Stop the presses
And, as power surged to the stage from black-clad hears, we knew that truly, God Hates Us All.
When you live in the rural suburbs, music is your idol. You sift through the detritus of junk shops masquerading as antique stores for records, paw through clattering suitcases of cassettes from when your parents were young and cool, saving up for trips into the city to buy new music—fingers crossed at a place that isn’t scared of “explicit lyrics or content”.
The internet makes it easier. It’s all there, without waiting for your older brother to discover grunge, or a stray chance introducing you to an album that blows your former Sousa-loving mind. But the internet doesn’t bring concerts to the middle of fucking nowhere. You still have to go to the city for that.
When Slayer and Megadeth were booked at the Washington County Fairgrounds, well outside the teeming urban environs of the city, it was like a gift directly from the gods of metal to the scattered farming and bedroom communities on the western rim of the Portland Metropolitan area. Where thunder eggs and amber had dully gleamed just weeks before at the annual gem show, perfected screams would vibrate the air.
The primary paper for these far edges of Washington County, the Forest Grove News Times, was ready to herald the event as “Slayborday Weekend”, a refreshing change from the rote new-school-year staples and heart-warming, if repetitive, events that make up the bulk of rural suburban news. They secured their press passes and entry to what was, frankly, one of the awesomest events to hit the area for years.
But the News Times, one of (if not the) best performing papers in the community newspapers group that includes the Portland Tribune, didn’t reckon on one thing. It turns out that at a second glance their coverage was considered absolutely not worthy of consideration by Mike Thrasher, the man who is presenting Slayer and Megadeath to the Washington County Fairgrounds and who, apparently, gave out too many press passes.
In the face of this overwhelming quagmire, the day before the show Thrasher revoked the two passes given to the Forest Grove News Times. After extensive emailing by the News Times’ photo editor, who’d been looking forward to shooting the show, Thrasher relented to issuing press credentials—but not the passes. If they wanted to cover the biggest show in their county, the News Times would have to purchase their own tickets to get in. In short, Thrasher was cool with the event being covered, but he wanted to make more money, too.
The photo editor’s off-record reply is unpublishable.
Whatever Thrasher’s reasons for cock-blocking the Forest Grove News Times from covering the event, the end result is a hole in next week’s paper, both design-wise and in information. As great as the free alt weeklies in Portland are, they are not necessarily where the board members of the fairgrounds get their news. If a fantastic chance like this concert comes up again, there will be only the most basic paragraph—if that—detailing how Thrasher’s Slayer concert was received. The News Times could dig into their empty pockets to scrape up the money for last minute tickets, but it would be giving publicity and promotion to a man who has proved himself to be unworthy of basic consideration.
Disclosure: I was set to go as the writer for the News Times, to work up an extended caption/mini story to accompany Chase’s pictures. I’m really fucking pissed.
I’ve been blogging for work, helping Chase with his art book and reading the crap out of City of Roses which has been crazy fun, and everything is ramping up to busy season again, so here’s a quick dump o’ stuff:
There is this guy I know. Dogs cross the street to get pets from him, and even the most hateful cats love him, because he exudes some sort of “nah, I just want to romp too” vibe. He will spend literally hours learning about a breed of animal and is now full of more facts about bizarre wildlife than most public television.
He is a ridiculously good photographer with an even pickier sense of self-confidence than I have, which is saying a lot. He has a job in a dying industry and gets into godlike rages at the pitiful excuses for first aid his superiors half-heartedly attempt. I can’t understand how he is such a good photographer, every time I see a snippet of a new project of his I am floored.
For various reasons he has stopped eating grains and feels about a million times better. For breakfast he has “bear cereal”, which is berries and nuts with cream poured over. He yells at crows out of the car window. He has the prettiest hair and likes to have his toenails done.
When I want to buy something particularly ridiculous and glam I just need to ask him if I should and he says yes. He always goes for the sparkliest thing.
I’ve known him since he was nineteen, but I don’t want to think about that too much because we’re both twenty-seven now and that is kind of a long time.
