Illegal Foreign Object

Between 1988-1990, my dad and I made three trips to Major League Baseball Spring Training. I was an autograph hound and loved running down signatures, especially from players who hadn’t yet hit the big leagues.

On March 25th, 1990, I, along with my dad and his friend Jack loaded up and drove from Texas to Florida for a week-long stay in Port Charlotte (then the home of my beloved Texas Rangers). Our collective goal was to arrive on time for the first of two games the Rangers played against the White Sox on the 26th. I was excited to see Sox rookie Frank Thomas. At 6’5″ and 240 pounds, the hulking, sweet-swinging first baseman had “All-star” written all over him.

Full disclosure: I gave up on making it on time for the early game somewhere around Mobile, Alabama. Figuring there was no chance we’d reach Sarasota on time, I plugged my headphones into my boom box (yeah, I brought my boom box with me), popped in Alice Cooper’s Trash cassette, and settled into the backseat of our van.

“Son, are you staying here and sleeping, or you wanna watch some baseball?” Somewhere along the ride, I’d passed out. Jack has fallen asleep as well. When my dad woke us, we were sitting in front of Ed Smith Stadium, the Spring Training home of the White Sox. Dad had driven all night to get us there on time. That day, with hours to spare before the start of the game, I ran down the signature of “The Big Hurt” on two occasions. He was as massive in person as he looked in photos. On this same trip, I also nabbed the autographs of Yankees legend Whitey Ford and Cleveland Indians legend Bob Feller. Both men were extremely kind with their time and advice (I had designs on being a pro pitcher back then). Whitey Ford seemed surprised I knew who he was. Bob Feller told my dad I was “a respectful young man”.

While driving back to Texas, we stopped in New Orleans to spend the night. Mardi Gras finished the previous month, but the rowdy Bourbon Street morons hadn’t gotten the memo. It was a party, and my dad and Jack wanted to wallow in a little of the merriment. Being 12 years old, I couldn’t legally get into any of the bars, but after convincing a doorman I had no interest in alcohol, I finally managed to work my way into a tiny speakeasy to hear a badass local blues band. That security guard was as big and wide as the door he manned. He made sure I understood that one sip of alcohol would see me tossed out onto the street on my head. While Dad and Jack barhopped, I listened to the tunes. When the band took a break, I walked down Bourbon Street, wading through a sea of drunks and horse shit. Several women leaned out of 2nd and 3rd-story windows, offering anyone willing to look skyward a gaze at their ample, um, hearts.

Tits aside, I found the entire display vomit-inducing. Seeking a modicum of peace, I hightailed it into a record store near my walking path. If memory serves, it was either a Sound Warehouse or a Sam Goody, but I could be wrong. Thumbing through racks of music has always relaxed me, and while I got my bearings, I stumbled across two offerings by Suicidal Tendencies: the self-titled debut and Join The Army. Thanks to some five-finger discounting at Best Buy several months earlier, I already owned Controlled by Hatred/Feel Like Shit…Déjà Vu and loved the songs “Waking The Dead” and “How Will I Laugh Tomorrow”. I made my way to the counter and purchased both.

Cassettes in hand, I traversed the horde of buffoons back to the hotel, grabbed my boom box, stepped out onto the tiny balcony of our 3rd-floor room, raised a middle finger, and unleashed Join The Army‘s “Suicidal Maniac” on the drunken masses. Did anyone notice my stand in opposition to their incessant din of wailing overindulgence? Probably not, but a stand was fuckin’ taken, regardless.

Join The Army was the first Suicidal Tendencies album released with guitarist Rocky George (he’d previously played on “Look Up…(The Boys Are Back)” off the killer Welcome To Venice compilation). His addition to the band introduced the thrash element into its style. Songs like “War Inside My Head”, “Join The Army”, and “A Little Each Day” gave the listener a glimpse into the band’s future. “A Little Each Day”, in particular, showed off frontman Mike Muir’s newfound interest in actually singing. The change in vocal direction to his more well-known emotional style perfectly suited his lyrical subject matter. It isn’t an album I play that often, but when I do, it’s always “A Little Each Day” (and it always reminds me of that night on Bourbon Street).

I sat on that balcony and burned through the entire Join The Army cassette (I’ve always thought that album, DRI’s Thrash Zone, and Corrosion Of Conformity’s Animosity were the “blueprint” records to the whole hardcore punk/thrash crossover sound that gained a cult following in the mid-to-late eighties). Then, I played the thing all over again.

30+ years later, I still love Suicidal Tendencies. I also still abhor drunkenness. I find it almost as disgusting as the Rangers drafting Donald Harris over Frank Thomas. I mean, what the hell, Texas?