July 2002
Once upon a time, a little hand puppet named Petunia entered my life with the help of a couple naughty girls I like to call my Precious Little Monkeys. As I, an innocent little lamb, attended rock concerts performed by the band ekoostik hookah, this puppet would show up thanks to the Monkeys, sometimes even making it onstage. I was a member of the hookah e-mail list (see dubba.com) and grew annoyed at reading about Petunia’s adventures in long, pathetically sad emails sent by the Monkeys. (Now don’t get me wrong–I love monkeys, I absolutely do. As a matter of fact, I will someday marry the owner of Petunia if I get my way.)
So in February of 2001 I decided to pull a caper by taking the pig puppet away from the Monkeys and holding her captive, until I eventually burn her in an elaborate ritual with hookah lead guitarist Steve Sweney playing in the background. So, that’s the story behind this thing: I’ve committed petty theft in the name of boredom relief and cruelty, and I’m taking this bitch pig around like a garden gnome as she poses for photo shoots at ekoostik hookah shows. After each experience, I write a little review of the music from my unique perspective while spreading my “bad karma” and lashing out at anyone who irritated me on that particular day.
Yeah, I realize that I’ve now assumed the same role as the Monkeys (taking the pig to shows and writing about it), which makes me a supreme hypocrite, but hell, I am the Supreme Monkey, so please bow down.
Jojo Krinklefrye, the Instigator
Michigan Theater Review 4/7/01
I had the extreme pleasure of seeing hookah play at the Michigan Theater for the second time on April 7, 2001. Boy, I was ecstatic to be reminded that they don’t serve alcohol in the theater, that they make you pay for a membership to the Theater in order to drink, that the beer is warm, and if you want to drink, that you must stand in the lobby.
I wanted to drink pretty badly. Why? Because like an idiot, I trusted that the Theater would hire someone at the box office who was not a retarded woman. But alas, I asked her what time the opening band was starting instead of relying on a street urchin outside, which would have been a more credible source for information. She told me that they had just started. The time was 8:00. Except the band playing was actually hookah. Thinking I had plenty of time, I ran back to my car across campus, the girls went to browse in a clothing store, and we missed a good hour of the first set because of my stupidity…and I missed my opportunity to hear the song “Thief.”
What impressed me the most about the Michigan Theater, besides the ornate decoration of the lobby, was the number of hotties working the place. First there was Gladys, who told me about living during the Depression and surviving solely on yam skin for two years while her father tried to make a living by selling earthworm finders. Mildred, who was working the door at Aisle 3, had on a sexy pair of polyester slacks which were complimented by the jet-black hair dye she’d artfully chosen. At one point, after she had gotten me all hot and bothered by telling me about a Lawrence Welk concert from yesteryear, I made my way behind her and reached around her supple waist, whispering plotlines from my favorite Matlock episodes in her ear. She seemed to be really into it until I realized that she was shaking from Parkinson’s and not orgasmic lust.
Soon after my encounter, the second set began, and I have to admit that it was a lot of fun and the music almost completely counteracted the internal rage I was feeling about not having any beer in my hand. Journey” has been a song I have always loved, so my spirits were lifted pretty quickly. My favorite of the night was “Raging River,” however. It completely rocked. I noticed that the jam part of that song utilizes the same 3 chords found in “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” which means that as you find yourself in the swirling vortex about 7 minutes into the song, you could almost swear that you are hearing The Charlie Daniels Band On Acid. The “Somewhere Down the Line” featured absolutely scorching guitar work by Mr. Steve Sweney–I imagine that the kiddies in the first third of the floor were sweating it up during that mind-blowing crescendo. I looked over at my girlfriend Flicka’s brother during the solo and saw that he was quite impressed, despite never really hearing hookah much beforehand. There was more to come, however, and any hookah newbie would be glad to hear a “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting-> One More Saturday Night-> Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting.” You can’t deny the fun quotient there! After all, evvverybody loves Elton John, even Eminem.
On a darker note, let me say a few words about the Hash Bash held in Ann Arbor, Michigan every year. You know, I am not a big sports fan, and I never gave a crap about the rivalry between Michigan and Ohio–until my second visit to the Hash Bash, that is, where I discovered that Michigan breeds mongoloid sub-humans like rabbits. (Oh, come on now, all you cool people from Michigan, I don’t mean you. I would never dis the Scribblers, babies, but you weren’t among the specimens I saw slithering through the streets of Ann Arbor).
My conclusion is that Ohioans are better than Michiganers simply because we are more attractive than they are. They are too close to the Canadian border to avoid the influx of ugly genes into their makeup. Now, I understand that all the people I saw were there to flout the law and celebrate the existence of marijuana and therefore would not be a cross section of the population, but seeing so many white youths in their gold chains and Adidas was bad enough without having to endure grotesque images of oversized noses, misshappen skulls, and severe acne thrown in. Don’t forget their girlfriends, with their mullets, black jeans, and starter jackets. Oooooh yeah, there is nothing sexier than a girl in a starter jacket.
Another theory is that it’s the weather up there. Michigan gets even less sunlight than Ohio, resulting in more breeding of mutants and mongoloids. Plus its primary industry is auto and steel manufacturing. For the last hundred years, most of the society has been pushed into factories (virtual caves) where they were deprived of the little sunlight that existed. Ohio, on the other hand, is centered around an agricultural economy. Sure, that means big, dumb, redneck inbred farmers – but at least they see the sun, thus breeding a healthier population. So, that is why I think that Ohio is better than Michigan.
The photograph you see at the top of the page is of Petunia, who is a proud member of my posse now. She and I have come to an understanding, it seems. She no longer snorts and turns her head away when I try to kiss her, and she is starting to admit that she is a little curious about the sex games that My girlfriend Flicka and I have spoken to her about. But when I asked her if puppets liked to have anything besides a hand up inside them, she grew quiet and distant. That earned her a few more hours in the chamber, which is a special place I’ve built in my house. Stay tuned for photos of Petunia’s torture, as well as a shot of P-Tune at Spring Hookahville 2001–if the shot comes out, that is…cross your fingers.
Siyonara, suckers.
Jojo
~thanks to Jack Switzer for his contribution~
Spring Hookahville 2001 Review
Besides it being the first time that Phish’s lighting genius Chris Kuroda lent his talents to complement hookah’s performance, the memory I’ll always cherish from Hookahville IV is the feeling of extreme groin pain I took away with me. This was a result of repetitive lifting of my feet from the depths of the suck-mud at Frontier Ranch.
It probably didn’t help that I was wearing cowboy boots. I felt like I was starring in my own version of Boot Camp–except that instead of seeing hardbodied babes all around me, grunting as they climbed over walls or did pullups in sports bras, I found myself absorbing rain-themed hippie sights and smells, most notably “Wet Dog and There’s No Dog Around,” “Burnt Dreds from Passing Out in the Fire,” and my personal favorite, “I Peed on Myself.”
When I arrived, I climbed a fence and entered the VIP area. I encountered some lady named Joy Lanese, who was spreading straw on the ground so people could negotiate the mud puddles. I asked her if she wanted to “take a roll in the hay” and she started hollering for some dude named Craig. I hightailed it out of there and decided to find this Frosty character that everyone loves so much. Since my efforts to kick him out of the hookah community have failed, I wanted to personally challenge him to a fistfight. He was nowhere to be found, however. Maybe he was off doing the Gay Rich Dance somewhere.
Donna the Buffalo has some catchy stuff, so I enjoyed hearing it as I prepared my own Mud Igloo over by the treeline. I was also pleased to see the Radiators, who are a fun band whose fans are fueled by alcohol and a fondness for partial nudity. Sadly, this rainy afternoon featured no naked women, probably because it was 58 degrees and rainy in daytime Columbus instead of 88 degrees and humid in New Orleans at 5 AM.
Almost as if on cue, it stopped raining after the Radiators were finished and it didn’t return until long after hookah were done. My show highlights were “Godspeed,” “Utopia,” and “The Risk” all in one set, and witnessing Louis Shockin sitting in on “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Werewolves of London”–not to mention the “Sure Cure,” “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide…,” and “Alexander>Alexander II” that pulsated from the stage, moving through our bodies like oceanic sound waves.
Saturday at Hookahville featured the Dirty Dozen Brass Band to start the day off, a bunch of pros who kicked up the energy despite it being pretty soggy out in the elements. Up next was music legend Willie Nelson. Speaking of Willie Nelson–who can say anything sarcastic about him? Not even Jojo, so I will move on…all I need to say is that he played “Whisky River” twice and we were all in heaven. Later, when the weather began to get too intense for a male model such as myself, I retreated to my tent. I sat alone inside it, staring at some cargo netting used to store items. In my lonely rage, I tore it down and set it on fire. Unfortunately, my tent began to melt and I soon I was back out in the rain. Dr. John was up next and he played some good stuff, although I was distracted by the melted blue plastic that had dripped over my shoulders and face as I had sat naked in my tent, masturbating to the fire I had set. The pain was so intense that I ran around naked except for my cowboy boots and I heard somebody call me a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger.
The medics had tended to me by the time hookah started their short first set, and I was humming along to “Springtime Again” before I knew it. Too bad it was from inside my Mud Igloo while it poured. Set 2 had a lot of highlights for me, besides the fact that it stopped raining—hearing “Music” with a horn section was a long time coming and the boys played it well. Busting out with “Freedom” for an oncore on top of visiting some of my favorite musical territory helped me to temporarily stop thinking about myself for a few precious moments, so it was all good. After hookah finished, I set out to re-convince myself that people suck.
Petunia’s impression of the weekend: Earth, Wind, and Fire are 3 things that can destroy you. Earth becomes mud, Fire will melt plastic, and Wind will carry the smell of Wet Dog over to your nostrils.
“Why didn’t Petunia like the mud?” you may ask. “She’s a pig!”
Well, I don’t see her that way. I see her as my wife. And MY wife does not have a dirty ass. As far as the photograph goes: alas, by the time I remembered to take the shot, it was too dark to get a good exposure and I apologize. Here you see the pig over by the soundboard, perched above a bag of trash like she deserves. If you look very closely you can see a fan dressed in blue raingear in the background. The photo session was witnessed by a slack-jawed mongoloid in a baseball hat cocked sideways, with lots of gold and athletic wear. He kept staring at me and I was still pumped with adrenaline from the melting tent experience, so I kicked his ass without effort.
In conclusion, I’d have to rate Hookaville XV as a solid A musically, and give it a D for physical comfort level. I had to see a burn specialist after my tent experience, who thankfully was able to graft skin from my penis onto my shoulders, making me shrug whenever I see a pretty girl.
Siyonara, suckers.
Jojo
