Welcome to US Air Guitar:

The Tantalizing, Treacherous West Coast Landscape of Epic Fails,

Life-Altering Game Changers, and Triumphant Glory

By: Mormon Rockwell

 

 

We appear to be at a Pilot® truck stop somewhere outside Bakersfield. Exact certainty of our location is lacking, for I was assed out in the back the whole ride up from Los Angeles. I'm told I talk in my sleep, though how the hell will I ever know that for sure. Shred is driving, Brock assumes co-pilot duties, and yours truly is sitting comfortably next to my main man for this trip, the strangest, most enigmatic California resident I have ever met, a man who preferred to be simply called "Claw". This guy just exited a gas station with the following purchased items: a Heineken tall boy (slammed in a matter of seconds right at the pump before re-boarding), nacho cheese Bugles®, one Starbucks® mocha frapa-crap water, a Hot Wheels® ZZ Top edition silver roadster, and a $30 Kyle Busch button down pit crew shirt (worn on stage later that evening). Random doesn't even begin to describe it. This man couldn't have bought a more nonsensical gathering of gas station impulse buys and yet, this would be only one example in a litany of incidences over a magical July weekend in southern California that would impact and alter all of our lives forever.

 

My dear friend in Houston, Brock McRock, is a well-known air guitar champion. He's been an active member of the air circuit, or "air-cuit" since 2008, and this year he would be joining a few other nationally ranked champions on the last leg of the regional championships through southern Cali. When he told me the details of the trip, it seemed like such an amazing opportunity, and I was admittedly jealous. As it would turn out, three weeks before the scheduled tour a spot fortuitously opened up, and I was offered, if I made my own way out there, to join the party and cover this historic assemblage of air talent as they traverse the Golden State. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity. Brock put me in contact with the official chaperone, another air guitar legend from San Francisco, named "Tiger Claw", or "Claw" for short. I liked this guy from the start, and we exchanged plans through email to meet up Thursday morning, July 12^th, in San Diego, the first stop on our crazy air guitar adventure. Claw used to work for Comic Con, so as a special bonus, we would all be attending the famed 42^nd annual pop culture convention during the day before the regional contest later that night. Brock would be arriving from LA and joining up with another air guitar champion there, Shred Boy RD, to make their way down to San Diego to meet up with me and Claw. The stage was set, so to speak; I grabbed Claw once Brock phoned, we met up together and drove to a parking lot two miles away (because parking for Comic Con is a goddamned nightmare). The four of us exchanged greetings (except me and Brock of course), donned our hilarious costumes, and began the trek back to the San Diego Convention Center to begin the madness of this epic journey. "Welcome to US Air Guitar" retorted Claw; a phrase he came to reedit and recite multiple times throughout the weekend.

 

The champions opted to attend Comic Con in their traditional on-stage performance attires, while myself, the newcomer, went with Mormon Rockwell's official "casual look", a baby blue 1970's tuxedo jacket and matching white pants. In no uncertain terms, we all looked like either a group of rank weirdo's and pederasts (to the pedestrians of San Diego), or a group of rank weirdo's and pederasts who dressed in an elaborate team costume (to the folks at the 'Con). Both viewpoints are correct (except for the pederast thing, I think). Claw had on a loud guitar-themed button down and his traditional creeper masquerade eye and facemask. Brock was sporting the 2012 summer lineup: his standard Betabrand® disco trousers, a long maroon duster adorned by giant peacock feathers around the collar, and a black stovetop hat with an affixed GoPro® HD video camera in the center of the brim. But it was Shred Boy RD who stole the show, literally, when he dressed up as his 2011 stage persona, an almost exact look-a-like of feared 1970's horror franchise staple Michael Myers. Given the relative similarity in age between Shred and the original actor (Tony Moran) who played the insane asylum escapee, it is my opinion the average Comic Con fan actually believed Shred WAS in fact the real Michael Myers. This brilliant thespian didn't break character all day, walking straight upright and stopping dead in his tracks at random moments, to ominously stare down a passer-by and/or pose for a photo with jubilated fanatics. At one interval, Shred stood behind a glass wall of one of the convention halls for about 30 minutes, staring straight forward, only cocking his head to the side ever so slightly now and again, mirroring the Halloween character authentically. People were lining up to walk over to where he was and pose safely on the other side of the glass with their favorite costumed psychopath, as a trusted friend would enthusiastically snap the invaluable picture. None of us had the heart to tell these mal-informed nerds the truth.

 

As night fell in that fair city sometimes referred to as "A Whale's Vagina", we made our way to The Soda Bar, a local hipster hot spot, for the first battle in our three-day air guitar blitzkrieg. Soda Bar regulars were initially startled by our arrival, but they were still friendly and accommodating. It's a hole-in-the-wall, drinkers' aficionado type of joint, and a more than adequate establishment. The MC's of this year's regional contests were founding father Bjorn Turoque and 2008 World Champion Hot Lixx Hulahan, two of the sports' biggest air celebrities, or "air-lebrities". Both of these titans of fake rock were prominently featured in the hugely successful 2006 documentary Air Guitar Nation, which has been rightly credited as reigniting the popularity of professional air guitar on a global scale. Bjorn and Hot Lixx are the Riggs and Murtaugh, the Dr. Dre and Ed Lover, the "Rock"y and "Bjorn"winkle of US air guitar. Indeed all the competitors that night were storied veterans, except for myself and one other gentleman, whose name escapes recollection. Quick aside, the gang and I (minus the weekend DD, Shred) had been drinking non-stop, plus I had weed flown in from Texas (even though I would be in California, a stoner's Shangri-La), so we were good and fuckered this, and pretty much every night of our quest. What a badass way to begin my faux air career I thought, as I used one hand to drink scotch and the other to prop up my flabby body against an alleyway wall whilst I vigorously micturated. We were made to drink shitty beer, Natty Ice® if I'm not mistaken, a sort of ceremonial introduction into the evening's festivities. Those who know me well know I nary swill a drip of ale, not since the early college years, but I shuttered not when they handed me the room temperature can. This is tradition and Mormon Rockwell is nothing if he is not traditional.

 

Bjorn and Hot Lixx went over the rules, instructing how one is to conduct himself/herself on stage. In round one, a competitor throws up one hand high into the air (finger of your choosing, fully erect) at the precise moment you wish to start your chosen song. That is when the indispensible eye-in-the-sky Air Traffic Control, US Air Guitar's official DJ, promptly begins the track you've selected. The fortunate superstars moving on to round two will perform a song selected by the MC's. Here, accuracy and stage presence matter most. Above anything however, the principle characteristic competitors must possess is something called "airness", referring to the implied swagger, the presentation throughout, which oozes informatively the quality of "air" supremacy, all over the stage. Those competing who have won at least a single regional or national event got to chose their order of performance, while the rest of us drew random numbers written in Sharpie® on the back of a dime-store condom. It would seem the gods smirked forcibly at yours truly, for I happen to draw the #2 slot, behind maniacal man-child Tiger Claw, known very well in these parts and therefor much beloved by the locals. Dear readers, I have been in front of, and even made plenty an ass of myself to full crowds of strangers a time or two in the past, and still nothing was able to calm me down as Mormon Rockwell fulfilled his destiny and stepped onto that stage for the very first time. Speaking mildly, my performance lacked any semblance of precision or tact. Hot Lixx, serving dual duties as a recurring judge, would come to refer to me as a "button masher", the practice whereby a kid playing a video game smashes the joystick repeatedly and helplessly, making moves but ultimately looking sloppy. He was 100% correct. It's also how I still play video games to this day. Epic fail. San Diego was a great town to surrender my "air virginity", or "air-ginity". Some notables from the evening, "Fan-Stash-tic" and "Jolly Green Shredding Machine" combatted proudly atop the stage, dominating the entire crowd. Claw came ominously close to being nabbed for drinking in public at the start of the night. Two squad cars mercilessly pursued him but they were no match, as this quirky quintagenarian darted at the last second back into the Soda Bar, narrowly eluding capture. My boy Brock McRock, adopting a slightly dick-ish personality on this tour (possibly for strategic reasons), was in rare and tantalizing form. In the first round, he playfully insulted the judges by slamming his half-full pint glass down on their table before commencing with the airness, saying ever so cocky and disdainfully to a judge, "hold my beer Cupcake, I'll show you how to play real air guitar". It worked. They laughed their collective asses off and so did all of us who were in audible range. But it was the great and high-ranking Lt. Facemelter who made the air community proud by taking home the top honors; Brock was mildly shafted with a 2^nd place finish.

 

Following the late night drive up to Venice Beach (and a brief catnap), we awoke to meet the lovely Mrs. Boy RD, as well as the progeny of Shred, his charming Lego® enthusiast son, Anakin. Pleasantries were exchanged; showers were had, then Brock and myself ventured out up the block in search of sustenance. We went one way for donuts and coffee. Claw staggered in the opposite direction and brought back no food, only two Steel Reserve® tall boys and a nausea-inducing bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. Not sure which flavor he purchased, just that it looked like cloudy Smurf piss. Being army strong, Claw drinks more before 9am than most people drink all day. Mormon Rockwell has many allies in LA, so after phoning a "friend", I was gifted with a small care package, courtesy of the local medical dispensary. My Texas stash was bone dry and of course, one would have to be bat shit not to indulge in the sweet fruits of California cannabis. So delicious, so stinky. Dank buds so gosh darn impressive, you just simply wish to bathe in that shit, decadently, and to no foreseeable end. To be belabored this one time only, the reader must not react or judge too harshly the incessant drug intake on this trip. I assure you, it was ancillary. Intoxicants, unless you truly have an addiction, are merely enhancers to an already good (or bad) situation. The meat of the story is in the relationships, the conversations, the overall incidents and perceptions. Ganja, booze, and what-else-have-you are just footnotes to an already busy and awesome tale.

 

Keeping this in mind, we made it a point to request the most powerful edibles on the market in addition to the chron-chron. The 4.20 bar doth land in our laps. It advertises a full 4.2 grams of cannabis inside a medium sized bar of milk chocolate. Holy Jesus this stuff is strong, like Mike Tyson punching a toddler with an industrial jackhammer fist! Dr. McRock and I would come to perform a series of potency trials over the course of the weekend, not unlike serious clinical scientists. Each bar is split into six equal pieces. Shred's better half agreed to shuttle Brock and I to the Venice Boardwalk for a short jaunt of sightseeing, and this seemed like as good a place as any to try one piece each. A good base-level stone, perfect for fucking around on a stretch of beachfront retail sidewalk space resembling a feverish dream constructed by Henry Rollins, Anthony Bourdain, and the Ringling Brothers side tent freak show. Again, no sarcasm here, this is what I chiefly cherish about this entire city. Where else can two grown men walk around in the afternoon like assholes, ripped and tipsy as if there's no tomorrow, and not actually patronize a single establishment, other than a munchies stand, all while avoiding any direct hassle? This journey we were all on, this cross-Cali four-day excursion, she was only just underway, but we were already basking in the overjoyed glory of our own action packed crapulence. Ice cream, churros, and strawberry lemonade now in our systems, Shred picked us up a couple hours before we were to arrive at the show. It was time for our gang to rally back at the Boy RD home, suit up, liquor up, and head over to the world famous Troubadour club in West Hollywood, where the LA regional qualifiers would soon be proceeding. 

 

Some trusted college friends took me to the Troubadour back in 2009 to see Swollen Members, and I remember generally enjoying myself with no real complaints about the venue, bartenders, or staff. On the ride in, we consumed the second level experiment, two pieces at one time, completing an entire 4.20 bar. Boy howdy, proper messed and yet still oddly functional. The booze will take care of that soon. Best part of chocolate edibles vs. baked goods, it hits you super fast, square in the dome. Before we were done eating the two pieces, both Brock and I reported immediate conscious-altering effects. A short snafu with my name not on the list, the guys sprang to action and ran into the venue to straighten it all out. Mormon Rockwell doesn't wait in lines or pay full price for anything, for any reason! In my inebriated condition, I thanked (as best as possible) the doorman, Treebeard from Fangorn Forest, and floated my way into that bitch to set up for the event. The Troubadour is a near 60-year-old institution in Los Angeles, and its magnanimous stage had seen the likes of Elton John, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Johnny Cash, shit Lenny Bruce was arrested there a little over a half century ago. Tonight, Friday the 13^th, in the great year of someone's lord 2012, that very same hallowed ground would see the likes of grown men and women dressed like trannies pretending to play pre-recorded music. This night's female combatants ranged from an elderly grandmother appropriately named "Some Old Broad" (beloved by the slovenly youthful), and an androgynous competitor known as "Lady Killer", who repeatedly slapped the face of an unassuming male audience member hard, during her set. Yes, when US Air Guitar comes to town, one must exercise caution, and above all, remind oneself that loud crazy shit will probably be in order should you take in the once in a lifetime experience of an LA air guitar regional championship.

 

The big money was on Six String General, the hometown favorite. The General and I were first acquainted back in February, when we joined forces on one glorious Sunday to protest the despicable Westboro Baptist Church whores, who had flown to Hollywood for the ultimate in star-fucking, pretending to protest the Oscars (but in reality, they love celebrity culture and they desire to taste Brad Pitt's baby batter just as bad as every other People® magazine reading vapid douchebag). The proof for this conclusion? There are over 50 members of this despicable Kansas church, and yet, whom do they send year after year on their behalf to the city of angels to protest the city's biggest cultural ceremony? The three hottest ditsy teenage girls in their ranks, their mom and aunt. No males joined them, because they all know damn well what their women do when they "picket" in Los Angeles. They put on makeup, stand on a street corner, and peddle their bullshit like true professionals of the night. Still, it was entertaining to stick it to those bible-thumping lunatics alongside the legendary Six String; the public seemed to concur. Enough about those heretical harlots, let's get back to the "air action" otherwise known as "air-ction". Inside the Troubadour, a bevy of air warriors (twice as many as the previous night) went through their pre-performance practice routines, some drank and cavorted with new and old friends alike, others sat quietly and listened to their songs. I've covered MMA in the past, and I noticed their fighters and air guitarists have similar regiments leading up to battle. Obviously, more free-weights and protein shakes than us, but the same level of causal half-nudity, screaming incoherently, chest pounding and angered spitting. I contend between the hyper amounts of cardio while onstage, and those of us who in the vein of Tiger Claw, were double fisting 40oz's like they were dumbbells, received almost identical workouts in the end.

 

Mormon Rockwell went over with the heathens of LA quite ok. Placed better than San Diego, a respectable score mostly. Still a shitty job, but good enough for my sophomore outing. Half epic fail. Shred and Claw were senior members (not an age joke) in attendance, displaying time honored air guitaring to the delight and spectacle of the audience. A dark horse competitor known as "Bloody Penis Fingers" decided to consume the only liquid everyone else in that place wasn't drinking, red paint. Then a ripped, disco-stripper version of Lenny Kravits named "Soulstice" shocked and tickled the privates of all in attendance with his "bang me" fuzzy boots. Brock gave, in this author's humble opinion, one of his best performances ever to the Troubadour that Friday the 13th. He even made his way up into the rafters, leaving the stage for a moment, to taunt and flaunt his stuff right in front of the judges' table. People were going nuts; he had broken the air guitar fourth wall. It would however undeniably be the high-ranking Six String General to go on and represent the city of LA at the nationals in Denver. The General, his exuberant fan base, and really all of us could not have been more thrilled that such a deserving warrior of wailing would take on the challenge of winning that national title. It was a magical, intoxicating, star-studded Hollywood evening. But one of the biggest celeb sightings went under the radar, for the most part. Towards the end of the night, Shred noticed that a particular air guitarist (or "airist"), known simply as "Mummy", turned out to be a major air guitar personality. He entered the Troubadour in full costume, and stayed that way until very late. The Mummy was dressed head to toe in wrapped white cloth, and spoke only in simple generic sounding mummy grunts, the entire time. We all just assumed this crazy somomabitch was mega loaded and really into staying in character. Turns out, the Mummy was really three time regional and 2005 national air guitar champion Rockness Monster. He's been comfortably in retirement since 2008, which is why his sighting on Friday the 13^th at the Troubadour gave the whole strange occurrence a twinge of mystery. Clearly, Rockness Monster did not want to be recognized until the very end of the evening. And had he gone to the 2^nd round, or even beat Six String in the finals, it would have been a major accomplishment. Imagine the headlines: Known reclusive, incomparable national champion comes out of retirement for a single evening to steal the show in LA. As it would turn out, the man we all knew then simply as Mummy did in fact not make it to the next round, and thus his unsuccessful attempt at a comeback in clever disguise fell short. Epic fail, truly.

 

The after party, I hear, was a jolly good occasion. Held in the ritzy home of the creator of the show Community on NBC Dan Harmon (he was also a judge) until the wee hours of Saturday morning. Lots of panty dropping, alcohol chugging, fun-fueled madness. I heard a goat was sodomized and then Andy Dick showed up and came on everybody. That last sentence is still unsubstantiated rumor; I'm closing in on confirmation. Mormon met up with his old friends Christopher Cossey and the lovely soon-to-be Mrs. Cossey halfway through the night and we all were a bit peckish once the festivities had concluded. Instead of the partying, we broke off from the group and sat down for tasty munchibles at Mel's Diner on Sunset. Mind you, I'm still dressed in Mormon Rockwell's official performance attire: Mormon bicycle missionary outfit, with helmet, gold cross-outlined 3D glasses, and two huge gold cross necklaces. Sitting here now, I realize someone there that night should have called the police, because a fake ass Mormon pimp and a nerdy white guy with creeper facial hair just walked into a restaurant at 3am, with what appeared to be an unassuming, normal looking, slightly scared single white female in tow. Like something out of a Quentin Tarantino something. No one did, so alas, we were cool. Upon finishing a great meal, the Cossey's drove this tired old dog back to Shred's casa for literally a couple of hours of rest before we were to load back up and strike out north for the second city on our tour named after a patron saint.

 

As they say, we are back to where we started. On I-5 somewhere, heading North towards the ancestral home of Tiger Claw and the last stop on our California air guitar tour, breath-taking San Francisco. Shred and I conversed in the car for a little while about a whole host of topics. Mostly, I was stoned and kept blathering on about the nature of science, religion, the universe, matter vs. energy, and whatever other simple extractions I've pulled away from complex scientific concepts. At the truck stop near Bakersfield, Shred and Brock were taken aback, safely speaking, witnessing Claw down that whole bottle in about 25 seconds right there at the gas pump. So were a few concerned lookie-loo's. I however was fully at ease with the situation. In 2007, Tiger Claw suffered a stroke, causing crippling nerve damage to most of the right side of his body. My roommate served in Iraq, came back with some deafness in his left ear. Claw is almost fully deaf in his. At half a century old, the pain is so severe, it starts first thing in the morning and does not stop until he falls asleep. Not being a millionaire, Claw is a victim of our country's shitty health care system, and cannot even begin to afford the necessary surgeries, medicines and physical therapy needed to alleviate his suffering. With all this, not only is Tiger Claw one of the most resilient, upbeat, able-bodied, capable disabled Americans I've ever met, he appears to have found a solution to the immense pain. Claw must consume alcohol non-stop, from the first moment when he wakes, to the last thing before zonking out for the night. He still has a small limp from the nerve damage, and you are required to repeat questions and commands a few times before he responds, but the end result is really quite marvelous. He is in very little discomfort when completely plastered. He's responsive, cogent, humorous, almost totally unaffected by his ailments. It's taboo, yes, to see a grown man slam pints of beer in an instant, then run off keeping pace with three guys younger than him, but I tell you, this beautiful bastard would never once grunt, bitch, or moan. His solution of self medication, however abnormal or alarming, does seem to be unequivocally working. He never once tripped in or out of a cab, getting around wherever we ventured, or at his place in San Fran, not that I observed. Simply put, the man is a quandary wrapped in a puzzle, jammed up the keister of an enormous snarky riddle and glazed in rich enigmatic contradiction.

 

Just outside Oakland, Shred Boy RD said something so benevolent and encapsulating, I had to quote him, "I thought this was gonna be [about] fake guitar, and it turned out to be about real people". How appropriate, given what we'd faced up to that point, and what remained on the trek ahead. The four of us now found ourselves in Nob Hill, standing outside the 20-year residence of Tiger Claw. Given the sheer mind-boggling nature of our escapades thus far, Brock, Shred and myself were anticipating the place looking like a David Lynch rape dungeon or an old shut-in's dingy, dirty apartment, reeking of cat fluids. These theories and others not verbalized were instantly dispelled, when he enthusiastically declared, "welcome to Claw's palace", and opened the door to reveal a pretty badass apartment. This amazing nonstop weekend continued to amaze at every turn. Claw lives in his own private dojo with every amenity a single man in the city would need. He has a gym, an office, a very respectable entertainment center, all the while living in a nice, newly renovated walkup, stocked with only stone cold hotties as his few neighbors. Apparently the one we met recently became single. Bear in mind, Brock and Shred are happily married, and I've got a nice thing going with this lady back home; it's simply something to note. The roof access was only one floor up, which led to a surprisingly stunning view of the city, including a cloud-soaked Golden Gate Bridge. This would become a favorite smokin' and chillin' spot over the two-day stay. Back to the ladies, no heterosexual man, however blissful in a relationship, can ever stop admiring the beautiful splendor of other smoking hot women. I would come to learn this is especially true in the city by the bay. For starters, everyone in San Francisco has a great ass. I'm talking world class, cheek to cheek, round, perky deliciousness. Girls AND guys. They owe it to the city lifestyle. Giant rolling sidewalks attached to steep hills, up and down, down and up, I've never seen anything like it. All the walking, up and down all goddamn day; some of these psychos even ride bikes. Over time, fatties and Melvin's are cut into stunning Adonis's. If Mormon Rockwell were a bisexual (he's not, the Mormon church forbids it), that fucking town would be like a 24-hour sex buffet! Right now, I look like Louie Anderson. Give me five months in that city and I'll come out all Magic Mike. Intimidating at times, being knee deep in a place where everyone looks like the gorgeous models in the background of an episode of Entourage. Still, I felt within minutes of landing on San Fran soil, a calm wash over me. There is something wonderful about this place. I've never been to Europe, but it feels like how Europe would feel. The odds of stopping an average San Francisco resident on the street and having them spout foolish religious jargon or talk about how they love their guns and the Tea Party is extremely low. The safety levels here are palpable.

 

For one last time on this inconceivably strange and enjoyable quest, 'ol Mormon dressed up in his performance attire, as well as Mr. McRock, Shred, and the irreverent Claw. This would be my third, and possibly final, air guitar presentation. Perhaps in the distant future, in some grimy retirement home in south Florida, an elderly atheist Jew will stand up and rock out with his orthopedic cane to Starship or something, but for the foreseeable future, this would be a conclusion to my air activities, also called "air-ivities". Airness remains, sure; that is stuck with me for life like VD. The final circuit event for the 2012 US Air Guitar Championships was held at world famous, appropriately sized The Independent, in North town near Alamo Square. The venues got progressively better over the three-day marathon, and Frisco did not disappoint. The weekend long experiment Brock and I were conducting took its most dangerous direction yet, as Saturday night, at The Independent, we each consumed an entire ½ of one 4.20 bar. Sill, now in retrospect, if us two gentlemen weren't such coinsurers and celebrated veterans of the Olympic sport of "bonging" so to speak, such an experiment could have turned out rough; cops up yo ass rough! Three pieces of the 4.20 bar at once easily exceeded ANY edible we had ever consumed in either of our lives, bar none. And mind you, we were part of a storied franchise of athletes, and could not under any circumstances, allow the situation we just put ourselves in to manifest negatively or lead to a very public and very awkward freak out. Not being able to speak for Brock, for me the venue turned into an underground cave, not unlike the one in The Matrix sequels where everyone gathers to pray and dance sexy next to their families. Just like that, only less lame. The stage was actually an outcropping of stalagmites, clustered close enough and flattened into a stage-like surface over millions of years of geological heat and pressure. ATC and the gang were up in the balcony doing sound checks. I went up there briefly to try and converse, but then I was suddenly attacked by some fucking winged creature in the stairwell, maybe one of those squirrels with the webbings on their body. But then what would a goddamned squirrel be doing so far underground in a cave, at an air guitar show? Regardless of what may (or may not) have attacked me, it escaped before I could kill it and so I determined the upstairs should be off limits to those of us in the condition of impairment that I happened to find myself in.

 

The last night, the largest slate of competitors. 25 if I'm not mistaken. Only two were on deep drug trips (assumedly), the other 23 were intoxicated in the classical sense, liquored up to no avail. The Independent's green room was like a private bar and potato chip depository (airists love snackin' on chips). For the last time this season, Bjorn and Hot Lixx gathered us all and we listened as mighty impending combatants to our CO's in the field as they imparted operational commands. The energy this night was out of control. We all felt it to the core. This was also the best night for Brock, which was odd, given his extreme state of hyper-inebration. The bastard only lost to the champion by 0.1 points, and no disrespect to the judges, but Seth Leibowitz's SF victory was highly suspect. For starters, his first round performance featured almost a full 30 seconds of no air guitaring! He was choreographed and looking pretty yes, but whatever he scored in that round, it should have been bifurcated to represent the tangible amount of time he was actually performing air guitar. Fan favorites included the energetic Asian gentleman "Gobo", who moved onstage like an epileptic ballet. "Shred Theodore Logan" by far had the best name of the night, but left a little bit to be inspired in the accuracy department. Early on in the festivities, "Janine Simmons", dressed as a female broke-ass GENE Simons, conjectured around with Brock backstage. During one interlude, she jokingly punched Brock's giant steel Texas-shaped belt buckle, thinking it was fake. Her hand suffered minor consequence. "You proll'y shouldn't do that", retorted Brock while she cared for her injured paw. Mormon Rockwell did well, even got a female judge smitten (more about that in a supplemental article). But all in all, my final performance as an airist couldn't have went off better. Mormon selected a hard rock version of "Devil Went Down To Georgia", originally by the Charlie Daniels band. Again, Hot Lixx reiterated his earlier stance. Fail, but an epic good time nonetheless.

 

Shred needed to get back to LA and so he was concluding his air guitar adventure (also known as an "air-venture"), departing our company Sunday morning after an all night rage-fest concluding the show. Tearful always, saying farewell, but joyous because we had all had so much fun. Brock and I would remain guests of Claw until Monday, when the two of us as well would conclude this Cali excursion and return to the dreaded Tejas from whence we came. There was a heartfelt exchange of goodbyes before that tall, beautiful, brilliant bastard left our sights. The four of us were a band of brothers. We had been to battle together, alongside each other, witnessing and perpetrating countless scenarios of fear, enlightenment, jubilation, self-effacement, and so many other adjectives you'd think a thesaurus just took a giant shit all over this page. He sped off into the distance, whereby the three of us were now un-whole. In reality, this entire air guitar excursion could be summarized in the exact same way I would review our last rooftop session; truly remarkable and awe-inspiring. We all, as a cooperative and on our own individual levels, would be forever changed by the involvements, accounts, and explorations that unfolded during that most charmed, spectacular four day stretch in July. It almost feels as though none of it indeed actually happened, remembering it all now. As if the four of us split off from our bodies the moment the trip began, and just sat back in some ethereal plane somewhere, viewing it all like one long cinematic exhibition. How none of us died. How none of us were arrested, shot, stabbed, hospitalized, involved in an argument over a back alley dice game, vomited on, made love to (other than Shred at his home, I presume), or whatever else that could have possibly taken place, is a pure goddamned miracle!

 

We witnessed LA cops arrest a hooker for an altercation with a hobo. Whilst slogging through the 'Con, all of us stopped in unison to gawk, jaws agape with astonishment, at a 60 year old Asian lady dressed exactly like Meg Griffin from Family Guy. We were so collectively hammered drunk, got so intensely bake-aked, much of the time was spent in high earth orbit. Funny how not one of us flew away, reeling endlessly into the unknown abyss. What grounded this merry band of air-pranksters was the admiration and respect genuinely bestowed upon us by each other, and in many cases, bestowed by all that surrounded us at every juncture, from living creatures to stone and steel structures and everything in between. The benevolent nature of our experiences constituted as an anchor, allowing us to soar to unimaginable heights, without the threat of spinning off into nothingness. As lengthy as every one of us would live from hereon in, the events of our fateful voyage while in California shant be repeated, despite best efforts to the contrary. "Once in a lifetime" hath not the breadth and prominence to accurately summate these experiences. Who knew it'd take a silly fake rock contest to expose the beautiful genuineness of real life? My travel arrangements on Monday began a few hours before Brock's, and so this already good friend, now a best friend, and I parted ways, to reunite again on the other side, in "the fly over states", where we would recount and recollect on the wonderful adventures just partaken. Whirlwind excursions such as this one come with ceaseless supplies of clarity and humility. The cab ride out was spent silently reflecting on all that had occurred. Who knows, maybe 'ol Mormon Rockwell will be invited back to chronicle part of the 2013 air-cuit. Only time will reveal. Until then, just as the altruistic Claw once said, "Welcome to US Air Guitar". Welcome to existence. Welcome to the bounty and glory of life.

 

AB Visits the Hoosegow!

An 18-Hour Adventure, Nine Years, Six Months and Some Change in the Making

 

By: Aaron Brown

 

 

 

Friends, the unthinkable has finally occurred. Unanticipated of course, yet extraordinarily cathartic. Yours truly, known under a bevy of nicknames and monikers, like Mormon Rockwell, The Biz, A-Bizzle (as the Coss-man still calls me), and so forth, has at last received stark legal validation for almost a decade's worth of unique, original, peaceful liberal activism. What follows is an accurate, moment-by-moment accounting of the events that took place concerning one Aaron Samuel Brown on Friday, July 27^th in the Woodlands, Texas, starting at 5:30pm CST.

 

Two days earlier, on July 25^th, through an email from friends, I learned that uber-Republican South Carolina Senator Jim DeMint and former half-term Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin would be in my neck of the woods to support TX senate candidate and Tea Party up and comer Ted Cruz at an official campaign rally. Naturally, as an almost 10 year veteran of peaceful public protests literally all across the country, I was beyond elated upon hearing this news. Having eyes and ears, I had heard of Sarah Palin in the past and was very excited to get to see her in public for the first time. I immediately began plans to show up on the day in question, about 15 minutes early (as I traditionally do), to engage in my 1^st amendment freedom of speech rights with regards to protesting persons and a group of persons that I strongly disagree with. Through my non-profit activities of recent (Foundation Against Religious Extremism, or F.A.R.E.), I now cart along with me to every public demonstration the following core items: various signage, a rolling battery-powered portable PA system, a 50W megaphone, and a fold up camping chair or small collapsible stool. I keep the stool folded up on the side of a medium-sized Camelbak® backpack. In addition to all of that, I use a shoulder mounted, collapsible camera rig, held in place and secured to me by the straps on the backpack. I had the rig on this day in question, but as I had not begun my activism at the time of the arrest, the camera was not attached and not rolling. Lastly, there were two signs I brought to the Palin/Cruz rally, the smallest of which featured a knock off of the almost 20 year-old iconic image from many of the Westboro Baptist Church's most famous picket signs. It is a black outlined stick figure image of a man standing, with another similar image of a man bent over in front of him, tacitly depicting sodomy. I created this sign months ago to use during my protest campaign against the WBC and that very same sign was used and featured in parts of Texas, Los Angeles, Kansas, Missouri, and even the District of Columbia with not even one slight incidence of law enforcement objection. It has no swear words on it whatsoever. On one side, the standing man read "Sarah Palin" and the bent over man read "American Decency". The reverse side was the same image, the standing man read "Common Sense" and the bent over man read "The Tea Party". The larger, more offensive sign was a newer creation, first used back in May at three different locations in Brownsville TX. This sign read on both sides, "Fuck These Assholes" in black, slim lettering. Beneath the text were two red omni-directional arrows, which the sign holder uses to direct the attention of the message as the situation progresses.

 

On July 27^th, at about 5:10pm, I left my home with the gear to make my way to a parking garage near where the event was being held. Also learned throughout years of activism, in many cases, it behooves one to park far enough away from a potential situation. It does add for a long hot slog with a lot of heavy equipment, but ultimately it is worth it, and I have been employing this tactic safely for over five years. After loading up and beginning to exit the parking garage, it was now about 5:35pm. I walked across the street to the side my destination was on, and preceded to walk with all my stuff towards the location. It is now 5:41ish. I was about 50-100 yards from reaching the venue. From where I was stopped, it was around another corner, so I was not even visible to most or all of the attendees and staff. At this moment while walking, I noticed in the car traffic to my right coming towards me a Montgomery County (MoCo) Sherriff's officer in a cruiser pulling up into the driveway area of where I was walking through. He is obviously coming over to engage me, and stops his car with his driver window next to me. I naturally stop to wait for him to exit and question me. Oddly enough, he doesn't exit, or roll down his window to communicate with me, for about a full 3-4 minutes. I kept standing there, politely motioning to him I was ready to speak with him whenever he wanted, yet he kept sitting there, looking me over, looking around him, and talking on his radio. Finally he gets out and asks right away for my ID, which I gladly handed over. Due in part to my activist past, but also my love of the TV show Cops, I know how one should act and ask questions when speaking with law enforcement. I politely asked why I had been stopped, to which he replied he had received "complaints" of indecency on my behalf, based on the offensive nature of the signs I was carrying and (this is important) "yelling of swear words" as well. It was obvious he saw the megaphone swung over my back and so his initial statement was that in addition to the offensive words on my signs, the caller/s reported me shouting obscenities in addition. Friends, I needn't tell you this was 100% false, as I was still dozens of yards away from the protest spot. In the same way very few of us would ever slam a burger and fries in the parking lot before going INTO a McDonalds, I never before, did not that day, nor do I have any future plans, to start a public protest BEFORE I get to where I'm going. For one, it is hard to be actively engaging and performing if you're carrying a lot of heavy gear. So in this instance, and all others in the past and future, my stereo was off and my megaphone was off and on my back.

 

Again, in a polite but assertive manner, I refuted the claim of the verbal cursing and insisted I was breaking no laws carrying signs with offensive words on them, to which he indicated I was to the contrary. At this point he runs my license back in the car and I am standing outside in front of the cruiser over to the side with all my stuff. With my arresting officer in the squad car still, officer Haines rides over to me on a bicycle patrol as he was passing by (or perhaps he was called over, still unsure at this time) to asses the situation. It is during this time, a middle aged white tall man and his blonde wife are walking to the event and they pass me. He slows down then stops to look at the sign and read it. He mutters something to which I non-confrontationally replied, "It says Fuck These Assholes". The man instantly became irate saying, "did you just tell me to go fuck myself asshole?" I immediately and calmly replied back, "I was just reading you my sign". Incredibly, the man as he is accusing me of this, is moving angrily towards me, as if to start an altercation. Officer Haines even had to restrain the man and move him away from me. After maybe 20 seconds of more aggression and taunts, he and his wife turned back around and continued (I assume) walking over to the event. As best as I could tell, my arresting officer, still inside the car, did not witness or certainly did not get involved in this particular instance.

 

When my arresting officer finally came out of the car, he had a small, cheap silver digital camera with him and asked to take pictures of the signs. I instinctual inquired as to what they were for, but he told me he would tell me in just a moment then asked again for permission, to which I granted him. Finishing, he asked to take a photo of me, and again, I complied. Then he informs me of the situation. Based on the complaint calls, I'm under arrest for disorderly conduct and I am being taken to jail for processing. For a moment, I erupted slightly into laughter, basically having a small, comical freak-out about how absurd this is that I'm being arrested right now and I never even made it to the event I was supposed to be protesting! At one juncture, I speculated that Ted Cruz or Sarah Palin had paid this guy off to stop me (and strangely enough, that might not be totally far from the truth). He loaded my stuff into the car, me next, and we traveled to the local MoCo satellite jail, about 6 minutes away. When we got there, the station officer came out to begin the process. A few snippets of importance, I heard them chuckling about my signs, openly talking about how it was obvious I was breaking the law in their mind.

 

Inside, while I'm in a holding cell, I distinctly overheard one officer say, "Is that one of those fucking Occupy people?" I then heard my arresting officer (who I presume the other officer was talking to) say, "Yeah, he was sure gonna go down there and try to disrupt things". I'm not a simple unfrozen cave man lawyer, per say, but that sounded to me like a little bit of bias. At the very least, this implies my arresting officer took the law into his own hands, because he said, "try", meaning he knew I hadn't yet arrived at the protest or done anything illegal. One final point of hilarity here. When you are arrested, everything you have on you at the time comes in with you and is checked away. 99% of people come in with whatever is on them, in their pockets, or sometimes with a jacket or coat or purse or bag. I obviously came in with a bunch of crap. The officers file every personal item and write it down line by line as a report, and you initial by each item to confirm everything, and then again when you leave and get everything back. In my official protest backpack, I keep a lot of strange items. For example, I have a painters face mask (in the event of a riot or teargas), an emergency poncho, eye drops, spray sun tan lotion, and of course, a condom. The last item there is a throwback to my old days. The condom was almost expired in my defense, forgot it was even in there. My arresting officer filled out the report with all my items. Guess how this fatter, more pathetic looking version of Wilford Brimley spelled "condom" on the report? "One Condum". C-O-N-D-U-M. Condum. This officer of the law unabashedly misspelled a six letter, Middle-School-level vocabulary word. If that doesn't give you a better picture of the man who arrested me, than nothing will. One cannot fictionalize genius that well, even if you tried. 

 

My incarceration lasted roughly 18 hours; the first 6 were spent in a concrete and metal bench holding cell and then I was transferred (along with others) to the MoCo county detention center, a few miles up the road in Conroe. Here, I would again wait 10-11 hours in three different but similar concrete and metal bench only holding cells before being finally released. To hammer home the point, I understand we are all being viewed as criminals in the eyes of the law at that particular juncture. However, the law does state "innocent until proven guilty", as it has instructed for over 110 years. But at the same token, none of us had actually been convicted yet, only charged. And based on that distinction, the conditions of our holding cells were not just cruel and undeserved, they bordered on 3^rd world prison conditions. The last thing I had to eat was around lunchtime on Friday. My next full meal came the following day, July 28^th at about midnight when I woke up from resting after the whole ordeal. For the first 13-14 hours in our holding cells, we were offered nothing more than the warm tap water from the prison sink attached to the sometimes full of shit and piss prison toilets. No water or anything like that even during "breakfast". They served us this yellow, banana coconut Tampico® nasty stuff. I took one sip and almost threw up. The "food" was about 100 times worse than the free meal I got a Dallas bus station a couple weeks ago (even longer story). Overhead, in every single holding cell, the row of bright halogen lights stayed on the entire time. The first room I was in with some shade or darkness since Thursday night wasn't until I woke up Saturday night at home. At one point in the holding cell, I look over to see an inmate using a half roll of toilet paper as a makeshift pillow, because literally, there is only concrete floor and wall, and a long metal bench. I tried balling up my socks as a pillow, but that didn't work either. Across the way, over in the general population by comparison, convicted criminals are sleeping soundly on beds, with a pillow and blanket, and their cell lights are off, and they aren't packed into one single cell by the dozen, like human sardines. How's that for fucked up?

 

At the first jail in the Woodlands, I shared a small cell with two other men 90% of the time. In the county lockup, I was in full capacity cells (8-16 persons, depending on the size) the entire time. The very last holding cell had a max capacity of 16. During the final hour, as many as 18 of us were all jammed in there, with barely enough room to sit or stand. It is not my intention to get every single hard working, honest member of MoCo Sheriff's office in trouble, yet, the ones who are clearly acting either illegally or otherwise morally reprehensibly, should in fact have their employment terminated. Again, not every officer I encountered was a total jerk. I actually joked with one younger gentlemen towards the end of the ordeal, even asked him if he'd seen the new Dark Knight movie, to which he replied he was waiting for the crowds to thin out, then he would go see it. I even made some jailhouse chums, Brian and Brent. We were released at the same time so we fortuitously all shared a cab back to Brian's house, which was near the parking garage with my car. These gentlemen, myself, and the other inmates, no mater what they and I were accused of, were definitely victims of a dysfunctional, sometimes illegal county office.  That, above all else, is the bottom line and was unmistakably evident.

My Lunch-Date With Lunacy:

The ongoing exploits and insights of Occupy The WBC

The many thousands of miles we've traveled while road tripping through the midsection of the country these past few months has imparted one severe and now obvious fact never truly comprehended before. Above the many other excellent moments and realizations one routinely experiences whilst driving long distances, this particular observation stands alone as primarily the most significant and illuminating truth; OF COURSE the Westboro Baptists are bat-shit crazy - have you ever driven through Kansas?

This is not meant to be a slight on the whole state and its greater populace. I'm speaking specifically about the terrain. Starting along the northern border of Texas and essentially going upward a few states (stopping in South Dakota), it becomes unmistakably evident that Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska exist in almost an exact-center-of-the-Pacific Ocean style emptiness and desolation. To put it mildly, Kansas is like my date for the sixth grade junior high school dance; a flat, harsh unmanageable succubus, vacant of all life and vibrancy. They call Montana "big sky country," so it would stand to reason Kansas should be called "ONLY sky country" because, seriously, it's just earth and air in every direction for further expanses than one would hope for.

When you understand that topographically, Kansas is vapid and vacuous, it becomes easier, more plausible as to how some of its citizens can suffer the same fate intellectually. We are all affected by the nature of our surroundings. The children of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, whether they acknowledge it or not, are a prime example. Raised in a Branch Davidian style compound, what was really there, beyond those wooden fences, had any of them actually attempted an escape? The answer is nothing. Total and absolute nothingness, for as far as the eye can see. And the situation would remain this way until the tender teenage years, when the onslaught of puberty leads to rash decision making, dismantling of established guidelines, and ultimately the cessation of other previously-valued indoctrinations, at which point the desire to experience all that is on the other side of that fence becomes too great a prospect to continue to ignore. If the parenting is relentlessly strict enough, much of this significant transformation can be quelled, but never entirely or categorically in all cases. So it should come as no surprise that even the hardcore, fundamentalist Westboro Baptist Church continues to shed membership like a sickly cat shedding on your favorite duvet cover. And if the rate at which their children leave the church appears to be ascending, that's because it most certainly is.

There has been roughly three times the number of people fleeing the WBC in just the last eight years as compared to the number that left over the previous 30 years. Playing the role of devil's advocate, what could possibly account for this uptick? I'm no detective, but thankfully the conclusion remains so obvious, even an untrained sleuth such as myself could understand it. For centuries, the unforgivingly hellish environment of Kansas and its daily celebration of the devoid and barren persisted mostly uninterrupted. But then, tragically (at least from the indoctrinator's viewpoint), there came about the technological age, bringing with it not just cool new gadgets, but devices of pure symbolic freedom at the touch of a button. It is one thing to be stuck in Kansas in the 1950's and read about the Eifel tower or see a grainy black and white photograph next to a caption. It is an entirely different thing to be able to call up a live-streaming, high definition video image of the actual Eifel tower over the Internet on a small hand held device in literally a matter of seconds. The resulting effect has been nothing short of constant connectivity and perpetual consumption of stimuli, a new way of living better and smarter for many, while conversely for its opponents, a frightening unpleasantness, responsible for exposing to the youth everything that could once be excluded or considered unattainable. The seemingly infinite, unoccupied rolling horizons of Kansas, proudly designed in the image of isolationism, have now been reduced to its opposite. The greater technological explosion of the last few decades is the real "Great Equalizer", turning a once remote and cut-off environment into one where any piece of information from around the world can and does become conveniently accessed.  In the simplest terms, Fred Phelps effortlessly exuded control over his own children back in the day, but his children's children, through no fault other than the forward progression and advancement of time and space, find it increasingly impossible to shelter, manipulate, and indoctrinate their offspring.

Innumerable hours of well intentioned training and preparation to serve their church takes a back seat to ideas, interests and concepts now in the forefront of their lives thanks to the digital age. And it will only get worse. The beauty of the WBC is in their flagrant idiocy. Sure, family elders must traverse the country with the children actively participating, shouting and singing at strangers on busy street corners - but at what cost? Had you kept them like human veal calves, entombed and motionless forever inside the fences of the Topeka compound, you might have had a chance at keeping them engaged and blissfully ignorant. But then, that's the trouble with ignorance; it's only blissful up to the point when you realize there's an alternative. The Amish choose not to live amongst what they call "the English" in our vast cities, rather, they occupy small corners of rural America, so as to not be influenced or tempted by mainstream society. Pastor Phelps and his followers HAD one part of this equation locked down through living in Kansas. However, by constantly engaging the public, on their own turf no less, they lose the larger argument, and expose their sanitized progenies to the very elements they claim to abhor and defend against. Imagine if the Amish traveled by wagonload year-round, witnessing with extremity in every small to enormous community in our nation? The end result would be a mass exodus from that faith, not unlike a raging kegger during an already wild Rumspringa. Kids want to live, love, learn and grow. This has been unaltered throughout history. What has changed are the societal conditions, and so, like the Amish, if you don't like what we're selling, you don't have to subscribe. The children of the WBC are in danger of discarding their faith, and will remain in danger every day they are ferried into the "English world" and made to dance and perform for the unwashed masses, who, as they are preached to, carry the fowl stench of sin and depravity. Have their parents no fear that the stench may waft, infecting and transforming their precious kin?

I will only aide to hasten this transformation. The work of Occupy the WBC, and the untold, incalculable number of counter-demonstrators all around our nation will only serve to enhance and facilitate this drastic change they fear and work so hard to combat against. Shirley Phelps and the other pathetic parental units of the WBC will have to deal with our shit, metaphorically speaking. Crazy religious fundamentalists are a dime a dozen in this country sadly (I'm looking at you, Utah) yet the good thing about the vast 99% of them is their refusal to interact regularly with secular society. But make no mistake, some of them would become little Phelps's, so to speak, and go on whirlwind tours of cities and towns hyperbolically evangelizing to everyone, were it not for their overwhelming fear they may somehow risk exposing their young to the temptation of modern American life, and jeopardize losing them to godlessness in the process. This is what I love about the Westboro jerks; they are too stupid to realize the truth. They are that glorious 1%, so hell-bent and motivated by irrational rhetoric that they recklessly gamble their most priceless assets, the next generation. And so it is because of this gross miscalculation, the reliance on formerly safe, sterilized, secluded living situations, and the sheer ignorance that impressionable minds thrown into the lions den time and again won't come out with even a smudge of barbarism, we at Occupy the WBC will ALWAYS have the upper hand. We hit 'em with sleaze, kill 'em with kinkiness, we expose these narrow-minded mouth breathers to the very essence of freedom, of uncensored, unbridled, raw, and sometimes offensive artistic expression they otherwise try urgently but futilely to avoid. In doing so, we will always be victorious. How do I know this for certain? The younger members started engaging me at our counter protests months ago, almost from the beginning. Hell, I'm even chummy with a few of them. Jael Phelps always blushes, and a tall young man I nicknamed "Seacrest" (for his douchey similarity to the reality television icon of the same last name) and I are practically buds. He gave me a nickname too: "JewFag."Priceless. So right there, in just the primordial act of engaging in my antagonisms, the youth simply cannot help themselves. If we keep up this level of intensity on a consistent basis, there's a real shot at getting one or more of them to crack. For this is genuinely what Occupy the WBC hopes to accomplish. By chipping away slowly at the barrier their families have created, the opposition can undoubtedly seep in. After all, "How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paree'"?

 

Yours considerably,

AB