Showdown In NYC
We've heard about this since it happened and briefly touched on it before, but finally, C.C. Banana wrote what happened to him when he ran into Sebastian Bach last December 2001.
Now if you'll remember, C.C. Banana was the hit of last Summer's Poison tour when he....well, read it yourself. It's kind of hard to explain. The link is right here: http://www.metal-sludge.com/AdventuresOfCCBanana.htm
Anyway, this is just another example of why Sebitchian is an asshole. A bully. A punk. We've given him so many F.U. Awards and B.A.F.B.A. Awards it's not even funny. With his recent arrest last month, this is just more proof that the guy is out of control and has no concept of reality or how to behave.
We now present C.C. Banana.
Hey there Sludge, C.C. Banana here!
It seems I can't help but cause controversy wherever
I go, in or out of the banana costume! This latest episode of rock & roll
egotism gone awry steers clear of the Poison camp, and enters the realms of
2 Metal Sludge favorites,
Kiss and Skid Row!
On the cold winter afternoon of December 12th, some friends and I attended the Gene Simmons book signing at Barnes & Noble in New York City. Shielding myself from the elements during the 4-hour outdoor wait was my tattered winter jacket, my festive Santa Claus hat and my official Metal Sludge T-shirt!
(which can be purchased HERE: http://www.metalsludge.tv/store)
Okay, technically mine is a LIME GREEN POISON Metal Slut Fancy Ass Baby Doll T-Shirt, but I happen to think I look cool in it. So sue me.
After the rather uneventful signing, we managed to acquire entrance to the "exclusive" afterparty at the former Cat Club, now called Spa. As luck would have it, Metal Sludge's #1 archenemy Sebastian Bach would make a surprise appearance as well! The following is a detailed account of what happened shortly thereafter.
C.C. Banana and Gene. This wasn't taken the night in question, but in February of 2002.
It took C.C. Banana 3 attempts to finally get Gene.
Hang onto your cowboy boots, kiddies -- this one gets weird fast...
Spa's VIP section was more packed than a Metal Sludge Extravaganza. There were probably over a hundred people in this one room alone. My friends and I ended up hanging out by the entrance since it was too crowded to push in any further. That's when I saw a really tall blonde walk in.
At first I thought, "Oh, cool -- a giant chick!" Cuz super tall chicks are hot.
Of course, this chick turned out to be Sebastian Bach.
Sebastian couldn't get too far into the crowded room either, and ended up chatting with people just a few feet away from us. He actually seemed to be in a good mood that night, and even posed for a few pictures with fans. That's when I half-jokingly suggested to my friend Tom that it might be fun to try to get a Sludge capture. I quickly dismissed this idea however, since I didn't feel like risking my $600 digital camera to Sebastian's notorious bad temper.
After 10 minutes or so, Kidd Wikkid moved on.
Ultimately Gene made his entrance, surrounded by at least a half-dozen security types. Acting as a kind of human force field, they deflected people from all sides, allowing his royal highness to navigate the masses. This unlikely procession pushed its way through the crowd, disappearing from sight at the far end of the room. Tom then decided to follow, and I tagged along. But I first made sure to grab the camera from my knapsack, in case the opportunity arose for an elusive Simmons capture!
I began to ponder just which CD I'd ask Sludge to send me in exchange for this prized bounty, all the while nudging my way past revelers toward the demon's corner. Little did I know at the time that I would never get to meet his unholiness that evening. For while brushing against the back of a white-shirted partygoer, I was shaken from my Sludgeaholic reverie by two large hands grabbing me by the lapels!
This white-shirted, large-handed individual had whirled around quickly, revealing himself to be Sebastian! Pulling my jacket wide open, he then spied my heretofore concealed Sludgendise!
(again, which can be purchased HERE: http://www.metalsludge.tv/store)
I gotta tell ya gang, this part still has me baffled. Imagine a room so congested that I literally could not see human monolith Sebastian Bach standing in front of me! As such, I have absolutely NO idea how he knew I was passing behind him. Let alone that I was wearing a Metal Sludge shirt under my jacket! I simply can't explain it. It was almost as if this tall blonde wookiee was sensing my presence by tapping into the dark side of the Force.
"WHATCHA GOT THERE, DUDE?" the sUBHUMAN beast snarled, glaring at my newly revealed Sludgewear.
(I'll be typing Sebastian's quotes in all caps, since he did nothing scream throughout our entire encounter.)
I was so surprised at being grabbed that the first few seconds are kind of a blur. I don't think I even had a chance to respond to this initial outburst. I'm pretty sure all I was able to mutter was a confused, "Huh?"
"YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME!"
I was still in a daze, and I still had no idea what he was talking about. Let alone why he was grabbing or screaming.
"What? No, I don't -- "
Next came the following, equally out of the blue:
"YOU THINK MY WIFE'S A FUCKIN' CUNT?"
Now he was REALLY losing me.
"No, I don't even KNOW your wife -- "
I honestly have no idea who his wife is or what she looks like. But I'm sure she's a lovely woman.
He then began ranting something about "always talking shit about us." And that's when it dawned on me -- he must think that I actually work for Metal Sludge! That I'm Floyd or Jani or Donna or somebody.
As if I ever COULD be.
"YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME!"
"No, I don't. I LIKE you."
Not at that particular moment, of course.
"I bought your 'Last Hard Men' album."
I'd hoped this latest remark might suck some wind out of his bellows. I mean, only a handful of die-hards know about this obscure release! I was hoping this humorous revelation might temper his anger.
But he just kept screaming, unfazed. He was so enraged, he probably didn't even hear me.
"YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME!"
This had apparently become his mantra, because he kept falling back on it over and over again. I swear to God, he was literally SCREAMING it -- RIGHT in my face by now, no more than three inches away. He was absolutely livid. His eyes peered fiercely into mine and he seemed like he genuinely wanted to kill me. I was starting to get a little nervous.
"Dude, I have no beef with you," I offered calmly. In fact, I seem to remember extending this olive branch SEVERAL times. He'd gone from 0 to 90 in about 3 seconds, and I was hoping simply to cool him down a little.
No such luck.
"YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME!"
By now the guy was poking me as well. While continuing
to scream his lungs out, he had begun to repeatedly jab me in the chest with
his index finger, as if to emphasize his every exclamation. But since he's
so freakishly tall, his
poke is fairly powerful! More like a push, actually. A sharp, painful one.
"YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME!"
I honestly think he was trying to provoke me into pushing him back, so that he'd then have an excuse to take a Piece of Me. But there was no doubt in my mind that if I so much as raised a finger to this vicious giant he would indeed kick my little white ass up and down the bar. And I'm way too busy for shit like that. So I wasn't about to oblige.
"Dude, stop touching me," I said, probably a bit more bravely than I should.
"I'M NOT TOUCHIN' YOU, I'M TOUCHIN' YOUR SHIRT!"
With that he began yanking at the collar/logo area of my precious Metal Sludge T. I think he was actually trying to rip it off me, or at the very least tear it.
"Dude, I'M not the site. I just read it. I'm just wearing the shirt."
I'm not sure why I thought this distinction would improve his opinion of me.
"YOU GO TO THAT WEBSITE?"
"YOU LIKE THAT WEBSITE?"
"Yeah. I think it's funny."
"THEN YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME TOO!"
And we were back to that again. I suppose I should have seen it coming.
He then further clarified:
"YOU WEAR THAT SHIRT, YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME!"
By now we're nearly 60 seconds into our standoff and EVERYONE around us was watching this spectacle unfold. When an overgrown adolescent starts screaming at a harmless guy in a Santa Claus hat, it can't help but attract attention.
"Dude, I'm not here to bother you. I'm here to see Gene. I was going with Tom to see Gene."
"WHERE'S TOM?" he demanded.
As if I somehow benefited by inventing an imaginary friend?
"He's over there with Gene. Because you're not bullying HIM."
I think it was at this point that a man in a suit
came over and got between us, seemingly to break everything up. No mere musclebound
club security guard, he proceeded to pull out a genuine NYPD badge! He then
what was going on.
Mind you, Sebastian was the irate freakazoid screaming his head off and pushing around someone a good 12 inches shorter than he was. Why this officer asked HIM to explain things is simply beyond me.
"HE'S GOT THAT FUCKIN' SHIRT ON!" was the only reply Sebastian could sputter.
With that, the undercover cop pulled open my jacket and briefly inspected the green and white logo.
"Alright, that's it! Come on, you're out of here!"
What the fuck???
I kid you not, fellow Sludgeaholics! This man took one look at my shirt and somehow concluded that Sebastian must have had every right to start screaming and poking.
I mean, maybe if my shirt was emblazoned with a
controversial slogan like "Skid Row fans are Poison fans" or even
"AIDS Kills Bas Dead" he'd have a point. But it was just the Metal
Sludge logo. This officer didn't seem to
know what it meant, but he'd apparently seen enough to convince him that I was the one who needed to be escorted from the room.
And THAT'S when things got REALLY bizarre.
AFTER our one-minute verbal showdown... AFTER a police officer had intervened and broken us up... AFTER I was being ushered out of the room...
THAT's when Bach took a swing at me.
More of a swipe, actually. A "BITCH slap," if you will. Knocking me sideways and dislodging the Santa cap from my head.
He also pulled my hair. But I think he was just trying to make sure the hat fell off.
Folks, I just don't get this guy -- his victory
clearly at hand, he somehow still felt the need to physically lash out at
me. Despite the fact that a member of the honorable New York Police Department
had inexplicably deemed ME
the offending party, Sebastian just didn't know when to quit. So he took a poke at me while I was walking away.
"Are you watching this?" I barked at the cop. "HE's hitting me, and you're throwing ME out???"
My logic unacknowledged, he instead ordered 2 security guards to remove me from the VIP room. As if I wanted to hang around by that point. They deposited me into the main area of Spa, then walked away.
Shaken and uncertain of what to do next, I looked
down and saw that my camera was still in my hands! It was covered in perspiration,
but it had somehow escaped unharmed! I'd actually forgotten I was holding
it. In fact, I'm
pretty sure Sebastian didn't see it either! He was so focused on me and my shirt that I don't think he looked down far enough to notice the camera. Fearful that said security might return and confiscate it, I quickly tucked it back into my knapsack.
I was safe in the main area for a moment or two, and exchanged hellos with some other friends who were waiting for the Kiss tribute band to perform. But that's when the undercover cop exited the Darkened Room and spotted me again.
"I told you to get out of here!" he shouted.
"I did. I left the room," I replied, attempting to be cooperative.
"I told you to get out of the club!"
No, he didn't. He just had 2 goons pull me from
the room. This was where they left me off. If he'd wanted me out of the club
he should instead be yelling at them. But I was not about to debate this subtlety
with a man who didn't
strike me as terribly objective to begin with.
"I didn't do anything wrong. He just went nuts, screaming at me," I continued, thinking that the officer would be more reasonable now that we were safely away from the Youth Gone Wacko.
"You're wearing that shirt!" he insisted.
Again, as if THAT proved something.
"It's a website. It's just a website."
"A website?" he mocked. Taking another look at my shirt he defiantly scoffed, "Yeah, right!"
Again, as if I could benefit from a lie like that!
I mean, if I was going to lie myself out of this predicament, I'd have said
that I was Gene Simmons' nephew or something. Or that I was a member of the
Wild Boyz. Or that I was
I should have told him that he was messing with C.C. Banana.
"What is your name, sir?" I inquired, hoping that he'd be less disagreeable if he was less anonymous.
"I'll tell you when I drag your ass downtown!" he snapped.
Clearly, I was going to lose this round whether I was right or wrong.
Security then clipped off my special VIP wristband (oh, the shame of it!) and walked me out the door. The officer proceeded to inform them, "Don't let him back inside, he's causing trouble."
As I stood there, bewildered and frustrated, he shot me one last barb:
"And you'd better not be here when he comes out!"
What -- was he gonna LET Sebastian beat me up?
I learned later that after I had been "escorted" from the scene, another of my friends had approached the still fuming Sebastian. He attempted to explain that I had done nothing to him, and that Sebastian had no reason to lose his temper with me like that.
His Skid Response was something along the lines of:
"THAT GUY WAS YOUR FRIEND? THEN YOU FUCKIN' HATE ME, TOO!"
Outside the club, while the experience was still fresh in my mind, I spent a few minutes jotting down notes and recounting the event with my three friends (aka "witnesses"). Though it's taken me awhile to properly commit this tale to the keyboard, I've used this time to verify with them the specifics of this ridiculous incident.
You'll notice that I refrained from referring to Sebastian as "Sibitchian" in this particular story. Rather than vilify the man through simple name-calling, I chose to let his actions speak for themselves. I'd given him every opportunity to back down from his Riot Act. Despite the hostility he was hurling my way I made a conscious effort to NOT respond in kind, for fear of escalating the matter. I merely attempted to reason with him, and even tried to break the tension with a humorous remark or two.
But he wasn't hearing any of it. He was seething with rage and he just wanted to scream. He just wanted to push. And for all my efforts to defuse the situation, I was rewarded with a smack in the head.
Causing me to lose my adorable Santa Claus hat, I might add.
I think what irks me the most about this entire ordeal is that I honestly didn't have a bad thing to say about the man before that night. Sure, I've laughed at his televised temper tantrums and asinine public behavior, but I've also been a fan of his music for over 10 years. Like a Darryl Strawberry or a Tommy Lee, Sebastian Bash is a loose cannon I still find myself rooting for despite his repeated fuck-ups. When some friends and I encountered him briefly two weeks earlier, after soundcheck at the New York Steel benefit concert, he smiled and gave me "thumbs-up" for my Superman T-shirt. So regardless of his less than stellar reputation, he had always done okay by me.
Nonetheless, his unprovoked assault was entirely inexcusable, and I would have been well within my rights had I chosen to file a police report that evening.
For better or for worse, I'm fairly certain that word of this post will make its way back to Sebastian. That being the case, I would like to state for the record that I consider this matter over and done with. I realize that it was not ME he took issue with, it was my Metal Sludge shirt. And I'd like to think that HE now realizes this as well. I write these words not to perpetuate this conflict, but rather to address the rumors and put them to rest once and for all.
Now gimme 2 bucks for my autograph so I can afford to finance Samanthas 8 through 11.
Thanks for the writeup C.C.. Next time try being a bit more timely, but
we appreciate the effort.
C.C. Banana said something that sticks out to us. He wrote, "Rather than vilify the man through simple name-calling, I chose to let his actions speak for themselves." That's very noble of you C.C., but we're not so noble, so please step aside so we can do the name calling because we're good at that.
For the record, I don't believe we ever called his wife a cunt. Maybe a tramp, but certainly not a cunt.
You know, the last time Sebitchian toured, Metal Sludge wasn't selling shirts or any Sludgendise at that time. We started selling shit around June of 2000, and by that time Sebitchian was basically done touring. But it was only a matter of time before Sebitchian encountered a Sludgeaholic who was wearing the swag.
We hope for his sake he doesn't tour, ever again, because if he does, he'll be running into Sludgeaholics every day, all day. And from looking over our records, we have a lot of XXL Sludgeaholics out there that won't take kindly to being pushed around or bitched at for wearing our shirt.
He was making such a fuss over our shirt but he's the guy who wore this shirt:
Saying something along the lines of, "If you visit that site you hate me" means that according to the 145,628 hits we got last month, then a lot of people must hate Sebastian. At least according to his reasoning. Plus he must hate himself because we know he reads all the stuff we put up. Hi Sebitchian! How's it going, Bitch?
What else can we say about Sebitchian that hasn't
been said a million times before?
The botton line: He's a loose cannon and he's fucking nuts.
We're out like C.C. Banana's Santa hat,
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