Do It All dad does a comeback killer set from COVID.
Moses Lives on sale now.
Lemmy from Motorhead, the guitar player from the Stooges, Johnny Rotten from the Sex Pistols and numerous other punk bands from the states in the sixties only 30 years removed from the World War 2 max, thought performing in Nazi uniforms or sporting Swastika armbands was a way to get a rise out of their parents. Wouldn’t blowing Pattie Smith’s gay hustler hub on a home video for Christmas with a goose jammed up his ass, gotten the job done, without affiliating themselves with Nazi pin ups for Arian Beat Nation? Oh yeah that’s right, skinhead punks in England were working class. So sporting Swastika armbands on stage is totally kosher in the albino bloke’s eyes, because the Jews control all the money and banks in the North Pole to. But I’m supposed to believe the Proud Boys are modern day neo-Nazi’s because they stand up to terrorizing arsonists in ANTIFA, dressed up like wannabe Punisher vigilantes in hoodies from Target as if everyday is Halloween Day. Woke bloke please. Also, if the Proud Boys were avowed racists than why would they act sly shy about it, concealing their extremist hate in subtle Fred Perry polos? I had no idea how Fred Perry polos was the new unofficial school uniform for Neo Nazi charter schooling in Nottingham. Amy Winehouse, a Jewess jazz crooner extraordinaire sported Fred Perry polos. But Amy Winehouse represented the enemy according to AOC and Minnesota rep Baby Face Omar from Somalia because she was nothing more than a bee hive sporting, devil horn concealing, Christian blood baby sucking, parasitical witch, who exploited the great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.
But Lemmy from Motorhead just collected Nazi paraphernalia because they had the “killer uniforms.” No shit Lemmy! And I’m fretting about my neurotic based jokes being too much on the nose. Lemmy adds, “The SS uniform is brilliant. They were rock stars of their time.” What band would you compare them to today Lemmy, “Coldplay In Nazi Regalia”? But you can’t call Lemmy a Nazi for collecting Nazi caps like semi-bust Shawn Kemp rookie cards. Nazi dish resell value on the 4Chan of Ebay, MarthaStewartIsUs, proves who the real master race in this instance. Was Lemmy a Nazi because he collected their Nazi paraphernalia like an ace of spades blaring, biker rocker version of Chris Cooper in American Beauty? No, but Lemmy wasn’t playing Clive Davis’s son’s Bar Mitzvah at Temple Beth El either.
Lemmy said, “Don’t tell me I’m a Nazi cause I have uniforms. In 1967 I had my first black girlfriend and a lot more ever since then.” But Lemmy wasn’t famous in 1967. He was just a butt ass ugly bloke, who hadn’t made it big yet. So let’s not act as if Lemmy could afford to be white supremacist picky, before Motorhead broke big. Plus, being into the brown sugar, join the club, didn’t make Lemmy any less of a creepy fuck for spending more time shining Eichmann’s boots than he did scrubbing his face with fucking Oxy Pads. And Nazi boot licker collector fashionistas aren’t being casted to play Nazi hunters that aren’t actual Nazi’s on Amazon Prime. Last, the Hindu jacked Swastika doesn’t look cool. It looks like 2 stick figures doing a 69 on crystal meth.
After I got my TV writing break with VH1 Classic on America’s Hard 100, I gave my producer boss who hired me a Bruce Springsteen mix to express my appreciation. Then I say, “This doesn’t mean I have a crush on you boss.”
I think too highly of my former TV producer boss to make him a volume 2 mix since Bruce Springsteen decided to nod in submissive agreement with Obama Be Good during an interview with CBS while promoting their new book together, Experimenting With Biological Warfare, after the fake news uniting one branded the E-Street band’s white boy fanbase as a bunch of easily triggered Michael Richard types minus the SAG cards, who who launch into N bomb dropping tirades at the local pub off Broadway, Screaming Nazi’s Are Us, after a couple of Jack and Coke’s with no Clarence Clemons clones in sight. As if another operatic, soul tingly sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons of the E Street Band on Jungleland would easily trigger an Irish MTA subway token operator in the eighties after a couple of Black and Tan’s in his system after the eighties jukebox replays, Westside Story meets The Outsiders in Washington Heights on Jungleland, after blowing 200 bones to hear the song performed live prior at MSG. MTA subway token operator says, “You know bro, I don’t normally, use the n word, unless it’s a term of affection, because I grew up around more black guys in Bed-Stuy than Seal. But that n word can blow the bug out of Spike Lee’s ass.”
But seriously, what are these other so called confessional, racist bomb acapella asides being dropped by Bruce’s closeted racist fan base after E-Street show’s past?
Dock Worker says to his girl on his way back home from an E-Street Band show at the Stone Pony in Ashbury Park, “Saints of Newark my ass, The E-Street Band, can blow that soul glow sound out of their jungle fever loving assholes. I could’ve been the Grand Dragon, but instead I’m a gun shy, closeted racist and that’s all I’ll ever be.”
Sanitation Worker back on the truck again says, “Affirmative Action gave me you Leroy and I’m happier for it. What did you think of the E Street Band show at the Garden last night? Leroy says, “I felt whiter than white man’s disease Lorenzo, if you really need to know.”
Aspiring American Short Story scribe janitor mutters to himself while mopping up some spilled Sloppy Second Joe brain slop, “Charles Bukowski didn’t think Bob Dylan was anything to write home about either.”
Short Order Cook just out of Rikers for drug possession of cocaine at a Dead show in Nassau Coliseum in the eighties says, “I thought coke would make Bruce Springsteen sound like less generic white boy music, it didn’t.”
Plumber under the sink at work again says, “That Clarence Clemons can play a Nickle back defense if Leonard Marshall on the Giants ever goes down. But he can still drop a fire hose load on top of my sister’s back to mark the time he came there anytime.”
A sleep deprived, hungover, Welder burns his hand on the job the following morning after a 4 hour Bruce show the previous night, combined with the 2 hours it took him to get out parking lot at Giant Stadium and screams out loud, with flabbergasted disgust, “Fuck you Clarence. I was born with 0.0 talent. I was born to do jack shit but get fired on the job again.”
Jersey Mechanic get’s oil in his eye under the hood of a Pink Cadillac and bemoans, “Clarence Clemmons is pounding away champagne and crab legs after shows yet this little greasy monkey can’t even change a spark plug right. You can’t get out of New Jersey without a creative spark like Clarence either Bruce. I’m stuck in the Swamp Thing state permanently and it’s not because of alluring tax breaks on my organic farm growing pesticide free Jersey tomatoes for Grandma’s Sunday sauce. But you’re not guilty of cultural appropriation Bruce, you Obama Be Good siding, no matter what, sell out mook.”
I recall Bruce Springsteen addressing the E-Street Band after someone was caught violating their no drug policy by stating, “All of you are replaceable. The Big Man would take a bit to replace. Michael Clarke Duncan is a little bit green and not method enough to go that extra mile the way Denzel did in Mo Better Blues.”
Also, the E Street Band boasts the most Jewish sounding drummer of all time, Max Weinberg, who looks like he’d be playing the Bar Mitzvah circuit if Bruce didn’t shimmer up and exploit Bob Dylan’s working man’s blues, country rock pop motif with a one man horn section in the form of Clarence Clemons for all it was worth. So how racist could Bruce’s alleged screaming Nazi fans be if they could stomach Bruce who looked liked like a plague carrying, scuzzier version of Neil Diamond, otherwise known as the Jewish Elvis, on the Born to Run Album tour, combined with the larger than life big man blowing him off the stage with one soul man and a half sax bellow blast after another in addition to the four eyed, all together, ultra studious Jewy teen drummer Max Weinberg in his leftover Bar Mitzvah suit pounding away on the drums at the Stone Pony in Ashbury Park back to earn some extra sheckles to afford a Sandy Kofax rookie card, because his weekly allowance wasn’t cutting it. Did Tony the Plumber and his buddy wait till the Stone Pony was practically empty, and do one last bump of shitty coke that tastes like AJAX, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall to get more stone cold sober for the ride home only to be unmasked as Axl’s Rose’s alter ego on GNR Lies in the making? Tony the Plumber blurts, “Police and N Bombs get out of my way.” Plumber bud says, “Get out of whose way? We got 2 lines left bro. I’m here to do some coke Tony, not blow my last minutes of freedom before I drive home to my fat slob wife, to hear you rehearse your lines for dumb mook number 3 in Raging Bull.”
Bruce Springsteen fans are racists, yeah, the elitist ones on Broadway, who don’t think Kyrie Irving is smart enough to make his own his health care decisions. Don’t get it twisted Obama Be Good, we all know you’ve done less for black empowerment than school boards trying to cock block the creation of more Charter Schools, which make those blame game hack, lazy brain teachers less inspired role models than Courtney Love failing to teach her 9 -year- old to read, while belting out lyrics, “I shat my bed on more heroin and I’ll die in it. Because I’m not clear headed enough yet to practice forging Kurt Cobain’s handwriting on his subsequent suicide note after he decides to dump my junkie ass for good.” Hey, don’t kill the innocuous messenger insurrectionist. And you thought Alanis Morissette was a longwinded jaded little bitch. Look at it this way, if Kurt Cobain killed himself at the height of his popularity, after coming out as a professed proud Dad, who discussed quitting the music biz to focus on his painting, his guitar and playing dad like a bleached out junky version of William Burroughs into his old age. Then, Woody Allen still stands a shot at winning Father of the Year while shooting the shit with Oprah about his new book on hands off parenting, Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years.
I also thought Kurt Cobain detested cliched rock stereotypes. And what’s more stereotypical rock god behavior than self-imposed, fatal ruin, from drugs or a shot gun marriage to Courtney Love? Kurt Cobain actually predicted that an outsider, not controlled by outside moneyed interests like Trump could become President one day. Google it, if they haven’t scrubbed that quote yet, which wouldn’t be Pearl Jam sell out shocking, by endorsing Mr. Groper on the campaign tour just as Kurt had labeled Eddie Vedder ions ago. Because if Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find positive mentions of alternative treatments for COVID such as hydroxychloroquine than it is to find a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes who called the Irishman, “underrated”?
What would Kurt Cobain have to say about the Foo Fighters playing the 1st concert post pandemic at the world’s most woke arena at Madison Square Garden, with a proof of vax to get into the door? Anyone who attended that show is on the side of generic gunky goo, throughout their everlong, edgeless lives. Reclusive Rocker shredding again, Challah. Thank you very much.
Nachos should be fuck up stoner proof. Then again, so was Seth Rogan’s acting career, holla, thank you very much. Seth Rogan defending Minnesota rep Baby Face Omar’s Anti-Semitism on Twitter is adorable though. He says, “Give me one spec of evidence that proves House Of Representatives Rep Illhan Omar hates Jewish New Yorkers, besides comparing 9/11 to Amy Winehouse’s death as “something happened”, to a beehive sporting, horn hiding, parasitical Jewess, who exploited the great Palestinian Songbook for all it was worth.”
If I’m totally honest, most nachos at bars suck, besides this one batch I had at Top Golf in Vegas before I saw Aerosmith live with an old school bud from LA, when hearing Steven Tyler belt out Chip Away At The Stone live was a top priority of the summer versus our eventual Burning Mask Party back east instead. But at the time, I was too stoned off legal Vegas weed to recall the specifics on why this batch of nachos was so much more amazing than the rest. Chances are, the nachos weren’t saggy gross like cottage cheese conjuring thighs on wives who have to gross you out further by declaring they’re on Weight Watchers, counting calories now, because if you’re a true feminist, it isn’t fair for just overweight dads on most CBS sitcoms to stop giving a shit about how they look naked in bed after marrying their lifetime partners in love for the time being.
Shitty nachos have weird, unasked for additions like sliced canned black olives, flavorless cheese or heat stripped Jalapenos, which is equivalent to a no touch lap dance policy and twice as deflating. If your homemade nachos aren’t inviting a non-stop barrage of rock steady blissed out bites then you probably dialed back the cheese factor like Jon Bon Jovi trading in his luscious locks for the grizzled, shortened, gender neutral Roger Waters grey plop on top look. But there’s no reason to tone down the cheese, when making Nachos because you’re not trying to reinvent yourself as the more mature, career stable Axl Rose in the process. I’ve made my kids various homemade batches of nachos yet my after-school nosh batch I made yesterday, rocked them all, because I wasn’t afraid to go overboard with the heart warming, good kind of cheese like eighties Journey, Chicago, REO Speedwagon had a baby. Specifically, I used an entire zipper packet of Trader Joe’s Mexican combo cheese, showcasing Monterey, Queso, Pepper Jack and Mozzarella, which is all your primo batch of nachos need. Other cheeses to melt on your bomb after school nachos such as cheddar don’t work nearly as good because they exude a less compatible musky heft like the Italian six string gunslinger Richie Sambora refusing to shave his chest hair for once in the presence of baby-faced Jon during the Wanted Dead Alive scrapped music video outtakes.
You can’t just splatter a bunch of pre-shredded cheese on top of a pile of pre-made Tortilla chips and think you’re made in the shade like after Slippery When Wet went triple platinum before Kip Winger contemplated asking for his groupie’s ID backstage again. Bon Jovi followed up Slippery When Wet with the equally masterful, superior in parts, double album New Jersey by doubling down on their nah, nah, nah, nah, cheesy magic on such rocking, dramatic leering songs such as Born To Be My Baby and I’ll Be There For You. At the same time, Bon Jovi rounded out their wall of cheesy sound with subtler, more varied, tingly flavor on songs such as Living In Sin. So, you shouldn’t shy away from injecting a deeper injection of personalized pop to your homemade nachos either by taking the time to caramelize drained, washed black beans, sweet cut up yellow onions, blasts of lime on top while adding olive oil fried up leaves of baby spinach before going for the all-out assault of shredded cheese before broiling the cheesy, veggie laced, greased up tortilla chips in the oven at high 400 for ten minutes max in a blaze of glory. Also, add a plop of whole milk yogurt for a dipping sauce in the middle of your nacho tray, which is significantly less cheesy than using your standard always too sour, sour cream.
Digging into the mouthwatering pile of afterschool nachos with my 3 kids. bumping our elbows together in the process, made me feel so brand-new young. Blood on blood nosh attacks on this level of kick ass magnitude give all forms of deeply flavorful, insanely joyous, chant worthy hair metal conjuring cheesiness a good name.
Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.
For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.
But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”
No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”
The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight. Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.
The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.
Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like like the neutered fucking help. Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake, I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”
Once upon a time there was Sales Rep for Bose who suffered from Loud Man’s Disease. He loved blasting The Who, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC at work in the listening booth before he turned borderline deaf. Now, all Michael the Sales Rep from Bose hears is AC/DC’s song Hells Bells. Michael Yeller always believed louder is better until now because he was longer ablet to sing Search and Destroy by Iggy Pop and Stooges at the local Karaoke bar in White Plains, NY after work with his boss anymore.
Growing up, Michael only wanted to play air guitar like the great metal shredders throughout the walls of his childhood room, which included pictures Mick Mars from Motley Crew, the Freddy Kruger of shredding, the steel guitar slaying, Gypsy Road howler Tom Kiefer from Cinderella and the Tasmanian Devil of pretty good metal pop CC Deville from Poison. Later, Michael tried to learn the guitar after his parents got him an acoustic one for Hannukah but he already started smoking weed by junior year in high school, so the hand dexterity and hours of practice necessary to assume any semblance of functional playing mastery over the guitar were out of his self-imposed reach.
After college, Michael tried to make a living as an IT Headhunter in LA but IT Directors half his age didn’t appreciate being hounded by a such a loudmouth New Yorker who had less voice control than Busta Rhymes at a midnight showing of Higher Learning. Also, everyone in LA is very cagy, accustomed to time alone in their cars and airy, open rooftop hotel bars and non-descript, low key bars on random, zero foot traffic streets, unaccustomed to Vince Vaughn clones from Swingers from New York like Michael who was actually told to hush while on a date to see Eric Clapton at the Hollywood Bowl once. Eventually, Michael moved back to NY and did digital ad sales for Citysearch and started to try open mike stand up comedy. When working for Citysearch he’d say on stage, “Citysearch is city guide used mostly by gay men to find who gives the best facial.” But Michael struggled to unleash his inner rock star on stage, because if his 1st joke bombed, he could never win the audience back, which stripped him of the confidence to riff and piggy back off the waves of laughter, opting to go into any new inspired direction of hilarity he choose.
At the Christmas party for CitySearch Michael sang his best rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive yet, which he had perfected over the years. The high end 15-year Macallan scotch helped. Still, he got fired the next day for getting black out drunk and dry humping the coat check girl on the dance floor to Oh What A Feeling.
Knowing Michael couldn’t pay rent through playing air guitar renditions of Fallen Angel in Times Square, or make any money at stand-up comedy in NYC because he had to actually invite his friends to get performing time at the NY Comedy Club at all, he decided to find a job, where his loud man disease could be neutralized, where it wouldn’t become such a career hindering liability and got a job in suburbs at The Westchester Mall in White Plains, NY selling state of the art stereo equipment for Bose. Michael’s boss gave him some leeway and allowed him to tell some jokes, because he knew the stand-up comedy bug wasn’t out of his system all together. Michael would be selling noise cancelation headphones, “Yenta Silencers”, is what he’d call them specifically before sampling new bits on random customers such as, “Did you know Google fired 25 software engineers for sexual harassment? But software engineers are too busy banging out code to hit on girls at work. Plus, if you’re a software engineer at Google, your typical Pearl command script isn’t, “Massage my carpel tunnel ho.”
But one day during a demo presentation for AC/DC Back In Black on surround sound in the primo listening sampling room at work, Michael lost his ability to hear fully, now only hearing the death knell Church bell clang to Hells Bells. Was God punishing Michael for his Loud Man’s Disease forever? How could Michael ever sing Karaoke again, losing all semblance of voice control now whatsoever?
Michael was a really a good sales rep for Bose, but reality is, the speakers sold themselves. Michael’s boss and favorite Karaoke partner let him keep his job at Bose but got him off the sales floor to work as a blogger for their digital marketing team instead, allowing him rant and rave about all the loudest and proudest, most bad ass metal rock records of all time, which are only accentuated on Bose’s premium blast speakers, naturally. Michael would fire off blog record recommendations for albums by The Who, Neil Young and Crazy Horse and Van Halen with divine powered authority. He’d pound the keyboard non-stop-all day long, which was sweet music to his boss’s ears, knowing his employee and friend Michael could channel his love of fast, loud, kick ass metal like a Bat Out Of Hell, which sent his heart soaring, flying high again. In the end, Michael couldn’t sell Bose speakers on the main sales floor anymore but he was still able to sell his love of loud, metal music through his blogs, and also had the kick ass, momentous clang of Hell’s Bells playing in his head for company. And Michael didn’t need Meatloaf to tell him, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.