’t want to donate, I’m just saying that it doesn’t actually happen, because it’s completely fucking fabricated.

It takes roughly the same amount of effort to verify the validity of a story as it does to post a bullshit one.  Sites like Snopes exist for that reason, so I’m begging you, please use them.  There’s really minimal effort involved to not sound like a dumbass.  Let’s actually try to be educated about what we put our energy in to.  The tools exist to verify what we hear, which brings me to…

Just Fucking Google It

I wish I could say I coined that phrase, but I didn’t.  In fact, there’s a website called justfuckinggoogleit.com, and it exists because countless people ask stupid fucking questions without consulting the greatest source of information we have ever known.  It doesn’t take long to open a web browser and do a basic query before prattling off like some clueless retard, though more often than not people choose the latter route.

And I can’t be more serious about that.  Before asking me about your computer problem or random history question, see what Google has to say.  There are literally billions of sources of information out there, yet instead of using an easy way to find the answers you seek you transform the people around you in to information whores.  The Internet is accessible from your computer, tablet and even phone.  Just type your goddamn question in.  It’s not rocket surgery.

Seriously, this isn’t Jeopardy!, you’re not Alex Trebek and I’m not a fucking contestant.  Do your part as a considerate member of society and try to find the answer yourself.  The rest of us don’t exist purely to be your one-stop-shop of answers to your endless inquiries.  Unless you’re asking for my opinion, the answer is on the Internet.  And if it’s not I probably don’t have it.  But consult Google first, or at least let me kick you in the crotch before you ask your question.  It’s a fair trade.

Also, please note that while utilizing these tools keep in mind that…

Your Computer is not a Goddamn Television

How many times have you heard someone say, “I just want my computer to work?”  How many times have you said it?  It’s a valid point.  We want our tools and technology to perform as they were designed to.  It’s a very logical line of thought.  Unfortunately, there’s a glaring problem with that concept.

Your computer is not a fucking television, and if you think it’s just a fancy apparatus for “on demand” content, you’re doomed to a life of PC nightmares.

You see, computers are more like cars.  There are a multitude of various components, both hardware and software, that weave a delicate balance trying to bring you the content you desire.  Often times it works as desired.  But with any machine that contains many complex parts, sometimes things just break.  And even more often, it’s probably your fault.

Computers are not magical boxes that flawlessly serve up Angry Birds and porn.  I make the vehicle analogy because your PC requires constant maintenance in order to maintain efficient functionality.  It will never, ever, just work.  Your video card will go bad, you’ll unknowingly install malware that will bring your system to a crawl, your child will visit a malicious website to watch some foreign girl have sex with a donkey, and your motherboard will shit the bed for absolutely no reason at all.  It happens, just like when your transmission simply goes bad on your Ford Taurus.  It’s not wacky voodoo shit, it’s just technology.  Get over it.

Oh, and while you’re using this contraption please understand that…

Nobody Gives a Damn About Your Inspirational Bullshit

I’ve touched on this sort of concept before, but I can’t be more serious about the fact that absolutely nobody cares about your views on breast cancer awareness or gay rights or how you support our troops.  It’s all “hey look at me and how noble I am” crap.  All of it.  If you honestly cared about the cause you purported to support, you’d spend your time actually doing something for the cause instead of forwarding cheesy images to people who don’t care.

The Microsoft Paint-developed eyesores that people keep throwing around do nothing for the causes they claim to support.  In fact, the only thing they accomplish is using actual resources from all of the electricity used by multiple computers to serve this bullshit to other morons across the globe.  Do you actually support research for ALS?  Then go volunteer or write a twenty dollar check and spare the rest of us your failed attempts at philanthropy.

This also goes for the sappy religion and relationship-themed fuckery that’s thrown around.  Now, you can call me out on the fact that I’m single and have no firm religious beliefs, but if you tried to argue that your time is better spent posting vapid horseshit online than it is focusing on your love life or your spirituality, you’d be wrong.  Laughably wrong.

So really, for the sake of intelligence and a world where Idiocracy is not a reality, please know that…

I hate being bitter, but we as a society need to pull our heads out of our asses and start utilizing some common sense.  Our behavior is depressing, yet at the same time easily fixable.  It’s not terribly difficult to not be stupid, it just requires a little bit of effort.  Utilize the tools you have at hand with a little bit of thought, and we’ll all be much happier.  Or at least I will be.

Love,

Dwayne

Fly Paper, Combat Corduroy, Pleasant Drive and Stikyfüt at The Globe

This past Friday I made my way to The Globe Theatre in Kalamazoo, to take in a show I had described in this way on Facebook:

Holy crap, I couldn’t have been more right, but given the bands on the bill I really didn’t have any doubts.  And they surely didn’t disappoint.  If you were in attendance that night and didn’t feel the blood rushing to your nether regions, then you are dead inside.  Either that or you’re the girl who completely ate shit on the sidewalk outside in between sets, so the blood was probably busy rushing to your recently acquired wounds.

After the doors opened and I had found a seat to await the inevitable musical ball-stomping madness, I noticed a recurring theme with the patrons who were making their way down.  Namely, that they were all a bit older than what I was accustomed to seeing at a show like this.  Seriously, I went over to double-check the show flier at one point to see if the event had been sponsored by AARP.

Fly Paper performed first, and announced that not only are they heading out west on tour next month, but they’re also putting the finishing touches on a DVD project that’s been in development.  Unfortunately, some problems with bassist Joe Chamberlin’s equipment cut their set short, but not before the crowd was treated to a truckload of ass-kickery.

And a truckload of jealousy for not owning a guitar that sexy.

Next up was Combat Corduroy, who you will be reading a lot about over at Kalamazoo Local Music in the very near future.  It was as solid a performance as any I’ve seen from them, and I always enjoy watching the solo responsibilities shared between the two guitarists.  My favorite part of this performance, however, was when Logan took over for Jon on drums actually mid-song, allowing Jon to make his way to the front of the stage, ask the audience to drink with him, then fucking chug a half pint of vodka.  The only sound I heard over the cheers from the crowd was that of Jon’s liver squealing in pain.

Not pictured: Jon’s liver. It went home early.

Speaking of pain, as I was standing outside talking to a friend of mine, a girl who had been part of a small group of individuals talking near the door started walking in our direction.  I could see she was attempting to make her way around us, however I could also see she didn’t seem to have full control over the direction she was heading, or even her basic motor skills.  I didn’t have to be Harold Camping to predict the end times that alcohol and physics had planned for this poor girl’s body, and I wasn’t let down when I heard the inevitable sound of skin skidding across pavement.  This was quickly followed by hysterical crying, but not because of the pain, but because the guy trying to help her up was, in her words, “being so mean” to her.  Oh dignity, who needs you when we have the power of booze on our side?

Pleasant Drive put on the next high energy set, and really had the crowd going at this point.  I enjoy some of their longer instrumental breaks, and when you add the epilepsy-inducing lighting effects behind them, it almost feels a bit like a Pink Floyd moment.

I’ve made it no secret that I’m a Stikyfüt fan, and Friday’s performance did nothing but reinforce the reasons why.  I unfortunately was unable to stick around for their entire set, but what I did see was, as is customary, nothing short of dick-hardening.  Their cover of Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” kicked all kinds of ass, too.

Also, Gumbi costume.

Bands like these, especially with their talent and drive, are the reason I’m so excited about local music here in Kalamazoo.  Pay attention to these four, including all of the details upcoming about Combat Corduroy.

And for more images of the bands’ performances, go check out the photo set over at Luxaria Photography & Design.

The Things I Find on My Phone

We’ve all done it, regained consciousness on a friend’s floor the morning after a party with a hangover bordering on a coma, your pants on the roof, various Sharpie dongs on your face and a picture of your friend’s scrotum as your new cell phone wallpaper.  Hey, it happens.  But honestly, some of the more hilarious moments come from digging through my phone the day after a night of solid drinking.  These little gems of forgotten moments sometimes result in a good, hearty chuckle.  Other times in gut-wrenching regret.  And even others in what in the goddamn fuck is happening here?

Behold, I give you one of those moments.

You see, on this particular night I had made my way to the Epic Center to catch a performance by jazz vocalist Gretchen Parlato.  I’m not normally a jazz guy, but I had heard great things about Parlato and her vocal capabilities.  Also, they were serving free Oberon.  Apparently nobody had told them about my existence, because a live music event with as much quality beer as I can stomach is customarily not a combination that venue owners end up terribly happy about.  For me, however, it’s usually a cocktail recipe for awesome.

Now see, I had driven to this event by myself, but I met up with a friend at the Epic Center who I went out drinking with afterward.  Not only that, but I was pretty blasted later that night, and I had another friend come pick me up and drive me back home.  Neither of them remember any interaction with these guys, so it could have only occurred when I was by myself, and the only time I was alone is when I was on my way to the show.  And I wasn’t blackout drunk at that point, so what the hell?

The answer made itself clear in the form of an e-mail that I received a bit later.  It read as follows:

Hello Dwayne,

A small group of us met you a few weeks ago on a Saturday night. We were in morphsuits. Blue, Santa and Tuxedo. You wanted us to get a hold of you when we could. Sorry we’ve been busy…..What is it that you wanted from us?

-Man in the Tux

So I shared some correspondence with Man in the Tux, and it turns out that I actually ran in to them before even making it to the show.  What this means is that I actually got drunk enough that I don’t remember things from before I was too wasted to function in society.  Retroactive blackout drunkenness.  That’s pretty hilarious.

But what about the guys in the morphsuits?  What were they doing, and why?

“We have no purpose for doing such things like this man,” replied Man in the Tux when I asked him.  “We do it for fun and to help others have a good time. A lot of people these days don’t know how to have fun, to relax, to not care…..we like to sport all of that and be a type of encouragement.”

You know what?  I completely agree, and fuck if that isn’t as good a reason as any.  Everyone is so goddamn uptight about political correctness or collecting enough money to buy a bunch of crap that doesn’t mean anything.  And amongst all the stuffy, clenched sphincters out there, here are some guys who just said, “Screw it.  Let’s go out, enjoy ourselves and be contagious about it.”  I applaud that.

Word has it they’ll be out and about more during the daytime, so if you see them in downtown Kalamazoo, let them know that Dwayne Hoover sends his regards.