Billy, Please Grow Your Fucking Hair Back.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/media/acrobat/2005-06/18118271.pdf
Aside from being one of the most UN-fucking-flattering photos of any human being, what follows in this full page monstrosity is some of the most egomaniacal crap this side of Tom Cruise's taint.
I must tell you a story.
Back in 1994, I was a Freshman at Michigan State University, and the Smashing Pumpkins started touring Siamese Dream-their follow-up to the then lesser known Gish album. It came to pass that MSU was going to be one of the stops on this much anticipated tour and the entire campus was positively a-buzz with excitement.
The big night came. I, as yet, had not gotten my hands on any tickets. Then a knock at my "keep your door open so people know you're friendly!"
Doug from the guys' side. A tall, lanky, latent homosexual who probably wouldn't come out for another year or so.
"Laura, I have bleacher seats to Smashing Pumpkins! You wanna go?"
Heck yes I did, so I threw on my china-flat mary janes to go with my daisy dukes and hippie shirt ensemble, and off to the Breslin Center we went.
Our seats were indeed in the bleachers..center section...sixteenth row. We were pretty happy and self satisfied until our attention slowly turned to the "General Admission" section down on the stadium floor. We couldn't help but notice how few people were down there! There was so much room! Murmurs of "Supposedly they only sold 50 GA's" and "That's bullshit" and "These seats suck" started to invade our consciousness. Doug turned to me:
"Hey, what do you think, after the second song starts, we try and make our way down there? It shouldn't be too hard to get past the ushers, and besides, look at all that room!!"
"Totally dude. I'm down. As soon as that second song starts, we make a break for it."
It was a plan. We smirked at eachother's brilliance.
I'd like to tell you what they opened with, but honestly the second song is the only song I remember.
As soon as that unmistakable strumming and churchbell sounded, Doug and I were off. I noticed some pushing behind me and glanced back. Apparently, we weren't the only ones who had executed Directive 66. Adrenaline blasted through me as I saw a wave of about 2000 other brilliant concert goers moving towards us at an alarming rate. Moving downward. Aided by gravity.
Then my bad choice of shoes and pants manifested itself for the first of more than a few times that evening. I slipped and fell. Hard. On the edge of a bleacher. And felt my bare upper thigh hit and then scrape on the corrugated metal...the ass clenching stomach heaving pain...and then Doug grabbing my arm to pull me to my feet and towards the pit. In a cacophonous blur we were down.
"We made it!!" Doug was ecstatic. I was holding my still-throbbing leg managing a feeble "Disarm you with a smile". I was hurt. More and more people poured onto the floor. Steel-toed Boots were crushing my canvass clad feet. I had to get out of there. I wasn't safe. I was in real danger of getting seriously injured. So I backtracked.
And then LC falls the second time.
Upright bodies quickly tried to move into the space previously occupied by mine, confused by the resistance at their feet. I tried to get up, but I had no room to put my hands underneath me for leverage and hoisting. I was stuck. And what air there was hot and sick and I was in very big trouble. I started to scream. Suddenly I understood how a trampling is possible. I felt someone's hands grab my by my armpits and lift me off the ground. I struggled to keep my shoes on that had been half removed from me feet...And then I was unceremoniously deposited on higher ground. I turned around to see who had saved me. A big burly scary mosh pit type guy.
"Stay here. You can't be out there." and then he was gone.
I quickly scaled the barricades again to even higher ground and took in what had just happened.
50 people expontentialized to close to 1500. It was a sea of people. It was chaos. And all the while... "Disarm you with a smile..."
Finally, the song was over. Over the roar of the completely overstimulated crowd was Billy's voice,
"You're all very naughty naughty children."
God, he was sexy.
We all cheered, celebrated our little bit of anti-establishment and devoured the next song.
Billy's voice again:
(Chuckle) "On behalf of the Breslin Center and Michigan State University, I'm supposed to tell you if you do not have tickets for the General Admission area to kindly return to the seats for which your tickets were issued...Buuuuuuut, since that's not gonna happen any time soon, do me a favor. Take care of eachother. If you see someone fall down, pick them up, kick em in the ass and tell them not to do that again. Enjoy the rest of the show."
And enjoy it we did.
I awoke aching the next morning. I moved slowly, assessing any long term damage. My feet were trashed. Bruised and cut to hell. But my leg. Oh my god my leg. I turned my ass towards the mirror and with ginger fingers poked at the 16 inch softball sized bruise that was rearing it's ugly red, purple, yellow and green head all over the back of my leg. It was so big that days later I was laying out in the sun in the quad, when my RA came running out and demanding to know what had happened to my leg.
"I was on the OTHER SIDE of the quad, and I could see that thing from there!"
I wore my trophy proudly for about 4 weeks. Always with short shorts. (Largely die to the fact that long pants rubbing against it was excruciating.) But, it made me feel frickin' tough when I regaled my horrific tale of near death at the hands of a Smashing Pumpkins Mosh Pit.
And now today, Bald, Bloated, Billy Corgan. I can't even reconcile what he's become with what he was the night I almost bit it. It's heartbreaking really.
So, he's another in a long line of celebrities who can fuck right the fuck off.
Aside from being one of the most UN-fucking-flattering photos of any human being, what follows in this full page monstrosity is some of the most egomaniacal crap this side of Tom Cruise's taint.
I must tell you a story.
Back in 1994, I was a Freshman at Michigan State University, and the Smashing Pumpkins started touring Siamese Dream-their follow-up to the then lesser known Gish album. It came to pass that MSU was going to be one of the stops on this much anticipated tour and the entire campus was positively a-buzz with excitement.
The big night came. I, as yet, had not gotten my hands on any tickets. Then a knock at my "keep your door open so people know you're friendly!"
Doug from the guys' side. A tall, lanky, latent homosexual who probably wouldn't come out for another year or so.
"Laura, I have bleacher seats to Smashing Pumpkins! You wanna go?"
Heck yes I did, so I threw on my china-flat mary janes to go with my daisy dukes and hippie shirt ensemble, and off to the Breslin Center we went.
Our seats were indeed in the bleachers..center section...sixteenth row. We were pretty happy and self satisfied until our attention slowly turned to the "General Admission" section down on the stadium floor. We couldn't help but notice how few people were down there! There was so much room! Murmurs of "Supposedly they only sold 50 GA's" and "That's bullshit" and "These seats suck" started to invade our consciousness. Doug turned to me:
"Hey, what do you think, after the second song starts, we try and make our way down there? It shouldn't be too hard to get past the ushers, and besides, look at all that room!!"
"Totally dude. I'm down. As soon as that second song starts, we make a break for it."
It was a plan. We smirked at eachother's brilliance.
I'd like to tell you what they opened with, but honestly the second song is the only song I remember.
As soon as that unmistakable strumming and churchbell sounded, Doug and I were off. I noticed some pushing behind me and glanced back. Apparently, we weren't the only ones who had executed Directive 66. Adrenaline blasted through me as I saw a wave of about 2000 other brilliant concert goers moving towards us at an alarming rate. Moving downward. Aided by gravity.
Then my bad choice of shoes and pants manifested itself for the first of more than a few times that evening. I slipped and fell. Hard. On the edge of a bleacher. And felt my bare upper thigh hit and then scrape on the corrugated metal...the ass clenching stomach heaving pain...and then Doug grabbing my arm to pull me to my feet and towards the pit. In a cacophonous blur we were down.
"We made it!!" Doug was ecstatic. I was holding my still-throbbing leg managing a feeble "Disarm you with a smile". I was hurt. More and more people poured onto the floor. Steel-toed Boots were crushing my canvass clad feet. I had to get out of there. I wasn't safe. I was in real danger of getting seriously injured. So I backtracked.
And then LC falls the second time.
Upright bodies quickly tried to move into the space previously occupied by mine, confused by the resistance at their feet. I tried to get up, but I had no room to put my hands underneath me for leverage and hoisting. I was stuck. And what air there was hot and sick and I was in very big trouble. I started to scream. Suddenly I understood how a trampling is possible. I felt someone's hands grab my by my armpits and lift me off the ground. I struggled to keep my shoes on that had been half removed from me feet...And then I was unceremoniously deposited on higher ground. I turned around to see who had saved me. A big burly scary mosh pit type guy.
"Stay here. You can't be out there." and then he was gone.
I quickly scaled the barricades again to even higher ground and took in what had just happened.
50 people expontentialized to close to 1500. It was a sea of people. It was chaos. And all the while... "Disarm you with a smile..."
Finally, the song was over. Over the roar of the completely overstimulated crowd was Billy's voice,
"You're all very naughty naughty children."
God, he was sexy.
We all cheered, celebrated our little bit of anti-establishment and devoured the next song.
Billy's voice again:
(Chuckle) "On behalf of the Breslin Center and Michigan State University, I'm supposed to tell you if you do not have tickets for the General Admission area to kindly return to the seats for which your tickets were issued...Buuuuuuut, since that's not gonna happen any time soon, do me a favor. Take care of eachother. If you see someone fall down, pick them up, kick em in the ass and tell them not to do that again. Enjoy the rest of the show."
And enjoy it we did.
I awoke aching the next morning. I moved slowly, assessing any long term damage. My feet were trashed. Bruised and cut to hell. But my leg. Oh my god my leg. I turned my ass towards the mirror and with ginger fingers poked at the 16 inch softball sized bruise that was rearing it's ugly red, purple, yellow and green head all over the back of my leg. It was so big that days later I was laying out in the sun in the quad, when my RA came running out and demanding to know what had happened to my leg.
"I was on the OTHER SIDE of the quad, and I could see that thing from there!"
I wore my trophy proudly for about 4 weeks. Always with short shorts. (Largely die to the fact that long pants rubbing against it was excruciating.) But, it made me feel frickin' tough when I regaled my horrific tale of near death at the hands of a Smashing Pumpkins Mosh Pit.
And now today, Bald, Bloated, Billy Corgan. I can't even reconcile what he's become with what he was the night I almost bit it. It's heartbreaking really.
So, he's another in a long line of celebrities who can fuck right the fuck off.
posted by LC Greenwood at 10:55 AM
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