I felt pretty amazing on this particular morning, save for the fact that I had an amazonesque thicket in my pants. I sought to remedy this by shaving my ballsack bare, like a true gigolo blackbelt. Long story short, it was an absolute bloody hackjob. I applied a number of super-friends band-aids to the shredded beef that was once my manhood and promptly walked upstairs to Nathan's apartment to smoke pot and complain.

At about 2 in the afternoon I had called Blackmar to get a status update and inform him of the tragedy that had occurred earlier that morning.
"Yeah, I actually fucked myself up pretty bad too"
Really? What happened?
"Uhmm, you should probobly just see for yourself"
....
"Yeah. We'll meet you out front (of my apartment) in 10 minutes"
....

Blackmar is a ridiculous looking dude to begin with, but to see him decked out in a fucking eye-patch because his contact lens had rolled back into his brain via his presently very inflamed and gross right-eye was an absolute treat.

"I'm sorry if i've compromised our bands image."

He was serious.

And traffic was serious, as it often tends to be. It was a pleasent ride however, as Matt, Brian, Matt and Super-Steve got to re-experience Supreme Clientele, far and away my favorite Ghostface record.

We arrive at the venue at 5:30, start setting our shit up, as it had been explained to us that we would sound check at uhmm, 6 pm I think. I bought a zillion "The Club" and some Jaeger cuz I'm a filthy lush. I'm drinking my canned Pina Colada, which really tasted like curdled milk and rum, and setting up my analog synthesizer and trusty mac laptop when I hear the simultaneously booming and acutely piercing voice that had in my earlier years, stolen my heart and precipitated my ugly divorce from grunge music.

"Yo pa, we've been here for like an hour and shit!!! Dude says we're gonna souncheck and 5 and shit. When we gonna soundcheck duke???"

Fucking Ghostface....

------------------------
The sound crew politely asks that we take a vacation from the stage at which point Ghost begins what could loosely be described as a soundcheck. DJ J-Love plays about 30 seconds of a variety of instrumental joints, (from "Knuckleheadz" to "Block Rock") over which Ghosts weed carriers spit ad-libs. From the audience standing area, Ghost checks his mic in traditional MC fashion. "one-two...Check one-two." And so forth. After about 15 minutes he indicates that his DJ pause for a moment.

"Yo, I dunno man, I think this mic needs a new battery or something."
The soundman responds: "Is the light green?"
"Yeah, pa."
"Then it should be a fresh battery."
"Naw son, it needs to be fresher. It needs to be the freshest battery, god."

So the wireless mic gets its battery replaced. Ghost then proceeds to get up on stage and begins to rock an actual tune in the form of 4th Chamber. One verse of it anyways...

"Yo soundman, like, shit sounds tight from out there and shit but like, when I'm on stage and shit shit just don't sound spicy enough. I need a little bit more spice and shit on stage"

The soundguy was appropriately puzzled. "Uhmm, you'll have to speak to the monitor guy."

-----------------
So its 8:30 and no one knows where Court is. This is problematic because our set time was, uhmm...8:30, and he is our singer, a necessary component of our presentation. We can't wait; we are being pushed on stage. What do we do? We venture forth into the unknown and perform sans singer.

Actually, our first song didn't really have any singing.

And initially those fucking retards didn't wanna open with 'Hands'. (Exept for you, Dave Ls.) I swear, god works through me. His will is manifested in my words and actions. I was born on Easter, for real. My shit is so divine.

Court arrives for 'Hat'. (See video) The rest is history.

Four really bad bands later Ghost's hype man generates hype. Matt Star is trashed, but not so trashed so as to forget a very important cardboard box which he had absentmindedly left on stage. He sought to commandeer the stage and retrieve his box in close enough proximity to Ghostface's entourage so as to ignite a minor freakout. I think he was tackled. Fortunately, one of the security guys was sympathetic enough to Matt's situation that he felt compelled to retrieve said box on Matt's behalf. 7 Hours and infinity drinks later the lights go crazy and the intro to "The Champ" (The original one that Just Blaze did, with the "Fever" sample!!!) goes off and makes me go totally insane with amorous sentiments and unbridled Wu fanaticism. Its perfect.

During "One" a fight breaks out, which was terrific for me because the tussle created an opening for advancement towards the front of crowd, thus improving my view of the on stage calamity and glory that is a Ghostface show.
During "Back Like That" he calls all the chicks in the audience to the stage, mostly heinous skanks, save for one pretty brunette chick who freaks the shit all up on Ghost and most of his entourage.

After that bit of bedlam subsided, Ghost resumes his set for a few more jams, and I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"You guys we're fucking awesome".
It was some dude, but as I thank him for his earnest complement I realize he's not just some dude; he appears to be the brunette freaks manfriend.
Shucks thanks, I say. The brunette freak echos his sentiment.
"Yeah I really loved it."
Oh, I glad! Really, thank you
"I'm really good friends with *****"
Yeah I think he left early (cuz he's a fancy bitch)
"Oh."
I politely excuse myself from the conversation and return to watching the show currently in progress. Not long after, I become aware of the fact that my penis is mildly exited. No, it isn't Ghostface's theatricality and charisma, its a hand. A hand that happens to be massaging Little Steve. The chick who 5 minutes ago was grinding all up on Ghost and his weed carriers, and is presently (more or less) in the arms of the poor sap she had arrived with was fondling my junk, which puts me in a bit of an awkward spot. Of course, my immediate thought was grab her hand, escort her directly to our green room, and knock the collegian off those lips. But her manfriend didn't seem to want to let go, also...

My balls are encased in a zillion super-friends band-aids, which could prove embarrassing.

"Uhhmm, you know they're condoms in our cd cases"
Really?
"Yeah, and, like, an empty packet of toaster strudel frosting"
Oh. Sorry.

I tried to quell the palpable dismay which had arisen as a consequence my most grievous error by offering a piece...uhm, offering. In the form of delicious, unwrapped Oreos.

"Jesus, those are still in your bag?"
Yeah, dude they're good for like...
"But you must have bought those, like, in October."
Fine, don't eat them then...

We're playing in a college rec center tonight. And the prognosis is: disaster. Sexy disaster.

-------------
We'd left Blackmar to park his lovemobile/garbagefilthmobile with Cristen, the ringleader of the evenings events, which in retrospect was a mistake, given his tendency to develop a strong sentimental attachment to any girl who voluntarily rides in his Jetta.

"(groan) That Cristen girl, I like her style...(groan)"

Actually the whole band pretty much caught a crush on her, save for Court and I, who are gay and a-sexual, respectively. We're pretty much the best team of frontmen ever.

After some burritos, Thai Kwan Do, and swigs of fucking Makers Mark, I needed some air. And Matt and Matt needed some cigarettes. We go out, breathe, smoke, and we talk as men talk.

"...It's just...nothing is moving down there and I'm pushing and growling and, FUCK, nothing. So these guys walk in during the midst of all this and they clearly hear what's going on and I can hear them muttering about it. So as they finish up and go to wash their hands they see a toothbrush and some toothpaste, right? 'holly shit, who's toothbrush is this?' 'what the fuck', 'who could this belong to'...

(from the stall) it's mine.

And at that point nobody's really saying anything, so I'm like:

i'm a homeless.

Then they walk out. Briskly."
Fuck.
"Yeah, so when I get out I see them tell the security guard that there is some homeless guy in the Ucen mens bathroom."

Amidst the subsequent laughter a frail, blonde, bearded hippy type dude asks if he can bum a cigarette from either Matt.

"Uhm..naw. Sorry, just. no."
I was proud of Blackmar for not launching into a typhoon of apologetic language.
"Oh that's ok" says he. "What kinda music do you guys play."
Crunk, son.
"Crunk with instruments?"
Yah.

Somehow he manages to divert the conversation into a personal testimony, detailing his life of drug addiction, subsequent rehabilitation, and how music saved his life. Star covertly alerted me to the fact that this gentleman was, in his unique mannerisms, akin to a young Dwight Shrute.

"I've always been, like, a really good lyricist and stuff. Ever since I was in middle school I felt my writing was, like, advanced. It was very advanced."

I wanted to challege him to a rap battle, but he soon became preoccupied with shouting at some bros. The bros did not appear happy about this, and that is the point where I tag out. Mind you, these are UCSB bros, a less virulent and acerb strain. But still, I wasn't eager to be associated with someone Cristen would later describe as a "total skeezer".

I think that's what she said, anyways. I dunno, there were a lot of barbiturates that night. Anyways...

We played. It was OK. Aside from us, the first band to perform this evening was unequivocally the best. Nekrogoblikon. You owe it to yourselves to find them on MySpace and buy their record.

After two hours of arguing, assessing stolen moneys, a girl with out pants or underwear walks by, and we decide we should probably get to partying.

"One in three dude."

---------------------------------
On our way to the party we reach a dead end. Blackmar adventurously drives around the obstruction and off of a high-ass curb. Dave is following us in a fucking mini-van brimming with our expensive musical shit. He started yelling, and though I couldn't discern exactly what was being said, I had an idea.

We park. Walk. and arrive at our destination. We are immediately greeted by a douche who has devised a hand greeting which I sure appears revelatory to him, but for the rest of is puzzling at best, and reflective of severe brain damage at worst.

Robbie acclimates immediately and finds where the drum circle/weed circle is. But can't seem to find that exquisitely gorgeous harp player from one of the other bands.

I drink a beer. Slowly.

Dave hits on EVERYBODY.

Blackmar still hasn't pooped.

Star engages the "three nipple guy" in discourse.

Three nipple guy bends over, starts touching my feet, and is like:

"come on duude. you're killing me here."

We drive home.

The end.

...Make Masturbating Less Banal and Boooring. By Matt Blackmar

5. "The Stranger"
- Sit on your prefered wanking hand until it goes numb. Proceed to play with yourself.
4. "Fall in Love"
- Take a handfull of Lipitor. Proceed.
3. "The Jef Harmatz"
Masturbate, then write a comic about how awful it was. Show it to all your friends.
2. "The Mars Volta"
Do it on stage, 3 or 4 times, for a total of 3 hours.
1. "The Matt Blackmar"
Cut your self.

Thank you.
Matt

i saw a couple using one ipod, earphones straddled between their syncronously bobbing heads. it was the most romantic thing ever, i wanted to cry.

instead, i cut myself. two times.

- Matt Blackmar

I wrote a poem that I wanted to share with you guys! Sometimes reading poems is, like, inspirational and just knowing that someone feels the way you feel makes you feel less like inadequite. I just wanted to share this with you guys! :)

sometimes I think about cutting myself
to escape from the pain
of
endless black.
nobody loves me.
I wish you had children so
I could stomp on their testicles
so you can feel the pain
that I feel.
Everyday.

- Matt Blackmar