Well, That Happened.

There's no CTRL-Z in real life. This happened. Now I'm buzzed; and forever alone.

R.I.P - Hair
August 7th, 2008 - August 21st, 2008

At least good tv happened. Right?

The Best Compliment Ever

Glad I stumbled upon this video:

I've never really watched anyone watch our show before.

I know we don't always hit the ball, even when it seems so perfectly planted on the tee; but I thought this was an amazingly weird moment on television and I'm glad people are enjoying it was much as we did. Makes me really want to fight for a larger live studio audience. I wish more of the viewers could come, hang out, watch the show unfold inches in front of them. For now, the feedback we get will have to do. And please know it's greatly appreciated.

Again, had to share.

Beamz! The Informercial

Last Friday I taped this infomercial for Attack of the Show, encouraging viewers to "Play the Light". It was, in a word or three, too much fun. Many thanks to Mike Shaw and others for helping to make this bit a reality:


PLAY THE LIIIIIIIIGHT!!!!

Yes, We, Shall!

Jamaica, Mushrooms, Ms. Brown, And Bernard. (UPDATED: NEW PHOTOS)

Attack of the Show has just wrapped two days prior to my Jamaica departure. I was reaching for my badge and car keys when word traveled through the stale studio air that mushrooms were legal on the island. Instantaneously, with fiendishly Pavlovian flair, my already outstretched arm craned toward a keyboard to the side of me seeking answers. My thumb, middle finger and pinky simultaneously lowered with the precision and poise of a jazz-handed ballerina into "Windows Log-In Position"; without looking, I mashed the required keys, logged in, and pleaded for the almighty Google to confirm the shroomy-rumor still swirling about my ear canal.

According to "Internet", if I dared to combine the thought of legal fungi and Rastafari, I was probably going to be locked in a cramped pet-porter kennel and poked with sticks of sugar cane for the rest of my miserable existence. Psilocybin was illegal, an outright island "no-no", and I simply had to resist any and all temptation to seek it out.

"Fine. Fair enough. You know what, it's probably for the better!" I thought. Hell, the last time I dabbled with anything remotely psychedelic I ended up proclaiming I was made of liquid, calling friends to ask if I was still in my apartment, and burning my hand while trying to figure out if candles really emit light or if they "are the mathematical inverse, and actually devour the darkness that truly surrounds us."

Side note: I'm an idiot.

Just so we're all on the same page.



Cue two days later, a Sun-sunny-Sunday in Jamaica, when I hear that not only are mushrooms legal on the island, but we're actually visiting a world-famous Mushroom Tea shop for our "420 Special"! My eyes rolled in their sockets like reels on a clunky mechanical slot-machine; triple shrooms, JACKPOT! Like a shamanistic Toucan-Sam, I spent the next day floating around, nose first; excitedly following our production van to a ramshackle shoebox-of-a-shack on the side of a bustling windy road.

The "World Famous Ms Brown's", read the faded, sun-scared paint on the pockmarked wood paneling.

When my feet touched the scorched earth outside the entrance, I leapt into the air several times. I tried to play it off as half leg-stretch and half energy triggering mechanism, but it was simply a childishly outward expression of the juvenile joy surging through my brain. Here I was, meters away, from legally procuring what I hoped would lead to a tale-and-a-half; precious memories of "that time I shroomed" the white sandy beaches of Jamaica.

Olivia paced softly rehearsing her lines for the Tea House package while our crew buzzed about, setting up lights and shooting signage.

I stepped inside.

And found nothing.

The place was four walls, three barstools and a mini-fridge with some Pepsi bottles that had their safety-seals cracked. The only points of interest inside the joint came in the form of a wall full of dull, poorly framed photos and a wooden bead-curtain (which actually provided minutes of entertainment).

After my initial disappointment, I was greeted by the shops proprietor Bernard, who wore the warm weathered face of a man who had been sampling his own product for well over thirty years. His cheeks buckled and bounced under the strain of his mile-wide grin, his pores slowly bled thick beads of sweat that he wiped occasionally with a white handkerchief, and the thick red-veins in his milky eyes branched and darted sharply in multiple directions like a bloodshot New York subway map. He giggled in-between breaths and offered "Ya Mon's" in the same way a sixteen year old valley girl infuses sentences with "like" and "uhm".

I guess like, you could say, I like, uhm... liked Bernard?

Yes, despite the surroundings, I trusted him immediately. He spoke openly and honestly about his little shroomy grow farm. He explained the different types of mushrooms sold on-site and their effects. He showed us how he actually brews the mushroom tea in an undoubtedly tetanus-infested steel pot, and described his daily dosage (two cups of "2X strength" every evening).

The shoot eventually wrapped and thanks to a tight schedule, there was only time to lend my designer-knockoff sunglasses to a curious local boy, teach him to "work it" and snap a quick photo. We had to get back to the hotel. I reluctantly waddled back to the shuttle, kicking rocks along the way. I felt like a child being dragged out of Disneyland by his parents. I wanted to ride Space Mountain damnit! At least give me a Churro or some Dipp'n Dots as a souvenir!

<Darth> "Nooooooooooo!" </Vader>

I cried out for one of our producers (a long-time buddy of mine) to, "take care of me". I assured him I'd pay him back at the hotel. He nodded and minutes later I restlessly waded into the salty waters behind our hotel to await his return.

I tossed a flowery mini-football with friends to pass the time. I watched the sun sink closer to the sea as the horizon began to extinguish its' fiery gaze. Then, from a distance, a dusk-lit-figure approached with a black plastic bag in hand and hailed me towards the shore. My producer buddy had returned from his trip and was Baywatch-trotting in slow motion toward the water's edge like a tank-topped lifeguard. Only his little orange life saving ring had miraculously morphed into two bottles of "Double Strength Tea" and a handful of "on the house" dried stems and caps.

I raced from the beach and stashed the goods into the beat-up mini-fridge in my room. Because I'm somewhat professional and refuse to party on school-nights (save for one or three admitted lapses in judgment throughout my six years on camera) I knew I would have to wait a minimum of three days before partaking in any mind altering madness.

That day finally arrived, and is an entirely different tale for another time. But assuming you're interested in the Cliff's Notes, they read something like this:

About an hour had passed and I found myself relaxed, fully reclined upon a fluffy blue cotton beach towel; the golden tendrils of the mid-day sun pierced effortlessly through my skin, warming and massaging each individual cell in my energized body. I surveyed the sky, taking notice of the thick layers of black, parallax scrolling, brooding clouds rolling dutifully across the sky. I knew they signaled an impending and severe change in weather, yet I was firmly entrenched. Bonded molecule by molecule between a melting chaise lounge and the Earth itself. This was my experience. I giggled. Come hell or high water I was not moving. And come they did.

The sun battled valiantly, yet was quickly swallowed by the storm. The sky tore in half. Buckets of tropical golf-ball-sized rain poured from the heavens and sent beach dwellers scrambling madly for shelter. Palms buckled, violently slapping the rooftops under the pressure of gale force winds. Individual grains of sand blasted relentlessly into the side of my body and I felt an icy trickle of water penetrate the seal between headphone and ear.

I removed a pair of sunglasses from my bag, gave each ear bud a firm press into their respective canal, adjusted the volume accordingly, and smiled.

That smile, would last for hours.

04.07.08 -- 11:18 PM -- PHOTO UPDATE

Bernard and Me

Psychedelic Stew 

Sniffing Said Stew 

Bonus Beaded Curtain Madness 

Back on US Soil. Hooray, Internet!

Back. In the states. Home of drug-sniffing bloodhounds and Wifi!I spent four days shooting a special "420 Edition" of Attack of the Show (read: pretending I don't smoke pot or know the difference between Sativa and Indica); and when shooting wrapped in Negril, we headed to Montego Bay for a "chillaxing" good time at the Half Moon resort (read: three days of six-dollar waters and shady weed offerings while red-eyed and stumbling "rum-punched" around the beach). 

I have a ton of pictures, a ton of video and a ton of tales to share. And I'm making it a goal to do just that. Starting tomorrow, daily updates right here on the 'ol KevinPereira.com -- so set your webbernet-enabled-Tivos and tell your friends (and your WoW Guild). Seriously, it'll be worth missing a raid for. You'll see photos of my pasty, exposed rear! Wait. You hear that? That's the sound of this site being bookmarked across the country.With a promise like that (daily updates and man-ass) how could I not get twelve hits this week! 

Look out Google, my Jamaica updates are coming for ya! That's all for now. Thanks Atlanta-airport Wifi, and thank you, America. 

Drumming Live with Coheed and Cambria

 Back in January I was racing around Santa Monica blasting Coheed and Cambria at obscene decibel levels, mostly to drown out the screams of the bicyclists and transients trapped under the front end of my Subaru. I was slapping my hands percussively against the steering wheel, when on came the track "Welcome Home". I giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl as dreams of performing with the group live, on stage, crowd-surfed through my mind. 

"Hey, wait a minute!" I thought, "I could hop on eBay, bid on an inoperable brain tumor or twelve, and phone the Make a Wish Foundation!" But then I started worrying about auction snipers, overnight shipping and the hassles of dealing with PayPal. I quickly acquiesced to defeat. I swerved to avoid missing a cross-walking hobo when a magic mind-missile struck me right between the eyes: "I host a cable television show!" I shouted at the hungry, bearded, screaming old man pressed against my windshield. "There's got to be a way I can exploit the network and get them to make my childlike fantasy a reality!"

I went into work the following day, looked up some Coheed tour dates, wrote up a half-baked pitch about "using Rock Band to teach you how to play the drums" and fired it off into the void. I expected that nothing would come of it, despite hearing word that G4 was trying to license the song for air; there were just no way it was going to happen. Cue a random elevator ride on an unassuming Friday in March, when Laurie from G4's talent department casually mentioned my "drumming thing" was "probably going to happen... in a few days."

The sound of my jaw slamming against the floor was masked by the ding of the elevator. The doors opened, I exited, and a few drops of urine squeaked out onto my designer jeans. (Reminder, send apology post-it to the wardrobe department.) Fear gripped me. I hadn't touched a drum kit in ages! The little hamster on the wheel in my head began racing as I actively searched for excuses to bow out. I would be rusty, at best. My January delusions of rock-grandeur were completely shattered as blindingly painful self-doubt surged through every square inch of my body. I wanted call the whole thing off right then and there, but I sheepishly slipped on some wolf's clothing, thanked Laurie, and trembled back to my cubicle. I was going to have to fake my way through this one... I "confidently" shot my arms into the air and announced to the office I would be performing with Coheed and Cambria. I needed practice. I wanted to vomit.

I was going out of town that weekend, and thanks to a scheduling issues, I would only have Monday night to dust off any remaining percussive abilities. I booked a small rehearsal studio, plugged my iPhone into a mixer and literally drummed my hands into a nightmarish mess of sweat and blood. On the way home, I thought my phone was busted when I firmly mashed it against my ear, yet was unable to hear anything from the speaker. It was then I took a deep breath and realized I had just spent an hour, using two splintery wooden sticks, to pound tinnitus right into my temporal lobe. I was damn near deaf. And thankful that my television had closed captioning that evening.

The next day I awoke to the faint whisper of an alarm, fighting valiantly against the ringing in my ears to rise me for work. I hosted Attack, unable to hear the cues in my earpiece. I went home. I didn't sleep. At all. The noise-and-nerves cocktail that was my head simply rejected the notion of rest.

Hours later, I found myself on the stage of the Pontiac Garage behind the Jimmy Kimmel theatre. Before I knew what hit me, the cameras were rolling and I was trying to antiquate myself to an unfamiliar drum kit. I felt like like a cartoon octopus at a control panel, my arms sloppily flailed around. I attempted some double bass, but came up with a left-foot full of hi-hat. I mustered the confidence to attack the cymbal-bell, but my sticks amateurishly collided with the wing nuts holding the cymbal on the stand. My mind sputtered out of control. I immediately sank into a deep depression. My breathing intensified. Frustration consumed me.

A lifetime of seconds passed, and I peered over the drum kit and surveyed the landscape before me. To my left, two gorgeously black-clad backup singers were expertly crooning. To my right, Travis Stever was tapping his foot and crunching out guitar chords. And right in front of me Claudio Sanchez was swaying manically, belting out the chorus to "Welcome Home", with the most gentle and reassuring smile I have ever been blessed to witness. I was playing the drums with Coheed and Cambria. No, wait... I WAS FUCKING PLAYING THE DRUMS WITH COHEED AND CAMBRIA!

Dream achieved. I smiled.

I know I'm supposed to wait until I'm holding a tiny golden statue, but that's never going to happen. So, with that said: Many, MANY thanks to everyone at for making this silly idea a reality. The countless folks at G4 -- Mike, Laurie, John, Gavin, Neal, Anne, Mike and Joesh. Thanks to The Jimmy Kimmel show and crew for being so gracious and accommodating. And of course, to Coheed and Cambria, for being the best of sports and truly inspirational artists. Thank you, all.

There Will Be Blood - New Video

Enjoy this clip from a film nominated for an Academy Award in the best picture category: There Will Be Blood.

Coincidentally, the movie is also nominated for best performance by an actor in a leading role. What were the odds, right!? Apparently, pretty high, with top-shelf 'stache like that!