Bleeding Neon

Yep, it’s another photo by my pal and ex-partner-in-crime Greg Thilmont from the Gumball 3000 car rally at the Hard Rock Hotel back in ought-six. That’s Chef Kerry Simon next to me, watching Tony Hawk and pals rock some skateboard badassery on the huge half-pipe set up in the casino’s parking lot (interestingly, that lot is now the new Joint theater). We were in the gated safety of the VIP/press area, as I just finished getting quotes from Simon for the story I was writing.

Bonus (because I forgot last time, sorry Greg): The Gumball 3000 video report shot by Greg and poorly narrated/edited by me:

Greg and I did finer work, somewhere else on my YouTube channel.

Last time around, we explored the dark and serious world of the Jason Only Project, as well as my many years of musical non-training leading up to that collaboration. In this latest entry following the colorful journey that has been my music “career,” we take a somewhat more … retarded turn.

Ryan Baug - man or myth?

On the last day of high school, after the final bell rang, I headed over to my friend Ryan Couevas’ house, along with Jason Feinberg and Ryan’s friend Adam Cone. (It may not have been the last day of school, actually, but my memory being what it is, we’ll leave it as is for dramatic effect.) It was there, in Ryan’s bedroom, that the greatest cover band to never step foot on a stage not located in a garage was born.

We were all messing around with various instruments, mostly Ryan’s Casio keyboard, recording what dumbassedry would follow on a cassette boombox. There were sad attempts at reggae toasting over preset rhythm patterns. There were likely other funny things that now I can’t remember. But, most importantly, there was the conceptualizing of a band whose sole purpose was to enjoy the splendor of tapioca pudding and make full use of every handicapped parking spot in the city. Ryan kept a guitar chord chart in his bedroom. And upon that chart, the name of our unstoppable, mentally challenged musical crew was discovered: BAUG.

(For the non-musicially inclined among you, there is a chord called “B augmented,” which is abbreviated … yeah, you get it.)

Baug was less a band than a way of life. Or an excuse for us to chant “Baug!” as we bowled and terrorized those around us. We adopted the iconography associated with the disabled — notably the international handicapped logo oft found on signs above those parking spots you’ll get fined for occupying. We dreamed up album titles such as “Stank Ice.” Did I mention we bowled? But the one thing we didn’t do was practice playing music, because, well …

Aside from Jason, none of us really played music.

Oh, sure, the Ramones got their start the same way, allegedly. Feh. We didn’t even have instruments. Adam allegedly played drums at some point in his young life, and Jason owned a rudimentary drum machine with four playable pads, so there was our rhythm section. Ryan and I … well, we didn’t do much else than joke around and trade Glenn Danzig impressions. Jason, of course, was the guitar virtuoso, so he pretty much showed up and legitimized the whole thing. So, of course, the most logical thing was to invite all of our friends to my garage for an end-of-school party to drink wine coolers, eat pizza and watch Baug fuck shit up.

I’m going to eschew describing to you the process that went into organizing and preparing for the first — and last — public appearance of Baug. I won’t tell you about the computer monitor I burned out by using it as a colored strobe light thanks to a BASIC program I created. I won’t tell you about the pylons and other objects stolen from road construction sites we vandalized and tagged with the iconic Baug logo. And I certainly won’t explain why a) I dressed like the Crow, b) Couev wore a robe or c) we all donned satin Harrah’s jackets. Instead, I’ll let the most god-damned awful video you’ve ever seen do the talking:

Next time, we’ll (for real) dish on the secrets behind Rahne’s semi-success. Stay tuned.

Just a reminder: I’m writing regularly about Las Vegas fine arts over at Examiner.com. That includes visual art as well as theater, poetry and anything else that comes along under the vast topic of “fine arts.” Recent stories you may have missed:

• Smith Center gets $170 million boost from Las Vegas City Council
• Celebrated poet Mani Rao hits the Coffee Bean for ‘Word Up!’
• The Yellow Brick Road leads to Winchester Cultural Center this March

One thing I am trying to do — something it appears is relatively unprecendented at Examiner.com — is incorporate original video reports. I did regular video blogs at VEGASinsight, but that was more me doing a talking head thing than actual broadcast journalism. So expect to see more nifty pieces such as this one I threw together about Jennifer Maupin’s photo exhibit at Henri & Odette:

So if you live in Las Vegas and want to keep somewhat informed on the fine arts scene here, feel free to subscribe to the RSS feed for my Examiner articles. And if you’re using Vimeo, please add me as a contact, as I’ll be posting my new video material there. If you’re already subscribing to my YouTube videos, don’t worry: I’ll be adding stuff there as well, just slightly delayed.

I hurt in places I’ve never hurt before. My right wrist is stiff. And I’m a little sluggish today. But because of it all, the SafeNest domestic violence shelter is $500 richer.

Last night was the grand opening media party for Stoney’s North Forty, a new country nightclub at the Santa Fe Station hotel-casino in northwest Las Vegas. It builds on the success of owner Stoney Gray’s original Stoney’s Rockin’ Country location, offering more than 9,000 square feet of yee-haw fun, complete with line-dancing-ready dance floor, pool tables, video games and — of course — a mechanical bull.

Now, usually, the last place you’d find me at is a country bar. I have a pretty strong distaste for country music, American beer and overly white culture in general. I’ve turned down plenty of invites to the Las Vegas Boulevard Stoney’s before, but as I figured I’d give this party a shot — I swear, the open bar had nothing to do with it. OK, maybe a little.

Members of the media were invited to enter a mechanical bull-riding contest, with the top three riders winning $1000, $500 and $250 respectively for a non-profit charity of their choice. For some crazy reason, I signed up, with little hesitation. I was one of only four people.

After putting away a couple of those free drinks, I gathered with the rest of the contestants — and friends, colleagues and onlookers — at the side of the fenced-in, cushioned bullring. After some quibbling over who’d go first, a tough, well-built young woman eagerly stepped up, slid on a glove, and rode that wild animatronic bull into the sunset. Of course, I had to go up next.

Let’s remember that I’ve never ridden a bull, robotic or otherwise. Or a horse. Or a motorcycle. A bull-riding expert escorted me to the burly machine as he explained how not to suck: One hand in the air, rock with the changes, keep knees forward. The words made sense but there was no time to process their application as the controller started pulling levers, causing the bull to buck, twist and gyrate. I don’t know how long I stayed on, but I do know I got tossed off to the inflated surface below.

My right hand was a bit sore, but my right groin area felt stretched and bruised. I was glad it was over. I swore I’d never climb back on one of those torture devices again. I suggested shipping a mechanical bull to Guantanamo Bay for interrogation use. I watched a couple more riders — younger guys actually wearing cowboy boots — give pretty good shows, though one did fall off. Then I was told I’d have to do it again.

This time, Gray himself coached me. He told me to just stay on top of my hand, and that if I felt myself slipping back, just to pull up on top of my hand. I faux-confidently mounted the mechanical beast, switched from right to left for a gripping hand, and took off for another ride. And 22 seconds later, it was over. And I was still on top.

After limping off to get another drink, one of the girls from the public relations firm representing Stoney’s came to bring me back to the bullring. Thankfully, it wasn’t for another ride. It was to inform me I’d won second place, and therefore Stoney’s would donate $500 to the charity of my choice, SafeNest. I was dumbfounded. It must have been a sympathy decision. Or maybe I have found a new career …

Either way, my first experience at Stoney’s was actually … fun. The music wasn’t too twangy, the atmosphere wasn’t too hokey and the, um, entertainment was, well, you know. But one thing is for sure: Now I know why cowboys walk kinda slow and funny.

In case anyone was wondering how I booted 2008 while welcoming 2009, wonder no more. In seven minutes, you’ll witness Robbie Maddison’s death-defying leap atop the Paris Las Vegas’ 100-foot-tall Arc de Triomphe replica, DJ Jazzy Jeff spinning funky beats, a concerning lack of champagne at midnight and a whole lot of me shouting at people. A lot. Like, an overwhelming amount.