Thanks for the memories Scott Weiland

(Dedicated to my moron buddies.  Pouring one out for you, Scotty Boy)

Chris Farley, overalls for men and now another 90s legend has left us behind on this earth.

Scott Weiland, long time front man of 90s rock band Stone Temple Pilots and later (underrated) Velvet Revolver is dead.

Was he an anorexic junk bag that looked like a human rooster most of his adult life?  You betcha! But I am not here to judge the man today; I am here to thank him because this guy was a key player in some of my favorite and funnest days of my life.

You see, the height of this guy’s success was also at the height of my and my jackass friends’ party days. Those care free 90s, baby.  Flannels, Doc Martens, fear of AIDS and Stone Temple Pilots; thats how we rolled.

And Mr. Weiland was a part of two of the best memories of my carefree younger days and so I tip my (sorry, its not filled with smack, Scott) cap to you, Sir.

Summer 1993, Gardener, MA

A beautiful Saturday afternoon in casual central Massachusetts.  A merry band of idiots from Lowell packed up their cars with enough beer to kill the Budweiser Clydesdales and enough weed to choke out Willie Nelson to see this exciting new band, Stone Temple Pilots.  After some “merriment” and tailgating, what of course naturally happens when you enclose a few thousand intoxicated 19 year olds in an area full of drugs and bad decision making?  You guessed it; a fight.  In the parking lot of some random ass park or whatever the modern day West Side Story breaks out between  the drunken Jets and more drunken Jets (The Sharks didn’t care much for hard core rock).  Ah, crazy kids probably disputing something critical like Roger Clemens ERA or who was funnier, Norm or Woody.  The memorable part of this entanglement was not the fisticuffs but rather how it all was settled.  Just as John Q. Law and his ‘friends’ were about to end our day abruptly before hearing one note of Plush, one of our creative friends took action.  Yes, just as we were all about to likely be whisked away to the glorious holding cell in East Bum, our buddy somehow finds a parking attendant vest, straps it on – to his shirtless torso, mind you – , poses as Security, and proceeds to inform the police that our crew had nothing to do with aforementioned disruption.  And, it worked.  An hour later, we were all moshing out to Sex Type Thing and attempting to make out with grungy looking broads.  Absolute Xanadu.

Summer 1994, Worcester, MA

Ah, Summer is here again.  Our STP boys released their second, and seemingly as awesome, album, Purple.  The Pilots were destined for our neighbor to the west – my beloved town of Woo for a couple nights at the former Centrum.  Let’s see, how can we get ourselves to the this show in the most stupid and dangerous capacity?  Yes, you, in the Kirk Cobain shirt  in the back?  Ah, a U-Haul?  Correct!  No joke.  My idiot friends decided to rent a U-Haul box truck to haul our asses 40 miles west to see a concert.  What could go wrong, right?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Number 1, you need to provide your owner driver, fellas.  And what does every 20 year old feel like doing when heading to a concert with 7 other guys?  Being the sober guy.  Sure (wink wink), someone will be the DD.  Number 2, where are we going to sit, assfaces?  There is no seating in these storage units on wheels.  No problem.  Grab the beach chairs.  Genius!  Number 3, picture turbulence on a plane only worse because the ‘pilot’ (pun intended) has a 6-pack and ounce of pot in his system before take off.  What’s better that flying around the back of a box with a bunch of jerk off buddies?  Flying around the back of it with NO LIGHTS.  Oh yeah, except for the lit joint and the crack in the back of the cargo van door, you could not see a damn thing!  Not sure how we survived that one – but what a show! (Look for yourself!)

Anyway, rest easy Mr. Weiland and Godspeed(ball).  Thanks of the music and the bruises.  I hear the smack in Heaven in MINT.