One Way Ticket to Flavor Town: A Misguided Foodie's Journey Thru the Shitpile That is Guy Fieri's Opinion

The following Vincent Kisea piece first ran in The Soda Killers isssue #6, which there are still a very limited number of copies left of.  Get in touch it you'd like to get one.

One Way Ticket to Flavor Town 
A Misguided Foodie’s Journey Thru the Shitpile That is Guy Fieri’s Opinion
By Vincent Kisena

Let me start this off with a little background info on me the writer.  I am a Seattle native with deep love for my city and all that it has to offer.  I am in no way a veteran when it comes to writing, but when Nathan (from the now world famous “This is 40” mantra) asked me to contribute to his body of works via Northwest affiliate, I was more than a little flattered.  I have lots to say about lots of things Northwest and will be submitting my work more regularly as time goes.   I am not yet 40 so my input may be a little more relevant and cutting edge than you the reader are used to.  Although I am only a few years away from the inevitable number forty, my vast knowledge in Anime, K-pop and everything that is Selena Gomez keeps me deeply in tune with the happenings of every day youth.  BTW did you see what that slut was wearing at the Oscars Yeah neither did I.  But alas this article is not about me and how fucking hip I am, but is a peak behind the curtain.

It is a look at a show that most have seen but few admit to seeing.  It is the glorious Diners, Drive Ins and Dives, the celebrated porn of the Food Network if you will.  If you are not familiar, I will give you a synopsis.  A man (definitely in his 40s) with frosted tips and a sweet muscle car tours around the country finding the “best” diners , drive ins, and dives and showcases a few items off the menu that are noteworthy. And by noteworthy I mean the greasiest, largest, highest calorie food they have listed.  Not all establishments he visits are gut-busting greasy spoons, but they definitely don’t shy away from them.

One of those establishments is a historic site in Ballard (North Seattle) called Mikes Chili Parlor.  It is the oldest building on the block, and is standing precariously between a couple of new big buildings.  It has been there since 1922.  It almost looks cartoonish how it is situated between all the new constructions.  Now the show and its leader Guy will lead you to believe that the chili made here is unparalleled and much better than all the other chili that they have featured.  Here is the problem: it is not.  I would like to start off by saying that this is a dive bar that serves chili.  As a dive bar, I love the place and will always go back, but as a chili manufacturer…meh.

The first time I ever went to try Mike’s chili I was around the corner on a construction job alongside my fellow Mexican coworkers.  Luis Carmona and I made a point to eat lunch together and I talked him into joining me at the chili parlor because of the show’s recommendation.  I had been there before but only to drink.  We were immediately drawn to the offering on the menu of chili served over spaghetti noodles.  Now I am sure that is common place in an ass-backwards town like Cincinnati, but this…this was dam near anarchy in our neck of the woods.  I ordered the chili with noodles and Luis ordered the chili dog.  I am a reader of things like books, warning labels, street signs, and body language.  I was reading Luis’ body language and I could tell that this was No Bueno.  Before I could even get a fork full of rolled up chili-covered noodles, Luis had taken a bite of his chili dog and not only spit it out, but had started scraping the chili off of said chili dog.  Now I know what is in a hot dog and I am sure Luis in his worldly travels has heard children whisper of the ghastly horrors that make up a hotdog.  So when one pushes another food away to get at the food that makes up a hotdog, then my friend, there is a problem in Houston.

The bartender saw this and immediately took this as disrespect.  He questioned Luis and asked if he was “too good” for the chili he was served.  Luis has broken English at best, but when Luis finally realized what the bartender had said it was too late.  The bartender had taken the basket away and asked us to leave.  I think I was on my second bite and looked at the bartender trying to bait him into taking my bowl while I was currently getting another bite.  Luis immediately started a cussing tirade in Spanish and wanted desperately for the sickly bartender (he must have been living off the chili alone) to come around from the other side of the bar for some foreplay.  I immediately took two more bites of my chili noodles from sheer hunger and flung the bowl of chili at the bartender yelling that he was a racist and that Guy Fieri would be hearing from us; although he never did.  We went back to work with a funny story.

All I could think about the rest of the day was why was that guy was so quick to get offended by Luis’ dismissal of the chili?  Why did it escalate so quickly, and why in the hell were there no beans in the chili?  These were all valid questions.  My answers were these. The bartender’s actions were a direct result of more than one customer complaining or not liking the chili.  Why there were no beans in the goddam chili is beyond me.  If I wanted a Mexican meat sauce, then I would have asked for it.  And by the way my Mexican friend acted, the chili wouldn’t have even been an okay Mexican meat sauce.  So next time you watch this show just remember, not everyone has the same tastes in food, hair, or hot rods, and not everything on TV is the bomb.com.

Thoughts on Jeff Hanneman and Slayer

The following Cheyenne B piece first ran in The Soda Killers issue #4, which there are a very limited number of copies still left of. Get in contact if you're interested in receiving one.

Thoughts on Jeff Hanneman and Slayer
By Cheyenne B.

5/15/13
The last time I caught a Slayer show was on the 2010 tour with Megadeth and Testament, where they played Seasons in the Abyss, start to finish. Despite catching a lot of shit from some of the more pretentious Slayer fans, I think Seasons is a solid album that houses some really vicious tunes, so I was pretty stoked on it and had a kickass time. That was almost three years ago now, and up until that point I had seen Slayer at least once every other year, if not more, since I was 12. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I realized that particular show was my last Slayer concert ever, under the circumstances that guitarist Jeff Hanneman passed on earlier this month due to cirrhosis of the liver.

No one can say for sure what Slayer’s next move is going to be as far as writing and touring goes, but I think it’s safe to predict that I will never see Slayer live again. Even if they don’t call it quits and keep on truckin’ sans Hanneman AND drummer Dave Lombardo, I have no desire to see the remaining weakest links plus a couple of hired guns pretend to be Slayer. See, at that last Slayer gig I saw, singer and bassist Tom Araya and guitarist Kerry King were just going through the motions. Araya couldn’t belt out a warcry like he used to, King was butchering solo after solo, and when they weren’t doing that, they were just standing there. Even Lombardo was a little lax on the skins. I realize that those guys are getting up there in age, but the severe lack of effort was disheartening. However, Hanneman was up there bangin’ it out and nailed it. Now I have accepted the fact that I will have to listen to Show No Mercy on loop playback for all eternity in lieu of ever seeing them live again.

So why does the death of a person I didn’t even know have any sort of effect on me? Well, because Slayer was my gateway drug into everything metal and punk. It was somewhere in my early preteen years that I rerouted my life down the Left-Hand Path, and I can at least partially, if not fully, attribute that to Slayer. At that point in my life I was suffering an identity crisis and needed to escape from the monotony and torture of the pop vomit that infiltrated the minds of my middle school classmates. When I first heard Slayer, I wasn’t anywhere near prepared for it. The song was “South of Heaven,” from a mix CD that a friend burned for me - I was just decimated. I didn’t know that kind of music was allowed. It awakened new levels of discomfort and anxiety, as well as rage that made me just want to get up and start breaking shit. That was exactly the contradiction of emotions I needed to get me through my middle school identity calamity. Since then, Slayer has been a staple through every phase of my life. I can directly link the band to some of my best memories.

Hanneman’s music has had a profound impact on multiple generations of metalheads and punks alike. Everyone from my 11 year old nephew, who I have forced Slayer upon since he was just a tyke, to my more middle aged friends who have worshipped Slayer since the tape trading days, has been cranking their favorite Slayer albums in mourning remembrance. My personal choice has been Show No Mercy. Hanneman’s riffs and compositions were truly a driving force in shaping the future of underground music and spawned infinite legions of metal and punk bands for years to come. He will be dearly missed.

It’s the beginning of the end of an era. All of my heroes are dying.

R.I.P. Jeff.

Thoughts on the Neutral Milk Hotel Reunion

The following Doomgoblin piece first ran in The Soda Killers isssue #4, which there are still a very limited number of copies left of.  Get in touch it you'd like to get one.

Thoughts on the Neutral Milk Hotel Reunion
By Doomgoblin

4/29/13
The Internet just told me that Neutral Milk Hotel got back together and has five shows scheduled. I’m not one to get excited about reunions, but this feels a lot different.

I used to check out CDs from the library in my hometown all the time. Whoever was responsible for buying CDs for the library back then really snuck some gems in there. So I was browsing the collection and I came across this bizarre looking CD. There was a chick in a dress with half a coconut for a head or something. The colors were muted and dreamy and I decided to check it out because I was 15 or 16 and it looked cool. The band name was just as mysterious as the artwork. What kind of band calls themselves Neutral Milk Hotel?

I took it home and sat in my bedroom and listened to it for the first time. I was confused as hell. The guy can barely sing, the horns are unbearably out of tune, and the lyrical content made no sense. But I couldn’t stop listening to it. And the more I listened to it, the more I loved it. The best records are always like that, it seems. Things that take a couple spins to really get under your skin. Not that I refuse to embrace music that is instantly enjoyable, but it just feels more satisfying when you have to put a little more work into it. So I found this record that I knew absolutely nothing about. I didn’t know if I was supposed to love it or mock it. I was a total tabula rasa, you know? It’s been a long time since I’ve listened to something without any preconceived notions about how I should feel about it.

I was young and I was just starting to really explore music. I was never attracted to top 40 radio, so I just listened to oldies stations and Broadway cast recordings. I started by checking out the musicals from the library. Do you remember those bulky double CD cases? Yuck. Then I moved to the classical section, and the jazz section. The rock section was kind of my final frontier. I didn’t like most of the stuff I picked out, but Neutral Milk Hotel, Radiohead, Cat Power, and Elliot Smith were my gateway drugs. So thanks old library! Thank you for planting the seeds that made me want to discover more music.

I’m so excited about this whole NMH reunion because I never thought I’d ever see them live. They broke up/went on hiatus/whatever shortly after In the Aeroplane Over the Sea was released. Everything I read about them at the time (2002ish?) suggested that Jeff Mangum was a total recluse and it was highly unlikely that we’d ever hear from them again. It’s probably still highly unlikely that I’ll see them live. Even if they do eventually make it up to Minneapolis, I’ll probably forget to buy tickets and then not remember the show is even happening until the day of when it’s too late…unless I can convince someone to get me in for free. Because that’s how I roll. I completely suck at going to shows. But that isn’t the point! The point is that I’m being all nostalgic and happy that they’ve decided to play a couple shows in places far far away from here.

I’m Faster Than My Shadow

Scene Report: Swans live at First Avenue

Swans live, First Avenue, Mpls, MN, 9/20/11
I had nearly forgotten Swans were in town until I noticed the dark cloud lingering above Minneapolis. Yeah right. I bought my ticket like, three months ago and I’ve been waiting with baited breath ever since. I don’t follow Michael Gira as closely as I follow say, Nick Cave, but I’m still a pretty big fan. Heck, most people I talked to as I was excitedly bubbling about the show the days preceding it had never even heard of these guys.

I went out for dinner with my crew and we kept cracking jokes about how we should sit in silence and order our food burnt, just to get in the proper mood. One girl even asked us if we were gonna commit suicide during the show or wait until afterwards. Oh how we laughed.

We get to First Ave in time to catch the last couple songs of the opening act, Sir Richard Bishop. I don’t know anything about him, but he was really good at playing his guitar really fast. I was slightly disappointed that the place wasn’t packed, but I do prefer when there’s room to walk around without getting elbowed in the face. We settled on the stage left side of the balcony and waited patiently with our bombers of Heineken.

The show began with a single drone. The band members took the stage one by one, each adding something to the sonic landscape. It was grating, repetitive, and slow as shit. We had heard that there was a 30 minute song on the setlist, I was pretty sure that this was it. Finally, after about 25 minutes, Michael Gira makes his glorious entrance. He took the role of conductor, with his back to the audience, and led the noise for what felt like forever. I was enjoying it, but I was praying that they’d start playing a song soon. I remember scurrying to the bathroom (I’m totally a one beer/one pee sort of drinker) and continually keeping my eye on the stage lest I miss something ACUTALLY HAPPEN.

I don’t really remember the details of the rest of the show. I totally let the percussive, rhythmic, atonal sounds wash over me. I usually wear earplugs at First Ave shows because they are so damn loud, but I didn’t wanna miss out on a single decibel of this one. Gira’s voice is incredibly powerful, yet still so soothing and comforting. His baritone vocals rang out through the room and hung in the air like a thick fog. Either that, or they actually did turn off the ventilation systems, as was rumored, in an attempt to make the audience as hot and uncomfortable as possible.

What I’ll remember forever is what happened after the show. I was hanging around the merch table, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big white cowboy hat go past. I knew it was him and I got totally star struck. I saw him approach the merch table and start signing autographs and stuff. There weren’t a whole lot of people milling about, so I caught his attention and just shook his hand and said thank you. I was happy. But then, my girlfriend started taking a picture with him and I was like, oh damn, I better get in on this. But I got shy. She came bounding back to me like an excited puppy and was like, “Oh my god, he said he’d come talk to me later, but that he wanted to talk to everybody first.”

I was just as excited as she was. We make our way outside for a cigarette, and then he shows up right behind us again. She’s totally in love by this point. It was pretty hilarious actually. But he was really sweet. Way sweeter than I was expecting, judging by his incredibly dark creative output. I don’t remember what we talked about. I was mostly giggling by how thick my friend was laying it on. I think she totally lost him when she put on her sexy voice and said, “I’ve read all your books.” But he was very patient and totally put up with our drunk asses. I even invited him back to my place. I knew he’d say no, but you can’t blame me for trying. He actually seemed like he kinda wanted to come party with some crazy young girls. Or he’s a very good actor. So we said our good byes and went on our way. I really hope he didn’t notice how we were skipping off singing “We just hung out with Michael Gira! We just hung out with Michael Gira!” like a couple of pubescent Justin Bieber fans.

At the end of the day, it was an incredible show. It was definitely the best time I’ve had at a First Ave show ever. Now I just gotta wait for him to take Angels of Light on a tour again.

-Doomgoblin
I'm  Faster Than My Shadow

Send your stuff to bnb@hotdogdayz.com

Record Review: Ground Sloth-Demo

Ground Sloth-Demo (self-released)
By Nathan G. O'Brien exclusively for HotDogDayz.

From the colonial landscape of Williamsburg, WA—“the birthplace of the American Dream,” so the tagline goes—hail Ground Sloth. This outfit is comprised of four young gents who found each other while working as DJs for the college radio station at nearby William & Mary. Ground Sloth has only been playing shows around Williamsburg for about three months now, but that has not deterred them from unleashing to the world (via the Internet) this four-song demo of clamorous metal-punk.


The first track, “9-11 Hot Wings”—which gets my vote for Best Song Title of the Year—can best be described as a gloomy romp through the tortured mind of a soldier high on psychotropic drugs. Of course I could be totally wrong about the subject matter because, fact is, the vocals are largely unintelligible. It makes no difference to me though, as actual lyrical content usually matters little, provided it’s not singing the praises of Michelle Bachman or arguing for the recompense of slavery. I can assure you they are neither or anything as equally revolting. It’s probably anti-war or, about getting stoned…or, an anti-war song about getting stoned. Let’s move on, shall we?

Song two—“Right to Self-Destruct” starts off, well, appropriately—“Don’t deny my right to self-destruct!” Lyrically, it doesn’t take long to figure this one out. Whereas the previous song had sludge-stoner-metal affections, reminiscent of High On Fire or Eyehategod, this song is more in the vein of raw noise punk that’s become quite popular of late—like a slightly less chaotic Nerveskade. To anyone familiar with his work ska-crust ragers Diskast or the highly underappreciated Clean Girls, bass player, Josh Makela’s patented high-pitched vocals are easily recognizable on this one. Mid–song there is a nice mosh breakdown that lasts exactly six seconds before effortlessly transitioning into a speed metal spot that is equally as short. Believe me, it’s, like, totally rad. Put your keg cups in the air!

“Drug Haze” shows Ground Sloth flexing their hardcore punk rock chops. Again, the noise elements are present though. It’s like Murder Disco X and Raw Nerve met at a house party, smoked up, and slammed out some tracks in the bathroom or kitchen or some other place that sounds like the inside of a PBR tallboy.

“The Last Unicorn” is appropriately placed at the end of this demo, as it captures all the best moments of the previous three songs in one masterful doom-infected juncture, which may or may not be a tribute the 1982 animated feature of the same name.

Overall, the quality of the recording is what you’d expect of a demo—raw and lacking a few of the fine-tuning adjustments that usually happen once something gets laid to vinyl. I get a boner for demos, so I think it’s perfect. I would love to see this come out on a cassette. However, I think we’ll be lucky if we see any more Ground Sloth output at all. At present, the drummer, Erik plans to move to Seattle at the end of the summer and there is a good chance Josh will be leaving for NYC. So catch them while you can in the next few months—they are booking shows around Williamsburg and Richmond, VA and Washington DC.

If you’re still not sold on Ground Sloth, you no-doubt will be after you hear how Josh explains them—“We just hang out, smoke weed, drink, talk about girls, and occasionally bang out a hardcore breakdown and write a song around it.”

Now if that isn’t living the American Dream, I don’t know what is.

Stream or download here.

Send us your stuff for review to BNB at  bnb@hotdogdayz.com or Nathan at thee.n.o.b@gmail.com

Reader Submitted Content: Record Review

Dear HDD,
Hey there, it’s me again. I had another session with my therapist and he said the writing seems to be helping. So here I am again, this time with an album review. It’s my first one ever, but hey, you’re audience really seems to get me, so why not debut it for them, right? Right.



Japandroids-Post-Nothing

I got off to a bad start with these guys. At first I wanted to hate them because I’m a Japanther fan and these guys—being a another two man band with Japan in their name—were seemingly more popular and thus were a threat to my self-created indie cool guy world. Don’t worry, that doesn’t make sense to me either. I’m not even sure I’m the one that wrote it. I imagine it’s how Minneapolis-St. Paul people feel when the world goes gaga for Vampire Weekend; meanwhile Vampire Hands had been creating far more original music and for quite a bit longer. Anyway, a couple months ago I was a pubic hair’s width away from murdering the internets because it wouldn’t shut up about Japandroids. Then for some strange reason, almost as if I was being controlled by a mind not my own, I went out and bought Post-Nothing. Shit, it is good. In fact it’s a holy fuck kind of good.

I read somewhere that Japandroids were like a Canadian No Age. Well I can confirm that they do in fact sound almost exactly like No Age (not a bad thing) but I believe an argument can be made that Japandroids are the more California of the two. For one, they sing about girls, and to best of my knowledge Canadians don’t even like girls; they like hockey and mayonnaise. And everyone in California likes girls. Even girls like girls in California. Does No Age even have any songs about girls? It doesn’t matter; Japandroids has like a million.

Listening to Post-Nothing is like riding your bike to work on a sunny Friday morning and deciding that today is the day you’re going to stop being such a pussy about consequences and go ahead and finally fuck that chick from the office. Probably not in the office, but like later, after a night of boozing and possibly cocaine. I assume fucking her in the office would be too dangerous; but how would I know, I don’t even own a bike.

All I’m trying to say is it’s a really good record. No it’s not. Yes it is. It’s holy fuck good.
-Nathan