Uh, yeah.  Audio Labs rehearsal space over at 2101 W Hillsborough Ave got broken into at some point last night/early this morning.  How do I know this?  I have my finger on the pulse of the Bay Area’s criminal underworld, that’s how.  Those of you who know anything about the ultra white hot post-rock scene in this city probably also know that Audio Labs is the home of Petrograd in Transit, as well as a whole crapload of other good Tampa bands.  Well, ok, there’s the requisite overabundance of Cookie Monster Brutal Viking Metal bands in there, too, but I guess a crime like this makes us all brothers and sisters.  Or something.

Somewhere around nine rooms got broken into.  Cut locks.  Broken doors.  And one sad, mostly useless surveillance camera more or less put out of its misery.  I don’t know everything that got stolen.  My beer got stolen, for starters.  One thing I do know for sure that was stolen was Petrograd in Transit’s bass player’s bass.  This is no ordinary bass, people.  It’s a vintage Kramer bass with an aluminum neck and a split headstock.  That shit is space age, and it looks exaclty like this:

Since I know like 75% of our readers run pawn shops and music stores, please be on the lookout for this bass.  Alternately, if you happen to spend a lot of time playing Wii Fit with your tweaker neighbor and you see this thing on the floor of his double wide, punch out his one remaining tooth and bring the bass back to the studio.

There’s a special ring of hell reserved just for people who steal from musicians.  It smells like burnt popcorn all the fucking time, and you’re damned to spend eternity head first in G.G. Allin’s ass (which, incidentally, also smells like burnt popcorn).

Jesus, Tampa; this is why we can’t have nice things.

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This just in from the “Seriously, get over it already” department, The Sons of Confederate Veterans have successfully raised an absurdly hugh jass confederate flag near I-75 at US 92. It took four people twenty minutes to raise the thing, which, thankfully, answers the burning question, “How many rednecks does it take raise a 30 x 50 hate quilt over a freeway?” Don’t forget, too, that this is actually part of a larger memorial to the fallen confederate whatevers.

I’m not sure what to say about this. Well, ok, I’m sure that I want to say this: Fuck you, you stupid rednecks. Beyond that, though, I don’t know. I mean, I’m not going to deny them their right under the first amendment to make complete asses of themselves. That would be entirely hypocritical of me. I’ve built an entire empire on that right. It’s not the sort of thing I have to be happy about, though. I don’t want some Jesus-riffing douchebag who refers to himself as “commander” telling me I refuse to accept the truth about the inherent joys of the happy agrarian wonderland of his forefathers.

What’s most annoying when this kind of shit happens is that these assclowns know exactly what they’re doing, and they know exactly why it’s offensive. Ask them about that, though, and they’ll just say “it’s the truth; it’s history; you can’t deny the facts.” What the fuck does that even mean, and why do they keep trying to tell me it’s not about race?

Look, they say, it’s so not about race. We’re even building a separate memorial for the black confederate soldiers who died. Some of those dudes were our best friends! Which is why we’re putting them off by themselves, you know, in a special place, well away from the white soldiers. Totally, I mean, we’ll totally get on that thing when we’re done with this other one, you know, for the white soldiers. It’s in the article. It’s a tiny piece of BS, but it says a lot.

Nothing to do with race. Nope.

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A car can say a lot about you. A Mustang usually means that at one time in your life you were probably hot shit with girls with crimped hair wearing hemmed, acid-washed jean shorts. It can also mean that you were one of those girls, except now you’re a middle-aged divorcee with a little extra money from the divorce and a crush on an Applebee’s bartender named Tyler. Either way, it also usually means you park like this:

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Let’s get something straight, fellow St. Petersburgers, while at some point in its twenty-four year history, El Cap might have had the best burgers this side of Perry, at this precise moment in time, however, the food there kind of blows. Maybe that’s a little strong. Let’s just say that it’s eminently unremarkable. It’s cheap, and you pretty much get what you pay for. If you read the user reviews of the El Cap you’ll see a lot of five-star theatrics from people who have probably been eating there for twenty-four years and well, maybe Poli-grip is interfering with their ability to taste anything but bits of grit with a mild spearmint flavor.

Of course, on the other end of things there are all the incensed yuppies who expected the best goddamn burgers on the planet and well, suffice it to say they’re not setting foot in that place again. I love people who end their reviews of restaurants that way. Is there something about having kids and wearing Tevas that gives you a delusionally amplified impression of the actual socioeconomic impact of your opinion and the $15 with which you so decorously parted?

Here’s the other thing about El Cap. It has rules - the kind of rules that local “institutions” earned by having something that a lot of people must have wanted at some point. Rules that seem to say things like “Booster seats? No, we don’t have them, and fuck you for asking.” Also among those rules is that they don’t split checks. It’s on the menu, and in case you’re a little slow, the server will be happy to tell your lazy ass that when you ask.

That’s usually enough for most people. Yeah, I know; arithmetic’s a bitch. It apparently wasn’t enough for yuppie dad #37. So, yeah, this dick’s for you, timmy. I had a perfectly mediocre burger ruined by this dude literally throwing a fit when he was told they wouldn’t split the check between his and the other breeder yuppies he came with. This guy is demanding to see the manager. Who does that? Your whole meal is gonna cost $20 for eight people and you’re demanding to see the manager because you’re too lazy to divide your own check? The server told him the only way that was going to happen was if the families sat at separate tables, which they did, of course, just long enough to be able to put in two separate orders, then they promptly reconvened at table A. Nice job, buddy. It’s you and your khaki shorts against the world.

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Yeah, that’s right dude, I’m calling you out. You, the asshole with the suit you probably bought at TJ Maxx, the attitude, the delusions of granduer. Today is your day.

You work at a bar that SUCKS BALLS. The ony people that frequent that place are douchetools that can’t let go of their days in the frat and their incredible plastic girlfriends. And you know what? Neither of those types of folks needs a fucking doorman. They are completely capable of opening the door.

I’m tired of seeing you mad dog me from you stupid ass stool. I’m tired of watching you pretend to yourself that some big important person just walked in and handed you a benjamin for letting them ahead of the line. YOU WORK AT THE FUCKING BISHOP. THE LAST BAR IN TOWN THAT NEEDS A GODDAMN DOORMAN IS THE FUCKING BISHOP.

Update: I’ve heard that you’ve been let go, and really, I’m pretty torn up over this fact. But, I sleep well knowing that this city has several more fine establishments that you can protect, perched stoically atop your vinyl stool. Hell, I think the Rare Olive may be hiring.

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