"It's all your fault" (536 hits)
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Submitted by Wasabi <medicatedgoo.at.123mail.org> (View user info) at 2005-01-10 01:44:39 EST
"So the Kobe Bryant case is being tried right now?" I asked my guitarist as we drove up I-70 to the show destination.
"Yeah... I think so," he replied. Neither of us have television access, as we live together and abhor the demon box (Fuck I miss AQTF, The Simpson's, The Family Guy, and The Daily Show... *sigh*). Since we don't own an electronic-propaganda device, I get all my news from the Internet. And because of this, I get to choose what news I read, instead of Fox news SCREAMING at me what they think I should hear. Needless to say, I didn't know Kobe was being tried at this time (I follow basketball like a retard follows Accounting 101).
The only reason the Kobe case came up is a simple one. My band was heading up to Eagle, Colorado to play a show at a bar of drunken mountain folk. Eagle, where Kobe was in court. The thought of a bunch of rich media folk out on a Friday night, binge-drinking to erase their heads of the stupidity that must have been taking place on a regular basis at the court house, made me giddy. "I love to play music to drunk rich folk," I casually told my guitarist.
He just looked at me with a blank stare. I guess he wasn't thinking about the same thing I was. Maybe some Fox news ass hole would throw a bill on the stage. Maybe ESPN would buy the bar a round of drinks. Maybe Rolling Stone would do a story on us! Wait... I don't really like the Stone... Maybe Connie Chung would fuck me in the hotel room!
Was Connie working this story? Fuck it. I was getting ready for a hedonistic night of music and drugs, and I was anxious to get the night started.
--
Well, the case was indeed being held that week, but I guess TV media folk don't drink at the Brush Creek Saloon. I guess they all head into Aspen or some other shitty fucking rich people place. Fuck them. We had the fine people of Eagle to entertain tonight.
I approached the door to the bar with my bass drum bag in hand, ready to set it the hell down and start sucking on the sweet nipple of micro-brewed Colorado ales, when the door swung open. A man I could only call Bubba held it open for me. Bubba (his real name escapes my mind right now) had an old dusty trucker hat on, tight Levis, cowboy boots, a GIANT belt buckle, on old vertically striped cowboy shirt, tobacco on his chin, and, of course, a baby-raper 'stache. "Oh good," I thought. The fine people of Eagle indeed.
"You the band?" Bubba asked.
"Uh, yes sir, I'm in-" I tried to say before he cut me off.
"You're late."
Oh shit. I didn't want this giant beer-bellied redneck mad at little old me. I mean, I'm sure I was a sight to behold. Hair that hasn't been washed in months, the scraggliest beard you've ever seen, and pants bigger then Bubba's legs (my legs are quite small really, at least in relation to Bubba's). On the bright side, I was wearing an old plaid cowboy shirt. That should score some points, one would logically think. But... mine... wasn't... tucked... IN. Oh for shame. I had brought disgrace to the wardrobe of these quaint folk, and Bubba was going to take me behind his Chevy and teach me the new meaning of "salami." I shuddered. Cheese filled style.
"Well hurry the heck up and set those thangs up!" he yelled at me.
Sweet relief. I could live to play the show without picking my teeth up off the pavement. I waltzed on in. Everybody looked like Bubba, or a variation on the theme of Bubba anyway. "Fucking rich news cunts," I mumbled to myself. Despite Bubba's orders, I got a tasty porter first. I had to be limber if I was going to survive this night.
--
Well who the fuck would have thought that mountain folk LOVE their rock and roll with the knobs turned to ELEVEN? I would have thought so... that's why we booked the gig in the first place. Mountain towns are like little slices of heaven, and in this heaven they still let demons in, and the demons like to dance and drink. What would heaven be without dancing and drinking? Hell. Plain and simple.
With the first set over, the bar extraordinarily wasted, and a second set to come after a good 15 minute break (or longer, as the case often is), the band headed out to re-up our drug intake. It took a while... always does. We met some interesting folk who followed us out. They want some of our drugs. Mountain folk always want our drugs. Can you blame them? We help them, they thank us, they fall over into the bush, and we venture farther on to continue.
A good 30 minutes or so later, we returned to the bar to the sight of 2 ambulances and 3 cop cars. "Fucking Christ," I said to the others. Why is it always us? No matter which mountain town we play in, the cops ALWAYS come. For some reason, our crowd REALLY likes to drink. And fight. ELEVEN. Remember, our amps go to ELEVEN.
We went on in the bar, fucking paranoid as hell for having drugs on us and smelling like drugs and looking like drug dealers and in fact being drug dealers. I, again, waltzed up to the bar, took a seat and turn to my bass player. "It's my birthday 3 minutes ago," I told him.
"Fuck," he drunkenly answered. "Let's take a shot." Did I say drunkenly? I meant brilliantly.
We got our tequila's, and when the bartender returned (who, despite all the Bubba's in the bar, was actually kind of cute), we asked her what the commotion was about. "Oh... Jim had a heart attack when you guys went outside."
"What? Who's Jim?" I asked.
"He's a regular here. He's 79, drinks a lot, and he hasn't danced in over 10 years," she tells us.
I let everything she just said sink in, make a toast to Jim and my birthday, and swallow hard. "If he dies," she tells us, as we hand her our empty shot glasses, "it's all your fault."
I can't move. Did she say that? She keeps a straight face and walks away.
"At least he'll die doing something fun, not getting out of his tub or rubbing Ben-gay on his nuts," I tell my bass player.
He just looks at me, smiles, and before getting up says one simple thing: "Yeah. Happy fucking birthday man, let's kill some more people with our music."
Jim (who's name was changed because I can't remember what the fuck his name really was) lived that night, thank goodness. But it would have bitchin' to add to our biography: "Regularly induces heart attack." Is that so wrong?
User Reviews
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2005-01-13 23:16:25 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Dickgobbler.
Submitted by wasabi (user info) at 2005-01-10 17:10:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Yeah, saxaphonists are the drummers only true friend... and even they make jokes. It's a sad era to be a drummer...
Submitted by Stin (user info) at 2005-01-10 06:53:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
<Sigh>
There musicians and then there are drummers....
As a sax player, drummers will always be the butt of band jokes. But we love ya really.
Submitted by wasabi (user info) at 2005-01-10 03:22:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Heh, you beat me to it! That's funny.
Submitted by wasabi (user info) at 2005-01-10 03:22:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No I'm a drummer. The rest of THE MEMBERS OF THE BAND THAT WE ARE ALL IN AT THE SAME TIME IN AN EQUAL AND UNBIASED MANNER AND RELATIONSHIP all sing. It was just easier to word it the way I did in the story. I'm sorry I offended you... Oh who am I kidding? Fuck off.
Submitted by Shagabah_Jones (user info) at 2005-01-10 03:20:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Take it back you're a drummer, Drummers kick ass...
Submitted by Shagabah_Jones (user info) at 2005-01-10 03:17:01 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
What the hell... My guitar player My bass player... You're a fucking singer aren't you... I bet you call yourself a musician despite not playing a Goddamn thing... j-a-c-k-a-s-s, it's on all the envelopes that come to your house.
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2005-01-10 02:52:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Joemama (user info) at 2005-01-10 02:47:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by toucan_sam (user info) at 2005-01-10 01:53:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment