Who's mom is this - is she always like this...
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Gregarious mean old Viking Navy Vet who spent his early teenage years gettin' wasted with every dumbass hair band poser you can think of from the 80's who would throw down on a can of hairspray before buying food... At the time everyone on the west coast was trying to push their feminine repulsive spandex laden garbage on the 'razzi; while at 16 working construction I was already paying for my own session time at Good Night L.A. on an Otari 24 track with a drum machine and my Sunset Customs ESP's tracking at 240bpm hammering blast-beats and truss-rod warping dive bombs. All good but I couldn't get a gig with a band anywhere in the LA basin. Not even with my hot-shot DAT demos that sounded better than anything Wyn Davis was puking out of Total Access __In the typical grossly exaggerated ego fashion of the day I was relentlessly ridiculed, laughed at, discounted to the curb over and over for being too young; too loud; too aggressive; too scary they said. (fuckin pussies) So I bailed on that entire bullshit scene and got turned into a headhunter by some scary-ass seaborne warriors in San Diego who ended up sending me down to Nicaragua to fuck up Noriega for selling me all that blow when I was a kid.
The rest is a life of traveling the planet on tour with a different kind of band... The kind you don't want to see live.
Now I'm retired and enjoy scaring the hell out of everyone my age when I fire up a playlist of Lorna Shore, Slaughter To Prevail, Ensiferum; Trivium; Periphery; Galaktikon; a little Coal Chamber because I've been crushing on that bass player chick since the 90's, then let the heat be chilled with some Opeth; Soen or even an Unleash the Archers / Arch Enemy double-header. Whatever feels right for the mood when blue hairs are bitching about me needing an exorcism.
I warned everyone here in the village that a raging unhinged blood Viking metalhead went to war for 30 years and that war inevitably came home with him. They get remined by heart stopping bass beats at zero dawn when I'm crushing beans and brewin' my java while my vintage Tannoys and modern Hedds cripple the power grid under the strain of a fully licensed atmos mixing array.
But wait _there's more... Ah, fuck it. That's enough.
Nope - PTSD and a hunter-killer instinct wedged into an immovable, unpredictable crowd would be a very bad mix. If invited, I hang backstage or on the bus. But I seriously live in the goddamn boondocks and royally despise traffic. Driving 6-8 hours to the nearest venue isn't on my bucket list. But flying to Bora Bora for a balderdash getaway with Brittney Slayes is. Anyone got her number?
Online search for a Dethklok shirt in men's size Sasquatch.
