Hey dude, what’s up? Not much over here. So, uh, like, what’s the deal? Where are you?

Seriously man, it’s been like a decade since you’ve graced humankind with your sick, sick drumming skills. What’s up? Did we piss you off or something? If we pissed you off, just tell us, man, and we can talk about it. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional (unless it was something Gary did—listen, that guy’s an asshole, no one likes him, so don’t even pay attention to anything he says).

Some people say you went into an early retirement, Chuck, because you were “fed up” or “tired” of playing music. I don’t know, man. That dog really won’t hunt with me. I’m beginning to think someone forced you into exile on account a’ you knew too much about something or were so good you were making them look bad. Was it Mike Ness? Did Mike Ness slap an injunction on your ass because he couldn’t handle your powerhouse style on “When the Angels Sing?” That’s so bogus, man. So bogus.

Everyone you used to play with is still on the scene, you know. Danzig, Circle Jerks, D.O.A. Hell, I’m pretty sure Black Flag’s reunited a couple of times in various forms since their late 1980s demise. Are you injured, Chuck? Did you fall off a roller coaster or something? Is it your rotator cuff? You know, I think Ross the Boss from Manowar messed up his rotator cuff after a few shows in Germany once, but he was back rockin’ and rollin’ after six or eight months of recovery. I know that kind of thing is a bitch when you don’t have insurance, but come on, man, we really need you to get back in the game.

I feel weird admitting this, but I almost hired a private investigator to find you. I was gonna call that guy who does that show The Locator, but in the end I nixed it because I figured you might not want to be on TV (Lord knows I’ve gained a few pounds since “the glory days”). Also, invasion of privacy, personal space, blah blah blah. We need answers, though, Chuck. Rock fans want to know how you’re spending your days in this new century. Are you sculpting again? Doing outboard motor repair? Maybe you’re just hangin’ around and sucking the government teat. Just hangin’ out with your wang out, fartin’ around until you get the calling to do something else. Nothing wrong with that.

You gotta hit us up, though, and give us the 411. Otherwise, the rumors are just gonna keep flyin’ around, like you’re addicted to weapons-grade heroin or you committed vehicular manslaughter or they threw you in the loony bin ’cause you couldn’t stop talking about Lillian Gish. It can’t be that embarrassing, man. Even if you’re a professional clown now who makes weekly appearances at your neighborhood Applebee’s while simultaneously booking private parties for the well-to-do families in the area, I’ve heard worse. Much, much worse. One kid I graduated with became a male model who only worked at NASCAR events. Can you imagine that? Walking around the Daytona race track in cut-off jean shorts and lip gloss? Well, he did it for a while, and no one looked down upon him. Okay, maybe some people did, but I didn’t. We’re friends on Facebook now.

That’s what you need to do, Chuck. Get on that damn Facebook. I know, it’s starting to hit MySpace levels of lame, but it puts you out there without much effort and people can keep tabs on you even if you never leave your house. You don’t actually have to talk to anyone on it. Just set up an account, throw up some recent pics, and let us know you’re alive. You can still get your hermit on and play Wii all day if you want. All we want is a sign, Chuck, a sign that you’re ready at any moment to whip out a pair of sticks and go mental. Please.

Well, gotta go. Keep it sloppy, bro.

James Greene, Jr.

Watch: Danzig, 1999 (feat. Chuck Biscuits) [at youtube.com]

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