A Step-By-Step Guide to Committing the 7 Deadly Sins in 30 Seconds

I am pleased to announce that, while our Daytona show was by far the highlight the trip, our hotel lived up to the high standard of our previously visited rooms. At first glance we were amazed to find, what appeared to be, a flawless hotel room complete with mini fridge, safe-box, beds with flawless appearance and a delightful swan made out of a towel perched atop the toilet. However, after hearing Kelly complain about the fact that she only had one blanket on her bed, I pulled back my comforter to find that, beneath the deceitful appearance of bed making perfection, I had no sheets whatsoever. Glad to know housekeeping didn't let us down on our final night of the trip. I'm pretty sure there is a hotel hotline that rings every time Hot Riot! books a room. "Attention all hotels, Hot Riot! is coming to town and needs a good laugh, mess with their rooms!"

As was expected, last nights show in Daytona was incredible. I could play Universities every night. The energy and excitement that comes from the crowd is amazing. Despite our obnoxious behavior, horrible sense of humor and atrocious knack for remixing Sesame Street and Jesus Christ Superstar records, the guys at 99.1 FM were cool enough to invite us back to hang out and do a pre-show broadcast with them and even took us to hang out after the show. Be sure to check out DJ's Double-D and Bones if you're ever in the Daytona Beach area. Awesome awesome people.

I'm really glad I was able to make it through Tampa tonight. There was this amazingly somber looking old man with an obvious lust for dance in the parking lot of Perkins blaring techno at 2:30am. All I wanted to do was give him a Hot Riot! CD and beg him to be my dad. I really want to be him when I grow up. I adore the fact that our ever-awesome-late-night outings always leave me with timeless stories and hilariously offensive one-liners rolling through my brain. Good times.

 "...he wanted to go out with a wooo wooo." - Hillary, on the subject of the St Pete man who filmed his train-induced suicide. Priceless.

Filth and Fury

(Filth)

(Fury)

This last week of my first extended road trip with Hot Riot! has given me a new perspective on hotel cleaning policies. From ashtrays in 'non-smoking' rooms to mysterious underwear it's been an adventure. I get joy. After an unbelievably awkward interview with the epitome of douchebaggery (hereafter referred to as the Earl of Douche) whose sole desire in life is to convince all breathing souls that he alone is God's gift to mankind and that the world is a better place because of his unparalleled sexuality and charm, we arrived to our hotel room. After walking in the bathroom, I noticed a pink and white thong hanging from the towel rack. As it was 3 something am and all my thongs were in my suitcase, I assumed it belonged to Kelly so ignored it and went to bed. The next morning as we were heading out to our interview, I hear Kelly scream from the bathroom, "there's a freaking thong in here!" As it turns out it wasn't either of ours. When we got back from an even weirder interview than the previous night's, we ran into housekeeping and told them about the lingerie themed artwork that adorned our bathroom and were literally told by the maid that "a lot of people have keys to the rooms so someone probably just left it there." Thankfully enough she removed the panties and was even kind enough to spray copious amounts of air freshener throughout the room. Service at its finest.

After Monday and Tuesday's awkwardly uncomfortable interviews, coming in to an amazingly fun 3 hour interview and acoustic performance with the guys at 99.1 Eagles FM was a bigger relief than the bathroom break after a 16 hour, liquid filled drive. If you can tolerate our belligerent behavior, ridiculous nonsense and exaggerated humor check it out at: http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/12266856
I can't wait to make it back to Daytona and play that show tomorrow. I love the excitement that comes with playing Universities. I'm super pumped.

We played the Vintage Ultralounge in St Petersburg, FL tonight. Despite the super cramped stage and lack of a decent PA, we had an amazing time playing to a really fun crowd of screaming fans living off Sylvie nostalgia and forever unable to separate the reality of Hot Riot! from the fictitious characters of Halloween past. I love the way that we can put on a high energy show despite the tiny nature of the venue. Performance kings.
There was this flaming homosexual arguing with the door guy at the venue tonight. Tickets were only $5 for 21+ and he was arguing that he shouldn't have to pay since he wasn't a fan of the band and promised to tip the bar tenders the cost of the door charge. After slapping the door guy and calling him a 'homophobic #$%@' he stomped off only to return a half hour later and pay the door charge. Apparently the guy does nothing but kiss dudes and argue basic principles of life because the second he got through the door he made a bee-line for the roped off VIP Band Only area, un-hooked the rope and proceeded to try to walk up the stairs into our 'back-stage' area. When security stopped him, he threw what seemed to be a routine tantrum and the previously mentioned actions repeated themselves. Needless to say, after attempting to slap security, he was in the venue for a total of about 7 minutes and we kept his $5.

Headed to Daytona tomorrow. That show is going to be a ton of fun.

01-20-2011

"Do your own thing" - hcl
Never underestimate the significance of a silver plated pick. Enough said.

Perception: finding the LAUGHTER in sLAUGHTER.

I understand that the PETA induced repercussions associated with posting this photograph will quite possibly be entirely disproportionate to the offense and, therefore, leave me humbled in a reddened mess of faux blood and latex balloon shrapnel. However, my actions have been thoroughly...rationalized...besides, screw PETA. Quite honestly, the vast array of wimpy, protein-lacking pansies is on the same level of unbearabillity as listening to a recently dumped highschooler's sob story or sitting through a Taylor Swift song without going the full 'Van Gogh'...Ha! those are both the same thing!!! Ahem, please disregard the redundancy...and we're back on track...as I was saying, PETA's opinion is of little or no importance to me. Forget I even mentioned PETA. Who is PETA? I don't believe they exist. Really though, if you put this whole thing in perspective, nobody really cares about dogs anyway. When warped correctly, canine homicide actually seems like a rather godly conquest. Let me explain (in far more words than necessary) while utilizing the often overlooked italic option this site so generously provides. Exhibit A:  Two young men are sitting in a 1950's era diner strategically planning a mass animal slaughter. Their server, possessing an uncanny ability to recognize deceased political figures, realizes that the two men are, in fact, Dwight David Eisenhower and General George Patton. Filled with excitement at the fact that he has been given the chance to wait upon such men of valor, he attempts to strike cheery conversation and, in time, inquires as to the nature of their conversation. “We’re planning an animalistic massacre,” Eisenhower declares, not wishing to hide their genocidal agenda. “Really? What’s going to happen?” the waiter replies. "We’re going to kill 10 million puppies and one outrageously clever bicycle repairman with a tasteful affinity for wearing silly hats in public.” With that the waiter recoils in despair and screams “Why are you going to kill the bicycle repairman, he's innocent!?!” “See" shouts Patton "I told you no one would care about the flippin' puppies!” And it's all just a matter of perception...
Case Closed.

The Alamo: The Untold Story

I just found this story that I wrote on the bus after visiting the Alamo back in 2007 with the CLC chorale. It made me laugh so I thought I'd post it here. Enjoy.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

THE ALAMO, You may know it as the final resting place of such great souls as the legendary Davie Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel Travis…or so they are known. However, there lies an untold story behind the accepted "facts." A tale which reveals the true identities of these men, a story so heroic that Hollywood was forced to revise it for fear of civilian dependence upon such heroic men of valor. Their names were changed, the tale was diminished and their legend left in sheer and utter ruin. However my friends, family and patriotic war memorial fanatics, I now bring you the true, uncut, unedited, facts, names and deeds of these great men. The tale has been revived and I now bring you…The Alamo: The Untold Story. 

The Alamo: The Untold Story

By: Joel Prush ((Jordan Eastman)) 

Starring:

Bruce Springsteen as Davie Cricket …………….Adolf HItler as David Bowie
Salvador Dali as Carlos Santana……………..And introducing Sean Connery as Colonel Travis Saunders

"It is hard here…" Colonel Travis Saunders wrote as he began to pen a letter home. "…It is hard here…" he continued. "…It is hard here...Darn!" he shouted. "Why doesn't the Army supply some softer mattresses? I keep trying to write but it's just so hard here!" rising from his chair, he clasped both hands about the legs of his computer chair and sent it hurling towards the door just in time for young Private Spot to enter. 

"Message for you Sir." the private managed before the chair leg struck him in the chest and impaled him through the heart. 

"Thank you Private, I shall see that you are awarded the Purple Heart for your tragic casualty." Travis stated with a smile. "Now, if you wouldn't mind reading it to me, I seem to have lost my glasses." he concluded

"Certainly sir." the lad managed to mumble as his life was slowly draining into a pool of blood about his torso. 

"Dear Colonel Saunders," the lad struggled as he slowly began coughing up blood and his eyes began rolling into his head. "I write to you in a mood that is an antonym of buoyant, buoyant being synonymous with good-humored meaning that I am deeply troubled as I pen this note. Why I am so opposite of jovial and purely tantamount with distressed, you ask? Because the boy scouts I have been using as replacements for my usual scouts, due to the ever increasing rate of salary expected by fully developed spies, have informed me that you are now living in a Monastery. However, the fact that you now seek lodging in a church has absolutely nothing to do with my ill-humor. I, in fact, have been suffering from ever increasing migraine headaches for the last week and this has thrown me into a not-so-good-not-so-very-happy-grandfather-like-mood. All this aside, your church stands in the way of my taking over Texas and I'm going to attack you and your men with my not very small army of bellow average American height Mexican people with rather large wives who at one time were skinny and beautiful young super-models strutting about in bikinis on the shores of the Rio Grande. Hope you have fun dying."

Sincerely,

Carlos Santana

P.S. 

"I sometimes…"

At this time the gaping wound in young Private Spot's heart had become infected with gangrene and was now too much to bear. Being unable to force life to remain any longer, the faithful, trustworthy, foreign exchange student turned private in the US Army due to several forged signatures and a stamp he bought off eBay for $4.75 fell prey to this armchair's gruesome and painful death. 

"Private?" stated Travis. "Private, what does he sometimes do?" seeing the private left lifeless in a pool of blood and being cheerfully devoured by grateful maggots he removed his cap and began his eulogy.

"You were a good private, Spot." He concluded, realizing he had kicked the bucket. 

"But drat, when you kicked the bucket you had to kick it right onto my Daffodils. Now they're flooded you fool. You can forget about any Purple Heart awards from me young man."

Suddenly remembering that his fortress would soon be attacked he quickly rushed from the room, struck his forehead upon the beam outside the door and was knocked senseless. 

*blackness*

"There there, Colonel," he heard. "We'll have you all fixed up in no time." 

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, and wait a minute." Travis began laughing, "I know that voice! That's Davie Cricket if I ever heard him!" 

"Right as three lefts, Saunders." Davie replied. "You seem to have knocked yer noggin when ye tried to get out and give them orders. That's why you need protection on your head. Wear a skunk skin cap like mine and you won't be noggin knocking no more, promise." Davie said as he tapped himself on the head violently with his pistol.

"Orders? That's right, Carlos Santana is going to be attacking today. I must warn the troops." Travis shouted as he leapt from the bed. 

"No worries, I've already done it." Cricket replied. "Ah here, I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine. David, get in here. This here is David Bowie." Davie stated as a man dressed in flashy, effeminate clothing carrying a long butcher knife entered the door.

"Greetings, I'm David Bowie." stated the man in a fake sounding British accent. "You must be Major Tom?" 

"Colonel Saunders, but most folks call me Travis. Just a question, but, how on earth did you squeeze into those leather pants?" Travis inquired.

"Never mind that now." Cricket interrupted. "We've got some planning to do."

The next few hours Cricket, Bowie, and Colonel Saunders laid their plan of defense against the Mexican terror, Carlos Santana. Since their chapel was conveniently located in the heart of San Antonio, Texas, they planted soldiers, dressed as tourists, along the river walk, in the mall, and all through the windows of the Holiday Inn across the street. They then placed little hanging felt tubes attached to poles marking pathways going in all different random directions all throughout the Alamo so that Santana's army would have to walk the weaving path for seemingly an eternity before actually getting to anything important. They also placed signs throughout the yard stating to stay off the grass so that the attackers would be forced to stick to the strategic path. As if this wasn't enough, they then planted cacti and overpriced coke machines all about so when the enemy got thirsty during their eternal maze walk they had to either use up all their cash or damage their hands trying to get water from the cacti. All things in place, they were ready for the attack. They had stationed a man, Paul Revere by name, in the tower of the Hilton Hotel to signal with Chinese Lanterns the approach of the Mexican Terror. His signals being 67 if by San Antonio St. and 66 if by Alamo Way, they new there was no way defeat would ever occur.

"I do believe we're ready." Stated Colonel Saunders as he finished putting on his white suit and made his way to the dining hall. "I can't wait to tear that Santana fiend apart." 

"Yeah, I hope that out of the kindness of his heart he decides to visit a leper colony, and then he gets a small cut before he goes in and gets leprosy and loses his arms. Then I would challenge him to a duel with the weapon being bowling balls but he couldn't pick them up because he wouldn't have any arms and I would win." said David Bowie malignantly.

"David you're so stupid, that would never happen." Davie began. "Besides, if you challenged him to a duel he would get to pick the weapon. Knowing Santana, he'd probably pick blowguns and he'd kick your butt." he finished sarcastically.

"Well, I don't like your tone, young man." Bowie shouted in defense.

"Young man? I'm like freaking 57 you idiot; I'm not a young man. Good grief, I'm old enough to be your stinking father you moron." Screamed Davie as he flipped a young raccoon onto David's lap causing it to panic and bite him in the lower arm.

"Yeah well if I had one wish that would come true if I wished it, I'd wish that you were a goldfish in a goldfish bowl. Then I'd put you on a record player and make you spin so fast that you had to swim up current to keep from slamming into the wall. Then I'd pick a really long symphony so that you would have to swim for a long time until you got too tired to swim and you'd stop and smash against the wall and die. Then I'd take you out and I'd barbeque you on the barbeque grill that used to be yours when you were still a human that I took when I turned you into a goldfish and I'd cook you in lemon so your eyes would sting then I'd serve you to your kids and chuckle to myself while they ate you then I'd tell them when they were done that they just ate their daddy who got turned into a goldfish and they'd cry." Bowie replied in tears.

"Yeah well I'd wish that you would become a famous politician and then the press would look for things to make fun of you because you're republican and I'd sell them that story about you when you took a poop in my chili in high school and then got the bowls mixed up and you at the poop chili just before your girlfriend came up to you and gave you a big kiss and got really sick and died because she ate your poop. Then they'd print it all over the press and you'd be made fun of a whole lot until you got tired of it and got really stressed out because every time you would go to get food at the store you'd see yourself on all the magazines kissing a girl and putting poop in her mouth. Then you'd go to jail for murder." Davie retaliated

"Don't do that Davie Stupidbutt!" Bowie Shouted

"Poop-mouth-kisser-killer-head!" Davie shouted back

"Davie, no more talking until you eat all your food." Said Saunders softly. "and by the way, you call this chicken? This is worse than kissing a guy with crap in his mouth!" 

"What did you say?!" shouted the Emril, the chef. "If you think it's so bad, why don't you cook it yourself or something?"

"You know what, maybe I will! Maybe I'll just start my own restaurant after we win this stinking battle."

Suddenly there was a colorful flash. 

"Look!" shouted some random person who wasn't paid because he had only one line.

"Is it 67 or 66 lanterns?" asked another with the same description.

"It's 67 I counted!" 

"no it's 66."

"That's just because he hasn't lit them all yet."

"Or it could be because one burned out."

"It's 66…no 67…no…"

As they sat there bickering and arguing over how many lanterns were in the window, Santana was marching his army through the felt labyrinth at that very moment. However, he had a secret spy on the inside of the Alamo who, being dressed as a janitor, had rearranged the path making it more direct and far shorter. Marching his men up to the main hall he broke in and began singing loudly in Spanish causing the men to cover their ears, beg for it to stop and eventually begin killing one another. 

"We have to do something, all defenses have failed." shouted Cricket. "Where is Colonel Saunders?"

"He's in the kitchen frying chicken." Bowie replied.

"Drat, he's our only hope. Without him we're as helpless as those colorful creatures with shaped antennas and televisions in their chests on PBS." Cricket replied.

"I've got it." Shouted Bowie. "But it'll take humility and pride." 

"Humility and pride? that's kind of contrary don't you think?" Cricket asked.

"Not in the least. Humility, Pride!" Bowie called. 

Suddenly two young polar bears roared through the crowds and picked up Cricket and Bowie rushing them out of the Alamo and out of harms way. However, in the process of picking them up, they managed to crush them both beneath their strong jaws causing life to drain and their tragically historic deaths to incur. 

Struggling to survive, Bowie managed to whisper over the PA Microphone sending his message of hope and victory throughout the fortress, "You may win today, Carlos, but look where the Alamo is now…in the heart of Downtown TEXAS AMERICA! God Bless the USA Boys, and Remember the Alamo." 

"Of course I remember." Davie responded. "I was just there not five minutes ago you idiot." 

"I meant it as a figure of speech, as something that would go down in history." Bowie stated in response.

"Go down is right, down right into the gutter. What kind of idiot is going to go around saying, 'hey, remember the Alamo?' sheesh, what a stupid waste of life." Davie managed to whisper, still holding on for dear survival

"What you think you could do something better?" Bowie responded with his final breath.

"Um, yeah." 

"Well, go for it."

"Try something catchy like: 'What's up man'." Davie responded with a victorious smile as his life spilled out and he collapsed forever.

"And you think kids are really going to say that? What's up man? Seriously? By the way, your life just spilled all over my legs and now I'm going to die with this cereal and milk all over myself, jerk." 

"Well, at least I'm not a poopie-head-mouth-cootie-head-killer-head-butt." Davie managed.

These were the final words of two of the greatest men in history, Davie Cricket and David Bowie. Colonel Saunders went on to start his own restaurant know as Alamo Fried Chicken. Unfortunately it was bought out by Pepsi Co. and changed to Kentucky Fried Chicken in the late 1970's. However, the legend remains the same and the story no longer remains untold. 

The End./..and there you have it...

Attack! Attack!

It's Sunday night and I just had the craziest realization in the world. Granted, I'll never publicly admit what it is that I've crazily realized - but believe me, it has been realized nonetheless...and it's pretty crazy...

I Woke Up Screaming...

Seventeen. It's been seventeen times now that I've found myself torn awake from this horrible nightmare. Sweaty and short of breath I wake up begging it to stop. It haunts me. Like some kind of fatal plague, I can't escape it. Since the night you left me wallowing in a disgraceful mess on the living room floor, coughing from tears and hearing you curse and laugh at me for spitting vomit across your sacred rented floor I've been tormented by this vision of love eternal destroyed in an instant. Seventeen times I've watched you kiss me and chain me to a monstrous archway before making your way through the looming metal gates of a dark, yet beautiful garden of roses. As you wander to the center of the circular maze, engulfed in its beauty, tiny wolves walking clumsily their hind legs emerge from the thorns, following slowly behind while you laugh and pick flowers-disregarding my frantic screams to leave the artificial serenity of this deceitful garden and save yourself from its merciless fate. I try to run to you. I long to protect you from the amassing beasts, yet I find myself struggling and endlessly fighting the unwavering chains, unable to do more than wail in flawless agony as I watch you turning to play with them; unaware that hundreds more lie in the shadows waiting only for the perfect moment to attack. You're holding one now; and others are crawling up your back and surrounding your legs. Fear strikes. I hear you call for me. You're screaming, begging them to stop, calling for me to save you as they drag you by the hair into the blackness; ripping your flesh and tearing off your limbs as they eat you alive. With tear flooded eyes I wrestle in vain the monstrous chains surrounding me, unable to break free, longing only to loose you from your torment and drag you to safety like I'd done so many times before. You're cries grow louder. I want to die for you. I can hear you sobbing, pleading endlessly for release. I reach for you. I hear you wail in senseless agony as I watch you struggle against the thousands until they rip out your throat and silence your deafening cries. You've bound me. I weep for you. Coughing and screaming I beg them to let you go. Tears drown me. Destroyed. I can’t take this. I collapse, forced to watch them ravage your lifeless body and scatter your remains about what's left of the now tattered field. When at last they finally are through with you, my binds release and overcoming weakness I rush to where you were. I cry for you. Crawling on my hands and knees wailing in lifelessness, seeking in desperation to find some piece with which to rebuild your severed life and make you whole again. Emptiness. Solitude. A shimmer of light. A diamond. From beneath decaying thorns of irreparable foliage I find your ring; still wrapped about a forgotten finger no one knew or cared about enough to digest. Flesh hangs freely in a bloodied, tangled mess as I hold the only piece I have left of you for a brief moment until the frail flesh crumbles in my hands; robbing me of all I adored. Surrounded by the hideous remains of what once was unparalleled beauty, I collapse alone. Silence. Hollow. No wind. No comfort; only constant nothing. A gaping and eternal void that even time itself questions its ability to fill. It’s in this unending vacant darkness I lie, wallowing in inescapable helplessness until I awaken. I thought I'd escaped - yet here you are. Well done, sweet slaughter, you've found me...

“But thou, O LORD, are a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter of my head…” Ps 3:3

It’s almost six am now and I’ve already blogged a dream. I've also used all of 2011’s allotted supply of depressive emotion. This is turning into a fantasy blog. That’s good, I guess. Anyway, I suppose I might as well get up, make some pancakes, drown a rabbit and do something productive . Can’t let a horrifically obnoxious awakening ruin a potentially incredible day. I’m actually not sure what’s worse; the fact that my sleep was disturbed or the fact that I woke up singing “Black and Yellow” at five forty something AM. Regardless, today’s gonna be awesome. I love living too much for it not to be…on second thought forget the rabbit, I think I’ll drown the guy who concocted the idea of allowing dogs in the house…plans made…we're off...The End…

Jusqu'à Demain

I bid goodbye to Florida's west coast this evening. I'm going to miss everybody - especially the A-List. I can't think of a better way to go out than by celebrating the New Year with my closest friends, dining on amazing burritos, G6ing, deranging hymns, hanging out all night and closing off my final evening by shaking on the sidewalk from a five million volt shock wondering why I ever allowed Hillary to taze me in the first place. It was pretty much incredible. Quite honestly the best group of friends in the world...

On a semi-related side note; I want to get tazed in my Kangaroo suit at some point in my life. I'm not really too thrilled about the whole tazer side of things - just really enjoy wearing the suit and think it would look absolutely hilarious.

Steve Indulgent Interview

I recently had the opportunity to interview with (aging) rocker/radio host Steve Indulgent from The Victim for a book on the progression of Punk Rock "Punk's Still Breathing" he‘s currently in the process of writing. He’s played for GG Allin (who hasn‘t?), The Boys, The Victim and dozens of other bands involved in the punk movement over the last 20 years…so it was a bit surprising to find that he hasn’t died yet. Anyway, I posted the interview below. It’s short and actually kind of entertaining...
　　

Steve: (laughing) It’s been a long time since I’ve done an interview, man. I’m not exactly sure how to start this @#$%.

Jordan: Well, my name is Jordan, I like juggling oranges, drowning kittens and my mom cut my ear off when I was 6 years old…I can blindfold you or sit in your lap or something if that’ll make you feel better.

SI: (both laughing) We’re good. I’ll just ask the first question I wrote down.

JE: Perfect

SI: Did your mom really cut off your ear?

JE: that’s the first question you had written down? You sure you didn’t mix up your Evander Holyfield interview with mine?

SI: (laughing) Sorry. That just caught me off guard.

JE: Yeah, my sister bit her while she was cutting my hair and she cut a chunk out of the top of my ear. It’s still there. Or not there, rather.

SI: Alright then. (both laughing) Let’s start with your name and what acts are you currently associated with.

JE: Okay. My name is Jordan Eastman. And as far as bands go, I guess what I consider my own principle project is Wasted Years. Right now it’s become more of a solo thing but I plan on pushing it really hard and trying to self-produce an album this year. I’m also playing guitar for Hot Riot out of LA and have some things in the works with that, I’ve worked in and out of shows at Busch Gardens (Tampa, FL) and play whatever other gigs help pay the bills and keep my truck from blowing up.

SI: What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you as a musician.

JE: You mean on stage or in life in general?

SI: On stage, sorry. Life would be pretty awesome too though.

JE: Wow man, that’s tough. I’ve had speakers catch on fire, broken a ton of stuff and have seen a bunch of weird crap but that’s tough. Um, okay here’s a good one. I was playing this Howl-O-Scream gig at Busch Gardens (Tampa, FL). It was the first night of on stage rehearsal and we’d been on this outdoor stage all night and were waiting for a film crew to arrive to shoot some promo stuff I guess. Anyway, there was this soft spot on the stage that I’d tried to avoid all night in fear of breaking through it. On our last run before we were supposed to film, I scissor kicked off the drum riser probably 137 feet in the air and landed right on that spot. I broke through the stage, slammed to the ground, snapped the jack of my cable off into my tele and ripped a 6 or 7 inch hole in the crotch of my jeans. There was this gnarley chunk taken out of my guitar and everything and it must have looked like I fell from an airplane because everybody freaked out. Anyway, it turns out that that was the last guitar cable we had out there so we had to spend the next 20 minutes running around trying to find another cable. I ended up having to borrow pants from costume to keep myself from hanging out the whole shoot and had to take the strings and pick guard off my tele to get the broken piece of the cable out. I guess we all got extra time on the clock but…yeah. (both laughing)

SI: I broke through a stage in Dublin probably ten years ago but not quite with such style.

JE: (laughing) thanks. I try.

SI: What made you want to start playing guitar?

JE: There weren’t enough gigs on bass. (laughs) I always wanted to play when I was a little kid but never had one. After learning piano and saxophone my grandma lent me this old Lotus bass she had and I loved it. It wasn’t until I started doing studio stuff that I really pursued the guitar though. I got paid more the more instruments I played so I learned everything I could and would record 5 or 6 instruments for a record but always felt most comfortable playing guitar and bass. I’m still way more of a bass player than a guitarist though.

SI: You’d play several instruments? What all can you play?

JE: (laughing) let’s not get into that. Bass, guitar, mandolin, piano, sax…I think I was at 15 or 16 last time I sat down and counted.

SI: That’s wicked. Who inspires you? Musically and in life.

JE: Wow. Musically I’d have to say anyone willing to stand up and make a sound for themselves. Guys like the Stones or the Clash who really put themselves out there and play with conviction and sincerity. I guess people who don’t feel the need to fit a certain sound or mold and do what they want to do and play the songs they want to hear for themselves and nobody else. I guess because that’s what I try to do myself I respect that when others are successful and make a living doing it. In life though I’d have to say my Dad. Everything he does he does as honestly and sincerely as possible. He’s incredible.

SI: Have you ever had any gear stolen?

JE: Nah man. Not sure how, but no. \

SI: What was the craziest crowd you’ve ever played for?

JE: (laughing) Ah man, I played this show at the Crowbar in Ybor City in probably 2008 or so and everybody there was insane. There was this crazy broad down front going completely nuts and screaming her head off the whole night. There was one point during another band when she had her dress pulled up over her head and was spinning around in circles really fast and flipped over this chair and landed on her head. It was pretty awesome. Anyway, during one of my solos toward the end of the set I went to jump off the stage and pretty much got eaten alive. My intention was to land on my knees on this table that was like 4 or 5 feet away but I didn’t take into consideration the overhead monitors so when I jumped I smacked my head on the rack and landed on my back on top of the wedge at the front of the stage right in front of this crazy dame. She started freaking out and grabbing my chest and legs and screaming that she wanted to take me home and all this ridiculous nonsense. By the time I got up she’d ripped this huge hole in my shirt, detuned my bass and taken every bandana and will to live I had on me. That broad’s nuts man. I’m pretty sure she was a hyena or something. There was a girl like that at Howl-O-Scream too but that’s another time.

SI: (laughing) alright then. If you could go back in time and punch anyone in history, who would it be?

JE: Either Brian Wilson for creating the Beachboys, Brian Wilson’s mom for not supporting abortion or the guy who invented Farmville on Facebook.

SI: Best new album, must anticipated album, best date movie and favorite color.

JE: You’d be a great asset to the Spanish Inquisition. The Gaslight Anthem’s “American Slang”, the new Social Distortion record, Un Homme et Une Femme and I’m colorblind so probably a nice shade of black.

SI: A dark black or kind of faded?

JE: Pastel.

SI: I see. Who is your tallest friend. You’re colorblind?

JE: Tallest what? Why would you even ask that? Are we almost done? I guess Jesus. He’s pretty tall considering that whole God thing. And yes.

SI: (laughing) okay, two more and I’ll let you go.

JE: Thank my tallest friend.

SI: If you could be buried with anything what would it be?

JE: Probably a shovel. Oh wait, maybe I’d take an oxygen tank strictly for hilarious appearance purposes as my funeral. These questions are really going downhill. (laughing)

SI: (laughing) Agreed. Last one. What is your typical song-writing process.

JE: Oh that’s a good one. Um, I don’t necessarily have a song wring process, per say, but I’ve definitely found repeated inspiration in certain activities. A lot of times when I’m driving or cooking or just something menial I’ll get a chorus or guitar line stuck in my head and sit down and write it out. If I’m somewhere where I can’t I’ll jot it down in my phone or notate the music on a napkin or something. One time I wrote out an entire chord chart above a notated melody line in the sand at the beach and texted a picture of it to myself to make sure I didn’t forget it. It happens so much now though that I never really think about how I do it. I guess if it’s a guitar line, I write out whatever vocal part comes when I play. But if it’s a melody or vocal part the music typically just falls into place. I usually know exactly where I want the song to be the second I start writing so I know the feel, flow, rhythm, emotion etc I want convey. I generally write out just about the whole thing in one sitting and then play it in my head over the next couple days to find the little nuances that didn’t come originally that I want to add throughout. That’s a good one, man. I’ve never really attempted to break down my writing into a process. Thanks

SI: Well thanks for sticking around and hopefully we’ll do it again someday.

JE: Definitely man, by far the most exhilarating 17 minutes of my life.

SI: Good luck with everything and I’ll be sure to keep my eye out for updates on shows and all.

JE: Take care.