From a dirty old couch deep within the bowels of London’s Wembley Arena, I watched the usual parade of familiar faces file into the Foo Fighters dressing room as I happily nursed my well- deserved post-show beer, still sweating from another exhausting night onstage. As would happen most evenings, our…


Upon returning home to my mother’s little house in Springfield, Virginia after Nirvana’s 1992 world tour, I followed my usual homecoming routine of dumping my entire suitcase full of soiled clothes into her old washing machine in the garage, rooting through her fridge full of delicious, comfort-food leftovers like a…


“Check…one, two….”

I turned out the lights, pressed record on the Realistic CTR-71 portable cassette recorder sitting on the windowsill beside my bed, and as my head hit the pillow I began to speak. What was once a device only used for listening to homemade mix-tapes of my favorite punk…


After all these years, this simple message, my first words of true validation as a fledgling writer, has never left me. It echoes in my mind like a long canyon scream each time I sit down to a blank page, and inspires me to fill it with my true voice…


Frozen in my living room chair, my stomach dropped like a lead weight as I stared down at my laptop screen in horror. Fingers trembling above the cold keyboard, I read and re-read those two sentences over and over again, praying that perhaps it was just some sort of typo…


Like smoke in a crowded saloon, these four words hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, as my mind struggled to make sense of this most surreal, life moment. There I was, standing in a cold, curtained off dressing room area, trying so desperately to keep my…


These were three words I thought I’d never live to hear. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was a lifelong, card carrying, die hard metal fan since I was a kid. A back patch wearing, cassette collecting, fanzine subscribing, stage diving lifer at heart. But Ozzfest? The Foo Fighters…


My sweet mother stood there scowling and covering her ears behind the patio door as the final squeaks and pops of my Virginia-legal-sparkler-fountain-thing scattered its dying embers across the backyard of my childhood home. This was not the first time I had heard her say these words, of course. She…


Hi.
My name is Dave.

Sometimes I play drums.

Sometimes I play guitar.

Sometimes I tell stories.

I’m currently looking for work, so I thought I’d pass the time by writing true short stories that will make people smile.(I’m also a total fucking spaz who can’t sit around doing nothing)

My mother was a brilliant English teacher, my father a wicked speechwriter, so I decided to rebel by not paying attention to grammar and/or punctuation in school. (That, and cranking death metal 24/7 from my bedroom stereo) So…have mercy. Not going for a Nobel Prize in Literature here.

I look forward to sharing some of the more ridiculous moments of my life with you. Stay tuned!

Wash your fucking hands.

Dave

Dave's True Stories

Dave Grohl

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