The Johns Offical Website

I love Guns N Roses, folks, I do, I can’t lie. And god knows I’m not alone, hell, Mat loves ‘em. I know it. Know it for a fact. Know how I know it? Cause 2 weeks ago when we played Martyr’s, rolling up at 5pm for soundcheck, guess what we were jambing to?

Guns N-Fuckin’ Roses, that’s what! A little "My Michelle" blasting from our vehicle.

Oh, you were that guy on the street, fist in the air as we blasted by you? You rock, random passerbyer and GNR fan! Let’s get a beer!

Guess what else I love? Dr. Pepper.

Everyone knows that one. That’s no suprise. Hell, I’ve even been given Dr. Pepper as a gift before, and welcomed it, that person got a hardy thank you from me, I must say. I love the taste of DP, I love the style of the can, the colors, I love everything about it. I even love the name. "Dr. Pepper". Though I still have no idea what it means (is the "Pepper" a reference to giving you "pep" or to the spicy taste? I always thought it was the latter).

Anyway, you can imagine my delight when I read this article bringing these 2 things that I love together.

Fuck, I don’t care what the excuse is, I’ll take that free DP under any circumstances, but this? This just seems like a cruel, cruel joke.

I think we all know that Axl, the nutjob-cornrow-Indiana bastard that he is, is in no way going to finish this record anytime soon, nor let the public hear it if he does. He must know that to release it would be a disaster of heavenly proportions. Doesn’t he?

I think "Dr. Pepper" does. And kudos to them, way to get their names in the paper, and for something truly inspired and hilarious at that. not only has all of the music industry challeneged Mr. Rose to release this record, but now the king (in my opinion) of the soft-drink world is getting on him to release it as well.

I think it goes without saying that I’m not getting that free Dr. Pepper though. And I think it further goes without saying that no one wants to be forgotten for doing something as novel as putting out a record hyped for over a decade, for surely only oblivion can follow.

But dammit, I would have smiled. I would have been happy. Me. Can you imagine that? being able to slam the new GNR record and a tasty (and free) Dr. Pepper at the same time?

I look now to the comforting words of Steven Tyler to get me though this, my trying time.

"Dream on, dream on, dream on, dream until your dream come true"

See you in the funny pages,

Onarga.

You know one of those nights where you’ve consumed so much vodka that you can’t read the chord chart for the cover you never really rehearsed, and you really wish you could find your glasses only to realize that you can’t find them because they’re already on your face, making your inability to read the chart even more embarrasing?

Well, that was The Store show for me, for the most part.

My apologies. But shit, I have no idea we were going to play for 2 hours. What are we, the E Street Band?

No. We’re not. But they should pry watch their backs given how quickly those 2 hours went by.

Anyway, thanks for coming, those who came, and while we may have threatened you and your band a little, just know we love you Boss.

Sincerely,

Onarga.

By John Nichols of The Nation

 “What’s so fucking fascinating?”

“I don’t know”

I had forgotten what the fuck we were talking about but I felt the need to stand my ground just the same. “Let’s just forget about it”

“Okay. So did you go to college?” she asked.

“Oh, let’s talk about something else”

“why?”

“it’s just not a topic I’m really good with right now”

“okay”

“okay,” I said, provoking our first silence. It wasn’t awkward, but I still didn’t want it to happen. But she didn’t seem to mind, she just sat there looking at me with a smile.

“She would talk about something else,” she said.

“yes, please, what would you like to talk about?” I asked.

“I dunno, we’re quickly running out of topics”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“How about…what color underwear you’re wearing”

“What color underwear I’m wearing?”

“yep”

“Uh, well, it’s actually not really a specific color”

“Ohh, leopard print?” she asked, almost squealing with a strange glee.

“no..”

“Zebra print?”

“No, they…have guitars on them, several multi-colored guitars”

“Several multi-colored guitars?”

“yes”

“Do know what this says about you?”

“what? that I have awful taste?”

“well, yes, but that you were also not planning on getting laid tonight”

“oh really?”

“yep, which is good, that takes a load off my mind, now I don’t have to worry about you putting ‘the moves’ on me, or about me putting out”

“’the movies’?”

“Or putting out”

“you were worried about it?”

“I thought it might come up sooner or later”

“and now?”

“and now?”

“yeah”

“and now,” she said, “I’m going to get us 2 more beers and something in the jukebox”

“Oh, I’ll get them—“

“no, that’s okay, a man who wears boxers—they are boxers, right?”

“yes”

“a man who wears boxers with multi-colored guitars on them gets his beers for free, but is in no way allowed anywhere near the jukebox”

“fair enough”

“good” she said and got up, she was gone only a minute before she came back with the beers.

“:you already played the jukebox?” I asked.

“nope, not yet” she said, then she grabbed my hair, pulled my head back and kissed me. I was thrown off, I apparently had no chance of getting laid and this made me focus extra hard on my kissing. She seemed to gather as much.

“you’re thinking too much, it’s just a kiss, I’ll be right back”

            I drive east on IL HWY 290 toward Chicago. My engine is rumbling and shaking just beyond the steering wheel. I hear it clearly if my window is down. I hope I will make it home. I am on the south side surrounded by factories and houses long left for dead by their inhabitants, or maybe the other way around. I don’t smoke; I don’t want to anger the machine, who I feel at this point is taking every one of my actions to heart. I caress the wheel, promising to do right by her, Angeline, my sweet machine, if she will do right by me and get me to my home 5 miles away.

            I make my exit and feel her begin to fuss. She wants rid of me. She wants me to suffer. I turn off the music that comforts me on my drive and play the music she likes. Or rather, play the music she knows I hate: pop country. I don’t need to play it loud, she ust wants me to listen to it, she wants it understood that she is hurting and that her misery requires my company. I oblige.

            A  man in his early fifties, wiry and energetic in a old blue coat and thick wool hat has his hand up in the air. He holds a plastic cup and swings it from side to side. He seems overjoyed, like a man professing his wealth rather than begging for my change. He recognizes me and my car. I am there everyday and at the same time. He makes his way over. Angeline rumbles, she cries, she doesn’t care about this poor man, she simply wants to rest and won’t allow me to roll down my window to fish the thirty cents I have in my pocket for him, not now, not when the light has turned green. I am forced to say through the glass that I too am broke but perhaps tomorrow my house will come in and I will share these winnings with him when I see him tomorrow. He blesses me for even acknowledging his existence and looks forward to tomorrow.

            Angeline carries me the rest of the way, or maybe I her, we’re both tired and frustrated and relying on each other for every inch of asphalt that runs down the center of Chicago’s Humbolt Park. We weave along the tree lines and coast when we can. We don’t get excited and we don’t hurry, we’re efficient and we’re careful. I pull her around the corner at Shakespeare Ave and wind her into a spot in front of my building. I put her in park and sit with her for a moment. I make sure she’s okay, that she will make it through the rest of the night without me, that she is comfortable, that she can rest in this spot I’ve chosen for her if only for the short time before I make her run the whole marathon again. Her rumbling subsides and purrs, she allows me to turn off the country, I’ve suffered with her and she’s grateful. I turn the ignition and remove the key. I grab my groceries which we had picked up on an unplanned stop earlier, one which had irritated her, and rose the steps of my building.

            With my key in the lock and the door open I turn to make sure she is sleeping well. She doesn’t stir. I think she’ll be okay. I close the door and walk up the steps to my apt on the third floor. I fumble with my keys, my mind on it’s task, but my mind also somewhere else. My mind on my job. My mind on the small office I leave but return to. My mind on the rotting spinach and spoiled milk in the fridge which I replace with fresh spinach and milk which I will dispose of in the same matter 2 weeks from now.

            I remove my coat and lay it on a chair. I take out a cigarette and light it near the window, near enough to view my Angeline. I wonder if she will be calm in the morning when I wake her, or if she will cry and weep. I hope she is alright.

 And now, a conversation with Bill:

"I seem to remember your sister being stacked"  I said of Bill’s sister as we were standing in his kitchen.

"Really? Cause she’s not, I think she would find that laughable"

"That’s too bad, I really like the mental image I have of her"

"How often are you looking at this image?"

"You mean, in my mind?"

"Yes, the picture in your mind, how often are you looking at it?"

"The mental image of her breasts? How often am I looking at it?"

"Yes"

"Often"

"Wow, you really need to get laid"

"Yes, I know"

"I think we should make that your goal tonight"

"To get me laid?"

"Yes, you are hanging on by a thread I think"

"Perhaps, but who is going to match up  to the mental image I have of your sister, your very stacked sister?"

"How stacked do you think she is?"

"Well, actually, I’m not using the word ’stacked’ to describe size so much as quality. I’m looking for quality of tit above all"