You’ve suffered through their bullshit your whole life. Now that you’re engaged, it’s time to get revenge on your family, friends, and loved ones. And since it’s your wedding, there’s nothing they can do about it. They can’t even complain, not even years down the road. Savor this!
Here are The Hard Times’ best tips for making your wedding as expensive, arduous, and inconvenient as possible.
1. Location, Location, Location
So how do you choose where to have your destination wedding? Make sure it’s somewhere obscure enough that absolutely no one can get a direct flight. Choose somewhere scenic but not actually fun- you don’t want people getting a real vacation out of this. It’s YOUR wedding, and everyone’s experience should revolve around you. Make sure the destination is not a place any guest might actually want to go if given free will (which they don’t have here). And as a bonu, choose a place you have no personal connection to so everyone gets more confused as to why you chose it.
2. Logistics
Picking a bad location is the first step, but raise the stakes by making every part of the trip a nightmare. Ensure that the nearest airport is so small that no one can get a direct flight, even if they can afford it. Then, choose a wedding venue nowhere near that airport so guests have to figure out public transportation, pay for an expensive cab, or rent a car where they have to drive on the scary side of the road.
3. Invites
Invite your most broke, underemployed friends. Twist the knife into their struggle. And if you start to suspect that they may pull the “I can’t afford it!” card, ask them to be in the wedding party. Then, they simply cannot refuse.
4. Gifts
Conventional wisdom says that if you make guests travel far and wide, they don’t owe you a gift. But you’re not conventional. After the wedding, be sure to text everyone who didn’t give you a little extra and ask “Hey, I can’t seem to find a card from you. Did I lose it?” Then send them the link to your registry. They will lose sleep that night (and probably for the next few).
Always remember to put yourself first, because this is going to be the best weekend of your life. Until you get divorced and do it all over again in 6 years.
Fuck no. One, he’s vegan. Two, he’s way into drumming. Both would have you foraging for calorie deficits. Sure, he’s in good shape, and he’d probably outlast everyone in the woods somehow, but do you really want to spend your last two campfires debating the merits of Buddy Rich versus Dave Weckl versus . . . no.
Henley would try to write a breakup album about losing all his loved ones. He’d be constantly slowing you down, having totally forgotten about the one time he braved a dark desert highway with a cool wind in his hair. You’d want him to check out and leave.
Grohl would be on a rival gang, you just know it. Everything he says seems a little too sincere. Watch out for those teeth and those quarter-note flams. The guy can fight. He can foo-fight.
Rosie O. on the skins? Hell yeah. Battle-ready after a cush retirement in Malibu? Hell no.
The drummer for an early iteration of Steely Dan, Chase also survived the desert on horseback in “The Three Amigos. “But we know from that film he’d be stingy with the canteen.
Dolenz would be one of the few drummers who’d want to step up and lead the group. But everybody else would want Davy Jones.
Rick was so cool when you were eleven and he was thirteen playing drums in your parents’ basement. But he’d cry like a baby when the campfire went out and it was time to get a little shut-eye–as he did at your brother’s party in 1993.
Chad’s a lot bigger than Rick and a way better drummer. But he’d want everyone in the group to wear only one sock. And he’d eat your bean rations, which were supposed to last a year, in the first two days.
R.E.M.’s drummer would get tired of hiking around the country and bow out early. It’s okay to admit defeat when the world around you is burning.
There really isn’t much Justin would offer you, he wouldn’t be a good protector, he’s no good at growing food, but if there was a group of cannibals descending on you chances are he would be their first choice.
Lee would want to record the time you shot an old man by accident because you thought he was wielding an ax and not, as it was, a soaking-wet cardboard box. Put the camera away, Tommy.
Smith knows how to “journey,” and he wouldn’t stop believin’ even if you ran out of food. But he recently made a shift to jazz fusion. So no.
Ooh, what a tasty percussionist! Full of subtle knick-knacks like delicious high-hat rolls, Seuss-like temple blocks, and mystifying splash cymbals. He’d be the perfect accompaniment for your recon mission across uneven terrain. But when someone’s hacking at you with a makeshift ax, and he’s crescendoing a glorious, epic cymbal roll, it would be like, “No thanks.”
He’s A.I., right? He and his friends would be against you.
Lars would have you up early, jogging, meditating, and making plans to outfox the competition. Yes, you’d survive with flying colors, but who’d want that insufferable pseudo-philosophical voice in your ear as you do it? And is that a fucking wine aerator, Lars?
Stamos would be good in a cramped space with a lot of people. Just have everybody hide their guitars when you’re out cooking squirrels. This isn’t that kind of campfire, Uncle Jesse.
He’d do okay pillaging New England and the coastal states. Just don’t let him near Texas.
Fred would be a lot of fun for the first few weeks. He’d have you in stitches doing impressions of the gang you just ran into (killed). But then you’d get down to the last Coke, and he’d sort of want it all for himself, wouldn’t he? And he wouldn’t say it. But you’d feel bad asking to split it.
You’d be like, “Put that down! Pay attention! This is life or death!” But then you’d come to after a surprise attack and realize he’d saved your life, and you’d have to say thanks. Eh. No thanks.
The Cure’s drummer would thrill you and all the woodland creatures of western North Carolina (or is this eastern Tennessee?) with endless wind chimes. But all those chimes and stands are a lot to carry, and word is he doesn’t even like to talk about Robert Smith.
Con: The Kiss drummer would demand he reapply kitty-cat makeup for each battle.
George’s mom strikes fear into all with her ear-piercing shriek. Even though she’d absolutely do something that would warrant a ban, she’s at the bottom of this list because no one would dare to confront her.
Larry owns Monk’s Cafe (formerly Tom’s). He typically pops up when the gang is getting unruly. He’s basically a diner bouncer. He clearly understands the dos and don’ts of how to act in an establishment and is therefore unlikely to catch a ban.
This globetrotting manic-pixie-dream-yuppie would be so taken with the rustic surroundings and fiery passion of the legendary punk space, he’d be more likely to feature its aesthetic in a catalog than cause any problems. Besides, he’s the guy who brought the opium.
Every character in “Seinfeld” has a fatal flaw. All Poppie did was not wash his hands after using the bathroom and he peed on his friend’s couch. If peeing on your buddy’s couch was enough to get you blacklisted, the punk scene would cease to exist. Besides, I don’t think the CBGB bathroom sinks have worked since the ’80s. Poppie gets a pass.
While we never see Cousin Jeffrey, we sure hear about him. Jerry’s familial nemesis is a specter looming over Jerry’s fragile sense of self for the entire series. Not only would Cousin Jeffrey be welcome in the hallowed halls of CBGB, we bet he’d be managing the bar within weeks. Fucking Jeffrey.
Kel Varnsen, Jerry’s alter ego, is Jerry on his best behavior. Jerry basically needs to dissociate in order to act polite. Kel wouldn’t dare upset the social norms in an unfamiliar environment. However, there’s a small chance he’d catch a ban from associating with his friend Art Vandelay.
Jerry’s dentist and the second funniest joke writer in the Seinfeld universe (#1 being Kenny Bania, of course) is a pretty chill guy, but he does get way too into things. We could see him showing up in a pristine battle vest and a seven-colored tri-hawk. That poser would get tossed before he can say, “Good Riddance… is the real name of that Green Day song. See? I did my research!”
A stuffed shirt like Elaine’s boss Mr. Lippman wouldn’t exactly fit in with punks. However, he’d get one whiff of what was happening in that venue and he’d leave before anything bad happened. What he’d get a “whiff” of, for the record, is crust punks.
Dolores has a temper, but only when righteously offended so it might depend on the politics of the band on stage. On the other hand, she had the maturity to leave Jerry after some of his trademark foolishness so she’d be just as likely to leave a heated situation than risk a ban.
On a typical night, Bob Cobb is a polite bar patron with pristine show etiquette. However, if his band is playing, then The Maestro comes out. He’ll demand everyone get the fuck up front and even jump in the crowd to pull people towards the stage. Depending on the vibe, this behavior may be encouraged. But on the wrong night, The Maestro could receive a perma-ban from these hallowed, stickered halls.
Kramer’s snobby alter-ego would do his best to maintain class at all times, especially in such a brutish environment. However, he’s still Kramer so some combination of falling, flailing, or blurting something out may end in his removal from the club.
This virgin is anything but timid when it comes to letting people know how she feels. Plus, she sure held her grudge against Jerry for the entire series. This is not a sign of someone who can let shit go. In the wrong circumstances, the virgin is getting two giant Xs on her hands and shown the door.
Now this man has a temper but, once again, it’s primarily triggered by the fallout from interacting with the Seinfeld gang. Maybe there’s a pattern here. Either way, assuming Babu came to the club to see a band he liked, he’d be fine. But if he wound up there at the behest of Jerry in hopes of marketing his restaurant as “Authentic Punk-istani Cuisine,” he might see some “very bad men” around him and start crowdkilling.
This one’s simple. Is someone giving her perfect son a hard time? No? Then Mrs. S. is cool. If so? Then shit is going down.
Sure, when Elaine showed up to CBGB for a date with a band member, or the sound guy, or someone else with some clout in the room, she intended to have a romantic, thrilling New York night. But he’d eventually say something that offended her politics or triggered her general disgust of people, and then the whole room would hear about it. Whether or not she’s in the right will be overshadowed by her vigor and will likely end in a ban.
At some point in the early 2000s, smoking was banned from bars in the city. Mr. Game 6’s chainsmoking habit would quickly wear out its welcome in Bloomberg’s New York City. Sorry, Keith. You’re out.
As the cashier at Monk’s diner, Ruthie has dealt with some shit. Mostly from George. She’d maintain her composure until a riff got too brutal and she let out all her repressed rage on some poor unsuspecting motherfuckers in the pit. This may lead to a ban, once again depending on which band happened to be playing at the moment.
First off, Jackie would love this club. The whole place is an ambulance chaser’s dream. Hell, so are most punk bars. Jackie would get too excited and jump at the first opportunity to file a suit and he’d be shown the door for his troubles.
Ping would slip in the mosh pit and become the unwitting accomplice of Jackie Chiles’ attempted scam and receive a ban by association.
Remember how hard it was when you were transitioning from your awkward teens to your even more awkward adult years? You threw everything at the wall hoping something would stick to hopefully form a cohesive identity that was new and unique. It didn’t quite work, but at least you got to try on a few literal and metaphorical hats along the way. That is ‘March On Electric Children!’ in a nutshell. Its ideas are bold, but half-formed. Exciting, but poorly executed. Fun, but deeply disturbing. Much of the experimentation featured on this outing would only prove to be refined on future releases, making ‘March On’ feel like a rough draft at best.
As a debut album, ‘This Adultery Is Ripe’ certainly stands as one of the boldest of its era. Melding all of the fringe elements of its adjacent genres, this record managed to introduce a highly influential and unique-to-a-fault sound to unsuspecting listeners across multiple scenes. Punk, emo, hardcore, and screamo fans all had something worthwhile to find on this one. And let’s not forget they had two vocalists, which left a lot of people wondering if that was even legal. If this were the band’s only effort, it would stand exceptionally well amongst even the most legendary of contemporaries. Fortunately for us, the band only continued to ramp up their output with very few exceptions from that point on.
A majority of Blood Brothers fans will tell you that ‘Burn, Piano Island, Burn’ is not only their best album, but possibly the greatest album of all time. We won’t sit here and call them idiots, but we absolutely do not agree with the sentiment. This is not to say ‘Piano Island’ is a bad album. In fact, as the band’s major label debut, the astounding and chaotic fervor it caused upon its release is likely responsible for its overblown reputation within the band’s discography. Where most groups in their situation start to dull down their sound to garner more mainstream popularity, The Blood Brothers dug their heels even deeper into their disorienting avant-garde stylings. Still, there are clear growing pains within the songwriting and production that make this one feel a little flat when observed within the context of their full discography.
‘Young Machetes’ is hands down The Blood Brothers’ most dazzling album in terms of production thanks to the esteemed and guiding hand of Guy Picciotto. Every member is in top form as if completely aware it would be the band’s last effort. Unfortunately, this knowledge of the death knell is apparent throughout the record, as evidence of the band’s splintering tastes occasionally hinders the album’s progress. This is most jarring in the faster tracks that appear to play out just a few BPMs slower than they should have (Huge Gold AK47), and most gloriously effective when the band leans into their more groove-based tendencies (Spit Shine Your Black Clouds). Considering the break-neck speed at which the band operated during their ten-year existence, it’s completely forgivable for them to have been totally exhausted by this point in their existence. Their final album, though not without flaws, is a fitting goodbye and a perfect reminder that youth is fleeting and no one stays in their twenties forever.
If we were ranking The Blood Brothers’ discography by album cover alone, this one would come in dead last. Behind the atrocious early aughts emo artwork lies the band’s true opus, however. This is the record where The Blood Brothers stood on the precipice of critical adoration and near-mainstream success and spit it venomously in the faces of all who dared to press play. Johnny Whitney and Jordan Billie’s contrasting vocal styles lock in for the most consistently satisfying interplay they ever committed to tape. A great reminder to listeners that two lead vocalists are completely warranted for an act such as theirs. Cody Votolato’s layered guitar work provides a cacophony that is as lush as it is volatile, while bassist Morgan Henderson and drummer Mark Gajadhar’s backbeats are so complexly dialed in that the former was eventually tagged in for Fleet Foxes’ lineup. This is without mentioning Johnny Whitney’s highly underrated Rhodes and synth playing that colors the entire record. If you find yourself scoffing at this entirely correct placing in the rank, we suggest you shut the fuck up and make your own genre-defying record and get out of our comments section.