STrandED

Life can be a funny thing at times. You never know when circumstances may coalesce into something truly tragic, and so our story begins. If you are inclined to waste a few minutes of life indulging in mindless meanderings, read on and pretend that you care. That's what we do.



Inception



Somewhere in a sleepy little fishing village on the coast of Iceland, a group of young boys were born, and grew up fast friends. They have absolutely nothing to do with our story, so fuck 'em.



Way back in the early 70's, Chris was in Vietnam, fighting the commie pinkos. He lost his legs down a gopher hole, and was sent home, where he became the sole survivor of a plane crash, escaping with Ira Griffen, also the sole survivor. Ira later became our arch - nemesis. Let's not talk about him. Chris was fortunate enough to one day find a broken bass guitar in a dumpster, and in an unfortunate epoxy accident while attempting repairs, he and his guitar soon became inseparable.



Rob was at the dawning of an awe - inspiring career as a racecar driver, with an enviable record of no losses against no opponents, when a horrible turn of events left him with no car, no future and no girlfriend. He was really pissed about the car. As is the story so often, he bought a guitar and learned how to play the only music that matters.



Steve works tirelessly at destroying the environment, with a careful eye out for that special, endangered tree to make the perfect drumkit to compliment his Brazilian Rainforest sticks.



Paul, standing 6' 3" of Nordic splendor, spends his spare time foiling Steve's plan to deflower Mother Earth. His guitar is not really made of wood (cause that wood be wrong).



This is how it really started. Like you care. We were sitting at our usual table at The Greenery in North Tampa. Somewhere between pitchers, we were eyeing up this really hot waitress as only blantantly drunk assholes can do. Somebody - can't recall who - figured it would be a really good idea to start a band, 'cause chicks dig musicians. (That was part of it, anyway). We had pretty much all been in a number of other abortive attempts at musical expression, which is maybe why we had never really thought of it before then. Why bother, you know? So we went over to Steve's house and tried it out, since his parents were out of town. About four hours later, most of the glass figurines and plates that his Mom had spent so long collecting were in pieces on the floor (no joke), and we never even heard it happen. We were never (officially) allowed to play there again, although we did. Sorry, Steve's mom. Our official stance is, "We didn't do it, no one saw us do it, you can't prove anything." That said, we still feel kinda bad about the whole thing.



The Plot Thins



So naturally, drunk on our success, we quit our jobs and started writing songs. It wasn't long before we were all employed again. Man cannot live by Punk alone. Inspired by the Political Erectness of our "elected" elite, and the corn-holier-than-thou attitudes of those not-so-elected cassock-wearing creeps, it soon became obvious as to where we should focus our ire. Lest ye think, however, that this is all we are about, we remind you that this whole thing was started by that wonderful creation of some unnamed, uncredited Gregorian, whose efforts at ministering to the doldrums resulted in happiness by the pitcher, and was soon sanctified by the ruling class. Credit where credit is due, after all. And Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow



Shut the fuck up and drink.



Stranded



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--High Hopes and Cruel Jokes

--Bottle--Petri Dish--Skateboard