Thirsty Thursday

Come on in, folks, the show is free. Here’s what I have to offer you:

I’ve got my five favorite songs of the month, and I want YOU to listen to them. That’s right, you! Now you may be asking yourself, “why is he giving me this? what’s the catch?” Well there isn’t one! That’s right, I’m just tossing five amazing songs at you! FOR FREE!

If you act RIGHT NOW, I’ll even throw in an old favorite of mine as the sixth song.

Here’s the very first Thirsty Thursday thirsty-thursday.net feb. 2006 podcast broadcast in MP3 form (click the grey box to play it off this website), I even included a track listening below!

If you want to download it and save it to your desktop or add it to an mp3 player, simply cut and paste the following address into your browser window:
http://www.thirsty-thursday.net/podcastfeb2007.mp3

1.Langhorne Slim - “English Tea”


2.David Vandervelde - “Nothin’ No”


3.The Good, The Bad, The Queen - “80’s Life”


4.National Beekeepers Society - “White Picket Fences”


5.Arab Strap - “The First Big Weekend”


6.The National - “Lucky You”

After a long night of drinking at the Tav downtown, four of us trudged through the subzero temperatures and shuffled up to my apartment. Shortly thereafter, there was a knock. Award winning news journalist Sammy Red stepped into my apartment with his guitar and some brandy. Soon we were all drinking hot tea with a splash of brandy and listening to the soulful sounds of Mr. Red and his guitar. Somewhere a camera emerged and we were able to catch a snippet of the magic on video. This is Sammy Red’s take on “If I Were A Carpenter.”

“Everybody” “Everybody” by Sammy Red.

Madison, Wisconsin is a place best known for its massive Halloween parties, but there’s a burgeoning local music scene packed with every variety of sound you can imagine. One band, the National Beekeepers Society, is making their way into the world of post-punk.

Their first album (naturally entitled “National Beekeepers Society”), is a self-released affair that came out at the tail-end of 2006. It’s a record full of lazy vocals, swelling guitars, and a familiarity you can’t quite place. Their album goes from one end of the spectrum to the other. There’s the dark “Scars” where lead-singer Nick almost moans in misery, “she’s got stars in her eyes, and scars on her arms.” It’s morbid and comfortable at the same time. “Slackerevolution” opens with what sounds dead on like “Where is my mind” by the Pixies and delves into an anthem for slackers everywhere, with a fat baseline dropping into your ears.

“Nick was in a couple of bands in Indiana. I’ve been playing in local Madison bands for several years, primarily in punk bands. Brad started off in Wausau, Wisconsin and played drums in an assortment of indie bands,” said Kris, vocalist and bass player. “We met on the internet. When Nick moved to Madison in August of 2004, he put up an ad and found Brad. In April of 2005, I joined up. We worked hard to find a singer and eventually, after try-outs became too painful, Nick took over main vocals.”

“We started playing live shows in March of 2006 under the name Tank Parade,” said Kris. “We played live shows through the summer and then Nick went on a bender and ended up in Portland, Oregon for a week in August before returning to his senses and rejoining the band. Thus began National Beekeepers Society. We just needed a new name for the new start. Most of the material was worked up before Nick left and Brad and I were actively editing the work during Nick’s walkabout.”

“We did most of the album from the first couple of takes, sometimes drums and guitar were even recorded simultaneously,” said Kris about the process of getting everything on tape. “We were looking for a live sound and wanted it to sound fresh. I have a studio in my basement (Leyden Jar Studio) and have done audio recording for past bands and other musicians for several years. It was done at our pace, but the process went pretty fast.”

They had their CD release party at the Klinic bar in Madison back on December 15th, but their efforts to get their sound out there isn’t over yet.

“The process of releasing this album has just begun,” said Kris. “Our main concern was getting the album to the audience that would most likely understand what we were doing, so we started sending it out to college radio stations and newspapers in the Midwest. We’re getting radio play at many stations from St. Cloud, through Madison to Milwaukee.”

With the album being created and distributed by band, they’ve been keeping their ears to the ground as far as finding a label that fits. Until then it’s available through cdbaby.com/cd/nbsociety.

“We’ve been talking to some indie labels, but haven’t actively been pursuing anything other than the music,” said Kris.

The band is just a normal group of working class guys. Nick works a night-shift job, while Brad is a grad student over at UW-Madison. Kris holds down a research job at the UW as well. The UW has been extremely flexible regarding touring and gigs, so the day jobs aren’t interfering with the dream yet. The group seems content to play their music and live their lives and see where it takes them.

“I love KVSC and am thrilled we’re playing on one of my favorite stations,” said Kris, whose enthusiasm for KVSC stems from when he went to SCSU a few years ago. “I studied Russian and loved the teachers and the Russian department at SCSU. They had no major, so I transferred to UW-Madison. Basically, I got my coffee at the java Joint, my lunch at Hemsing’s deli and my albums from the Electric Fetus. I also got the best cheap beer and philosophical debates of my life at the downtown Bravo Burrito (R.I.P.).”

The group is already working on their new album with plans to release it soon. They’re keeping busy with a number of gigs, and hope to find their way towards Minnesota soon.

“We are planning on playing St. Cloud this spring,” said Kris. “I need a plate of chicken verde nachos from the west side Bravo’s.”

“Slackerevolution”

“Slackerevolution” by National Beekeepers Society

Originally published in the University Chronicle.

Jason Schueppert

“White” was shot around five years ago by my friend and colleague Chayden Bates. It’s mostly improvised, we just kind of riffed off of each other and Bates kept what worked. The other coke-fiend in the film is Ben Wockens, a child molester from Sioux Falls that we befriended (he simply does what he’s told, I think it’s from being incarcerated). The finished product is something I’m proud of to this day, I think it’s funny. How can you go wrong with two assholes jibber-jabbing in a room about nothing and everything? *note: the cocaine is powdered sugar, not cocaine.

More DECODV footage.

“Wow, this Applebee’s is really nice. When did they build this place?” Josh drinks his appletini delightedly. He ignores the stares of other patrons, he’s used to gawking.

“Oh, I think it sort of popped up overnight. This is actually where I met Alyssa,” Steve pokes at his orange buffalo strips. “I came in here to get the sampler platter and a beer and she kept hovering around me. It took me about twenty minutes to realize she thought I was you. She slipped me a note and asked me if I wanted to get ‘all lit up again, on the couch, in her bed.’”

“So you’re fucking a girl that thinks you’re me? Why would she even think that? I’m covered in ink,”
Josh spreads his arms wide, revealing the tattoo’s that wind up his arms, neck, and what’s exposed of his chest through his yellowed undershirt. “All you’ve got is that stupid tribal shit around your bicep,” Josh jabs at the pop culture branding his brother has.

“I got that for her, man. She broke me down. She’s got a lovely face. She screams so loud when she’s getting fucking laid, I can’t say no to a thing she asks,” Steve sputters, wishing he had a sweet pair of snakeskin pants like his brother.

“She’s loud, huh?” Josh snickers a bit. A family of four passes by Josh and Steve’s table, having just finished dinner. Josh let’s a rancid fart rip as they go by and stares into the forty year old mom’s eyes.
They quickly hurry out the door.

“Yeah, it’s great, but she’s kind of weird though. She always tries to get me to stay after we get finished, you know? But I’m not that kind of dude, I’ve got to make my way.” Steve argues.

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad. It could be worse.” Josh reasons, thinking of the girl who glued the bedroom door shut while he was passed out from all the blow they’d done. He’d needed a running start to take that out.

“Hey, she’s a crazy bitch,” Steve blurts out, other Applebee’s patron’s look over in disgust at the two trashy brothers.

“That sounds kind of harsh, Steve.”

“Oh yeah? She eats a lot of bran. Would you like to know why?” Steve questions his brother, a daring look on his face.

“Yes, yes I would.” Josh counters.

“It’s because she likes to get down on all fours when she’s naked and poop a tail. She poops like 80% of her turd out and then locks it in place by holding it in so she can walk around on all fours whimpering.
The bran keeps her shit stiff enough so it doesn’t break off right away.” Steve had been dying to tell somebody about this. It had been eating away at him for weeks.

“Crazy bitch…” Josh mutters.

“Yeah, but she fucks so good when I’m on top of it,” Steve looks like he’s about to cry, he’s so confused.

“You fuck her after that?” Josh’s mouth is agape as their waiter hurries over to their table.

“Listen, I am going to have to ask you two to keep it down. Your speech is highly inappropriate, and if you hadn’t noticed, there’s a senior’s group behind you,” the boney waiter points to the six elderly women all dressed in purple suits and pink hats. Every one of them is glaring at the two brothers, some look ready to fight.

“I’m sorry, sir. My brother here has been going through a rough time since his wife died last year.”
Josh blurts the lie without even thinking. “I haven’t been around much to help him through it either, I have such a busy schedule being on the road with my band, Buckcherry,” Josh tells the waiter, Bertrand.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized.” Bertrand the waiter is confused as to why he’s sorry, but he knows that either the dirty, tattooed man’s being famous, or his equally grungy brother being a widower is sad enough to warrant their being left alone. He quickly backs away and later tells the waitress that he likes
that he met somebody from Eagle Eye Cherry.

“I dream of her all night, scratching the fuck out of my back to keep me right on her.” Steve’s eyes plead for understanding as he tries to keep his voice down.

“Disturbing,” Josh looks defeated and sad for his brother.

“Don’t judge me!” Steve throws down his napkin, his feelings hurt.

“Listen, are you sure she’s not just a money whore? Most of the girls that come on to me nowadays just want a Bentley or something.” Josh argues with his brother.

“Yeah, she’s in it to take it all. That green paper’s her game. She jumped right into bed with fame-”

“My fame,” Josh corrects him.

“True, but fame nonetheless.”

“So, what about the videotapes?” Josh sighs.

“Baby girl wants it all, to be a star. So one night when she was playing puppy, I got out the camera,”

“You have the tail thing on tape?”

“I was hoping you could hook me up with a vendor or something.”

“Oh my God, no,”

“Come on man, I always supported you!”

“Mom and Dad would kill me if I had anything to do with you and some fecal videos with that crazy bitch. No way. Why would you even want people to know that you’re involved in that shit?”

“I’m on top of it, man. I wear a mask, a Zorro mask,” Steve smiles.

“Well, I’m going to need to see the videos first.” Josh tells him.

“I told you, I’m on top of it,” Steve fishes out his video Ipod and loads up one of the videos. “We’ve got thirteen sessions on here. I’m hoping we could churn out four tapes with those, but I’m not sure how long they need to be specifically.”

“Oh, Jesus-fuck!” Josh blurts out as he watches the puppy act in progress on the seven-and-a-half inch screen. “There’s really a lot of detail on these little guys, huh?”

The pink hated senior club behind them cringed at “Jesus-fuck” and had finally had enough of the two, awful boys. Edna, the group planner (she had scheduled this girls night out) was now standing at Josh and Steve’s table, trembling with anger.

“You two are horrible!” She spits out at them, her lips are caked in scarlet lipstick and trembling.

Josh eyeballs his brother, grins, and holds the Ipod in front of her face, just as the turd breaks off of Alyssa’s ass in the video, leaving a thick trail behind her. The old woman’s eye’s start twitching and she screams.

“You must leave! You must leave now!” Bertrand is back, trying to usher the brother’s out. He reaches for Edna’s wrist, to guide her back to her table.
Bertrand would like to tell her that their meals are comp’ed, but that doesn’t work out.

“Rape!” is all Edna can scream. She screams it before Bertrand can say a word to her. Everyone in the restaurant is looking at Bertrand and Edna, his hand on hers as she alerts everyone to a fabricated molestation, obviously involving him. Nobody in the restaurant notice as Josh and Steve slip out the front door, ditching their check. They leave it to Bertrand, who will have to pay for it.

The two brothers speed down Main Street, discussing marketing for the “puppy” videos. Josh will think of that “crazy bitch” Alyssa for months, fantasizing of being near the tail.

Originally published in Zygote In My Coffee.

Jason Schueppert

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t have any Faygo!” His painted face contorts into righteous fury. “This is motherfuckin Detroit!” Pete stands there for a moment of outraged silence. He’s waiting for the significance of this being Detroit and there not being any of his favorite soft drink to sink into the clerks mind. It does not.

“They manufacture it a few miles away!” Pete wildly waves his arms in astonishment as he informs the clerk of their shared history as Troiters. He thrusts a dollar bill at the clerk and storms out of the store, voraciously eating a Shaq bar.

“Where’s the Faygo, dawg?” Steve’s standing in front of the club, across the street from the Cum & Go. He has also painted his face up. He proudly sports an oversize Insane Clown Posse concert t-shirt covered in autographs. He bought the shirt nine years ago and has brought a special silver fabric pen to every ICP show since, hoping to get their autograph again. And again. And again.

“Man, they don’t carry the shit,” Pete rehashes the tale of woe, laboring on the point of the clerk not knowing Faygo was a hometown brand. “They’ve been brewing it in this city since 1907. You think I shelve books five days a week at the library so I can NOT enjoy my favorite beverage while watching my favorite rappers represent our hometown? That is shit, plain shit!”

“I feel that, Violent P. My fucking wife bugs me all day long when I’m working.” Steve is riling himself up thinking about Pauline, about how she just doesn’t get him. “I tell her working at home is just that, working, and she still interrupts me. It’s like she thinks she could do just as well as me at buying up old action figures and selling them for a profit on E-Bay. God bless her, but she’s a fool. She probably doesn’t even know where the serial numbers are on the figurines box. She’s the type to sell a series one storm trooper for the price of a series nine. I’d like to see her keep a Millennium Falcon in its box for twenty years so you can turn a profit. That’s not easy as a kid, you know. You just stare at the box and pretend you’re playing with it. It’s just not the same.”

Pete cringes, knowing that there’s an entire “my wife and kids don’t understand me” tirade coming, unless he can steer Steve out of it.

“Remember when Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J opened for Limp Bizkit back in 99, back before the kids turned on Durst. That show was bomb, the fucking pyrotechnics were a beauty to behold,” Pete blurts out.

“Hell yeah! I got the drummer to sign my shirt in the bathroom before the show.” Steve proudly reminisces about hiding in the bathroom backstage that night, hoping to drop a rhyme on violent J. J never came, but John Otto stumbled back there in a haze after cracking a whippet in the bands dressing room. This incident is why they always came to the venues early the night of the concerts. Pete and Steve were always the first ones there, ever since they discovered the dirty clown rappers in their sophomore year of High School and took to calling themselves Juggalos in honor of their heroes.

The two of them always found ways of passing time while they waited outside of the shows. Sometimes they would bring their magic cards and crouch on the sidewalk casting spells and tapping their manna. Sometimes they would play “Violent J Says” a variation of “Simon Says” with more vulgarity and rage. Sometimes, well sometimes they would rap. They’d do a few lines each, usually from something off of “The Great Milenko” album.
“Climb aboard our magic train and join us inside/Hokus pokus, joker’s ride, come take a spin on a carnie ride.” Pete spouts to Steve, trying to psyche him up.

An older woman, dressed in a quiet navy power suit, tries to pass by these two men undetected. She keeps her gaze dead ahead, never letting them see her look at them. It doesn’t work. Pete turns his attentions to her and starts spilling his game louder.
“Giant ladies, bearded ladies, midget ladies, ladies!”

The woman is offended, but moreover her sense of pity for the two overwhelms her. When she gets home she will look into donating money to after school programs and hope that Michigan will produce fewer social rejects. She almost cries when the skinny one yells, “Too good to talk to me, huh!” because yes, she really is too good.

Steve shuts off the calculator function on his watch and checks the time. Surprised by the lateness and eager for the doors to open in ten minutes, the two of them start chanting the name of the evil genie their idols worship.

“Great-Mil-enko, hahahaha. Great-Mil-enko, hahahaha. Great-Mil-enko, hahahaha. Great-Mil-” The door to the club swings open, almost hitting the two of them.

“What are you doing?” A stern, small man in a leather coat and ponytail demands to know. Steve recognizes a hint of Pakistan in his voice.

“We’re waiting for the show to start.” Pete says timidly. The man stares at them and seems to mull this information over.

“No.” He shakes his head.

“No?” Steve whines.

“There’s no show.” The man with the ponytail, Arturo, tells them.

“What? You’ve got a flyer right there, on the damn door!” Steve points at the flyer behind Arturo. Arturo spins and glances at it skeptically. Then he reaches and crumples it.

“No show. We cancelled them. Do you know how many tickets we sold?” The man asks in disbelief. He does not wait for an answer from the two dumbstruck men. “Two. Two fucking tickets.”

“Those were our tickets! We paid to see them, you cant do this!” Steve squeals in horror.

“Are you going to cry? Are you sad clowns?” He mocks them, “Look at you, you are grown men. Do you think, as a pair of sad Laurel and Hardys, you should be wandering around downtown, shouting outside of peoples businesses?”

“Hey! Who are you calling fat!” Pete jabs his finger into the mans chest, just like he’s seen it done in the movies. The man, Arturo, slaps Pete sharply across the cheek. Steve’s jaw drops. Arturo wipes his palms on Pete’s shirt, removing the greasepaint he smeared off the wounded clowns cheek. Pete’s eyes begin to water as Arturo slams the door in their faces. The two of them sit down on the curb, destroyed.

As Pete silently weeps, Steve slips on his glasses and fishes his phone out from his corduroy pants. “Hi honey. Could you come get me and Pete? No, they cancelled the show. Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t know “CSI” was on or I wouldn’t have interrupted you.” Steve listens to his wife complain about his thoughtlessness and how sick she is of his inability to plan ahead as thunder strikes loudly above them. The darkened clouds break open and cold rain washes away the faces of the last two Juggalos.

Jason Schueppert

All month I’ve been wondering what the fuck I’d be doing for the next podcast. I wasn’t getting anything at work that I would be willing to rave about. Some good, decent stuff, but nothing to say “hey, fuckface, listen to this.” Then I got the Teddybears album, “Soft Machine” and said, “this is really MTV ready, but I like it.” Then I got the Chris Garneau album “Music for Tourists” and I thought, “this album is going to suck.” I was way off base, the old “man with piano” title doesn’t do Chris justice. He has a compelling voice that conjures up many other notable musicians, but it’s eerie and beautiful. Then there was that album that I thought was great, but worried that it would suck on repeated listenings. It doesn’t. That album is from the group My Teenage Stride, a Brooklyn group that conjures the gloom pop from Britain in the late 80’s. Anyways, the point is that the new podcast is full of fantastic songs. And the audio isn’t too shabby this time around.

Here’s the 2nd Thirsty Thursday podcast broadcast in MP3 form (click the grey box to play it off this website), I even included a track listing below!

If you want to download it and save it to your desktop or add it to an mp3 player, simply cut and paste the following address into your browser window:
http://www.thirsty-thursday.net/podcast2.mp3

1.Teddybears feat. Iggy Pop - “Punkrocker”


2.Chris Garneau - “So Far”


3.The Coach and Four - “Tiger High ‘85″


4.My Teenage Stride - “Ears Like Golden Bats”


5.Barr - “The Song Is The Single”

“This is it,” she’s flipping through her keys. We’re in front of #303. Her eyes look hungry. I’m a little scared. There could be leather behind this door. There could be whips. There could be pentagrams. The door opens. Her tongue is in my mouth and we stumble into the dark.

I smell apples.

“Should I put some music on?” she’s whispering into my ear as she nibbles it. She’s a motherly one; wide hips, a likely second-hand blue blouse, casually open one more button than appropriate.

“Sure.”

“Do you like Bob Dylan?” She mews in my ear.

“Sure.” At the bar earlier, she pushed in the bathroom’s stall door I was behind and crammed her tongue down my throat. I wouldn’t have expected her to follow that up with small talk, but here we are. She flicks on the light and my brain melts in horror.

Jesus. He’s everywhere.

There’s a portrait behind the TV. It’s the healthy, robed Jesus. Behind it is what looks like a corn husk. A few days later I figure out it’s a palm leaf. There’s a ceramic manger scene on the bookshelf. Next to me, on the wall, is a photo of her at age eight or nine, next to her family’s priest. They both look really pleased with themselves. As she walks over from her turntable, I notice the cross around her neck. It’s not your basic lowercase “t.” Nope, it’s Jesus, in agony, nailed to the cross. The only thing remotely like God that’s missing in the room is a cardboard cut out of the J man.

She sits on her davenport, crosses her legs, and smiles at me. She still looks like a wolf, especially when she pats her hand lightly on the vinyl cushion covering on the couch to get me to sit. I feel like I’m in the lion’s den, being toyed with before I’m devoured.

“Nice couch cover.”

“Thanks,” she smiles and leans over to me, whispering. “I have cats.” My heart drops. Somehow that’s the scariest phrase I’ve ever heard in my life. She’s a cat lady. She’s a serial adopter of cats, she’s hoping to create a family, and I voluntarily came into her home. Suddenly I recognize the voice on the record. It’s Dylan’s Baptist album, from when he was born again in the early eighties. I want to leave. There’s nothing I want more in this world than I want to escape this woman before she can shackle me, but she slides her hand into my pants.

We probably look like confused puppeteers, each of us with our hands in the other’s underthings. She’s biting my neck when I mutter “Jesus!”

She pauses.

In the back of my mind, I know that this could be the time for my escape.

“Isn’t he great,” she whispers.

I don’t know. I don’t care.

We go to the bedroom.

Afterwards, we spoon. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. I rolled over onto my side, facing away from her. She pulls up behind me and snakes an arm around my torso, as if to prevent escape. I want her to fall asleep. I don’t want to wake up here. I want to wake up, alone, in my own bed.

She’s nuzzling my back with her nose.

“Do you want to come to Sunday services with me tomorrow?” she purrs, kissing my ear.

I don’t know what to say to this. I don’t even want to be here, let alone go to bed, wake up here, and then spend more time with her, in church, probably Catholic Church, and then probably have to go to lunch with her. That doesn’t work for me. I pretend to be sleeping so I don’t have to answer.

I don’t want to shit all over her, I just don’t want to get involved. I’m running through a list I keep in my mind. I’ve decided to call it ‘how to get people to turn against you.’ I could fart on her. I could do it right on her cooter. That would definitely not be taken well. I could take the lords name in vain, maybe after I fart on her. Throw a nice “oh Christ!” after I let It rip.

One of her cats, the first one I’ve even seen, jumps up on the bed and nestles in front of my face. I sneeze.

“I’m allergic!” explodes out of my mouth. It’s a complete lie, but there’s no time to waste. I bolt upright. “I need my inhaler!”

I don’t actually have an inhaler. She looks worried and flips on the lamp.

“I have some Bennadryl.”

“No no, I need my prescription, this is bad,” I’m pulling on my pants, suddenly fearful, out of nowhere, that she’s going to fish the used condom out of the trash and empty it’s contents inside of herself. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, or where this idea comes from. I have a baby phobia. From this moment on, I resolve to flush all prophylactics down the toilet after use.

I’m clothed again. I lean over the bed and give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Will you be at the bar tomorrow?” she asks me, a look of urgency on her face.

I look at the bible on the nightstand, a page marked by a prayer card. No, no I will not be at the bar. I have to change bars now. I have to change bars and be ashamed that I’m a bad, a bad man that will apparently fuck anything that touches me.

“Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

She smiles.

Jason Schueppert

A documentary crew goes to the home of a man to interview him about volunteering at the YMCA with the mentally disabled.

Starring Ryan Lafollette, Ryan Christiansen, and Jason Schueppert as “John Davis.” Chayden Bates directs. Jason Schueppert wrote it.

An embarrasing grade school memory is shared by three friends.

Directed by Chayden Bates. Concept by Jason Schueppert. Humerous story provided by Ryan Christiansen, who stars as the one with the hat. Also starring Jason Schueppert, and Ryan LaFollette.

And that would be the unused footage of the first two takes we tried. The actor telling the story is different, and the delivery is less subtle. I would be willing to say it’s completely different.