Where hope goes to get raped and ritually slaughtered
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Eric Myers is not insane. Well, he’s not completely insane. But he is bat-shit crazy. And Phil Wacker, aka P!P, is just as bad. In fact, P!P may just be more sensible than his counterpart and I assure you, that’s a disturbing thought. I spent some time with them, and with their new band Bareknuckle Bullseye.
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There have been many glorious legends throughout the history of mankind: The Philosopher’s Stone, King Arthur, the Legend of Zelda, the Legend of Third Wheel, the Legend of Curly’s Gold, the Legend of Lemmiwinks … But there is one legend so incredibly legendary that it rules over them all: the Legend of Alphadrop.
Them Crooked Vultures. Aragon Ballroom.
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So there we were, among the oldest males in a sold-out 10,000-seat stadium filled with screaming 12 year old girls, their equally vocal mothers, and a motley assortment of dads and boyfriends. And why were we there? Was it a prank played on us by our handlers? Was it our keen journalistic instincts at work? Or was our mission a more lascivious one? Maybe a little of all three. But, Dear Readers, regardless of the impetus for attending a Carrie Underwood concert, the truths we discovered in the process are profound and disturbing.
Paulie Pumpkins and I were of course wearing homemade Carrie’s Care Bears t-shirts and pounding $10 beers. It should have been obvious to every girl there that we were not to be trusted. Nonetheless, all the fans we approached between Carrie’s costume changes (for the sake of the story, of course) seemed happy to talk with us. It was like being transported to a mythical America where everyone leaves their homes unlocked and the most violence anyone encounters is having to put down a horse with a broken leg.
