Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Marty Casey: A Night Out

Through no fault of our own, most of us will never be able to spend an evening with a blossoming rock star and experience that kind of life. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones, because I was graced with the opportunity to hang out with Marty Casey, Rock God-In-Waiting. For all you little people who will never get a chance to flip the rid with the skid, I will share with you my experience so that you can all be jealous. If you choose to be the jealous type, that is.

Last Friday night was a typical weekend night for me. After I delivered meals to the elderly and helped the local homeless shelter clean their ovens, I went home to chill out with a relaxing evening of laundry. Lo and behold (yes, not just lo, nor just behold - both of them), the phone rang, which surprised me since most people that I know are aware of my Friday night schedule and are polite enough not to interrupt. I answered the phone. The voice at the other end of the line said, "Hey, Moist, it’s Marty. What’s going on, mutha f***a?" Oh good, I thought, my car must be ready at the shop. "Oh good, Marty," I said "I was afraid my car wouldn’t be ready until Monday." I had mistaken Marty Casey for Marty Trunbun at the body shop. Fortunately, although confused at first, Marty Casey understood the confusion and had a hardy laugh about it. Those Caseys are such good people. Not "good" in an arrogant manner that they make you feel crappy about yourself and how horrible your family is, but just solid good people that make you feel a lot better about yourself, no matter how many times you have been arrested or have wet yourself in public.

"Moist, old boy," he went on to say, "if you’re not busy tonight, I’m looking to party down." Of course, I accepted his invitation. Marty was back in town from his LA recording sessions to attend a family event on Saturday evening. I was curious why he was calling me. Sure, Marty and I are pals, but there are plenty of other people in the Chicagoland area that are closer to him than I am. Initially, he told me he missed hanging out with me at the establishments in my neighborhood (his youthful stomping grounds). But, I knew he was not being forthright with me. After a little friendly pressure, he admitted that I was the one thousand, four hundred and thirty-sixth person he called. The others were all busy trying on shoes. Hey, at least I made the list of a soon to be people’s rock poet. So, I invited him over.

Thirty seconds later, there was a knock at my door. He had been standing at the end of my driveway in the rain, having called me from his cell phone. It was good to see the young comer, and we shared a firm hand shake fully equipped with arm grasp. I was not quite yet prepared to head out for the evening, seeing as I had homeless oven crud incrusted all over me. I gave him full access to my refrigerator, which was stocked with beer and other beer and some other beer, while I excused myself to tend to my sootiness.

When I emerged from my scouring, I found Marty sitting on my couch strumming my guitar. I also found the kitchen was strewn with milk shake shrapnel. "Hey, dude, I helped myself to a milk shake," he explained. "Hey, where’s the lid to your blender?" I thought he would imbibe in one of the many brews I had chilling. Maybe he likes milk shakes. Maybe it runs in the family. You know - drinking milk shakes when you should be drinking beer? I think there is a gene for that.

Marty asked me to listen to him play some of the songs The Lovehammers had been working on in the studio, and he asked me to offer any help I could manage. I was more than happy to do so. I wasn’t just happy. I was more than that. Imagine "happy" and then add "more happy" onto that, and that is what I was. More than happy.

First, he played Trees. It is a good song, but frankly, I’m tired of it. I suggested we turn it into more of a blues boogie anthem. My plan was to keep the beginning and the end the same, but add a huge middle section beginning with the I7 and IV7 chords that would use condensed patterns derived from the E and A Dorian modes, adding a walking bass line of this ilk that is derived from the Mixolydian mode, featuring major 3rds as opposed to bluesy flat 3rds. He was intrigued. Being on a roll, I continued. Next, we would employ a jazzy 9th voicing (with the flat 7th on the bottom - how could we not, right?) and then move into an adequate, yet common, A9 cord for the IV chord, close-voiced A7 on the same four strings (obvious, I know, but it works so don’t mess with it). Then we would bring it home by descending, with confidence, down the root position of the relative C# minor scale to the root position of the E blues scale before implying the B7-C7-B7-E7-B7 progression. Using compound octaves derived from the E major scale (with C, the flat 6th, as a passing tone between C# and B, and G, the flat 3rd, as a passing tone between G# and F#) to scamper down to the IV chord. And the forest gave us the answer. It was beautiful. I decided to toast our effort with a beer. Marty partook, as well. Marty felt that there was no way they would keep this new anthem version of Trees off the album. If it’s not there when you by the CD, blame the record company weasels. That's what he said. Pop radio needs a fifteen minute super-hit, and we all know it.

That process took a while. We were only able to work on their next hit single, Leper Pop, for a little bit before Marty got tuckered out. Marty ensured me that Leper Pop will definitely be on the new cd, and I will receive royalties for it (sneak peak: "Going to a shop with my mop, dookle dookle toodle, Leper POP!"). I suggested we head out to the Roadhouse, where the Lovehammers had their first public gig, to celebrate. But he had a better idea. From out of nowhere, Marty produced the DVD set of the Gilmore Girls second season. I’ll admit, it wasn’t a better idea, but he was my guest, so I loaded up the DVD player. This is when I began drinking heavily. While I poured myself a Big Gulp of Jack ‘n Coke, Marty inquired as to the whereabouts of my family photo albums.

We sat on my couch, Gilmore girls having orgies and shooting guns* in the background, while Marty perused pictures of my children. "Hey, remember that?" he would say, pointing at a given picture. "Marty, you weren’t there," I would vainly retort. "Yeah, those were good times. Good times," he faux-reminisced.

By the end of third episode of Gilmore Girls, I had finished my fourth Jack ‘n Coke, depleting my supply of Jack Daniels. The clock gave me the good news that liquor stores were still open. I told Marty I had to step out to fix a flat tire. He was engrossed in the Gilmore mess: Rory had brought up the subject of Max, which irritated Lorelai, so they decided to scream at each other and have lesbian sex*.

I returned from the liquor store, fully loaded in more ways than one, to the sight of Marty folding my laundry, which happened to be a load of grundies. I told him I don’t fold my grundies, since it doesn’t matter if they are wrinkled because most people don’t see them. He expressed his belief of only allowing rippleless cloth to provide comfort to, as he called it, one’s monument and proximal reflecting pool region. I was drunk, and I still didn’t know what he was talking about.

"Look, Marty," I pleaded, "if we leave now, we can catch last call at the Roadhouse and finish out the night at the Valley, just like old times."

"Got any S’mores?"

I learned a valuable lesson that night. Marshmallows and a fifth of Jack Daniels do not mix well. Marty was kind enough to clean up the fruits of my gastric distress. Better yet, that experience soured his yen for the girls Gilmore. Finally, he agreed to go to the Valley to cap off our evening. I asked him to drive, since I was feeling less than chipper. He had no car. His RockStar Honda Civic was parked in Los Angeles. Since my car was in the shop, we had no ride. Even if we did have my car, he could not ride in it. He told me he could only drive in a Honda Civic. I inferred that there was a contractual reason forbidding him from traveling in a different kind of car, since he won the car as part of a Honda promotion with RockStar:INXS. "No," he said, "Rock Stars only roll in Civics." Right, I forgot.

We walked around my neighborhood until we found a Civic parked in a driveway. I asked him if he knew how to hot wire a car. Before I finished my question he had opened the door and started the engine with a key. "Where did you get that?" I asked. "It’s the key to MY Civic," he claimed. "But, that’s not the key to this Civic," I argued. "Rock Star key." Say no more.

The Valley was chock full of drunk people that weren’t quite drunk enough for their pleasure. There were two seats open at the bar. I nabbed them. Marty never made it to the bar. Fans swarmed him at the door like billiard balls to the corner pocket of a slanted pool table. But a lot faster, and with softer collisions, except for three or four unfortunate skulls. Kathy, the bartender, served up my Jack ‘n Coke as a matter of habit. "Does Marty need anything," she asked. "Do I have any regurgitated marshmallow on my face?" I replied.

After about twenty minutes, a young female Marty admirer, who had witnessed me enter the room with him, abandoned the swarm and approached me. "You look kind of old, are you Marty’s accountant?" Yes, honey, I am. If that’ll make you happy. I wasn’t new to this experience. About seven years ago, Sid F’er, StivOO, Captain Break-it and I attended a Lovehammers show at a club at Illinois State University. StivOO and I joined the post show party at a college apartment, while Sid F’er and Captain Break-it waited in the van. The apartment was packed with cavorting collegers like molecules in a wad of gum at absolute zero. I was barely able to move. So I stood with my beer held up to my face for easy access. A young co-ed, not unlike the girl at the Valley, approached me and asked, "You look kind of old, are you Marty’s body guard?" Yes, my dear, I am. In the past seven years, my physical image has deteriorated from rough and tough body guard to a meek, unassuming, high-powered, and quite wealthy, I might add, Hollywood accountant. Yet I have consistently appeared old. The worst part is neither one of these alter-egos afforded me the opportunity of babe bagging. But at least I got to spend some time with a burgeoning rock star. And he got to spend time with me. And he cleaned up my puke.

When the lights went on at the Valley, I snuck out the side door, leaving Marty to his own wits. I’ve done all I can for that boy. He’ll be fine. It was a nice, dismal, rainy night, so I decided to walk home. As I walked by the side of the road, a Honda Civic, packed with scantily clad, screaming young women, sped by me, splashing gallons of puddle over me. I wonder if that was Marty.



* imagined by author to make it bearable

20 comments:

village idiot said...

Poor Marty. He's lost the ability to be a regular guy in public. And the only people who might treat him like a regular guy are those from the past.

Maybe he just wanted a nice regular night of TV, milkshakes, s'mores. I'm sure he's already had enough of people pushing drinks in his face and things of much more mind altering substance.

Providing good, old fashioned barf could have worked in that homey feeling, except I'm sure he's seen plenty of rock star gag and puke. Perhaps Marty could rate the well-known by their heaving technique. Which abstract artist their vomitus most resembles.

Moist, in a couple more years, they'll ask you if you're Marty's dad. You'll need to come up with a snappy retort so as not to be caught off guard.

I can't think of much worse than being pestered by a bunch of people that don't really know me, other than being mistaken for that person's parent.

And Moist, now you really have to watch what YOU say. Next thing you know you'll be quoted as "long-time friend and confidant" and what you say will be nowhere close to the truth. Which will then be manipulated in the news. Which will then get back to Marty, wondering why he's now getting offers from Dairy Queen to promote milkshakes.

Lucky for us little people, we'll not have to go through that. Whew!

Andree

Sid F'er said...

You know that look on Andrew's face while listening to "Stop, Go!"? Yeah, that's the look on my face while imagining the song "Leper Pop".

Although it's already starting to grow on me, so I'll try to withhold judgement until I hear the CD.

dookle, dookle, toodles,

Sid

Leper Hopeful said...

One day I hope to be able to write in my blog "Moist Rub: A Night Out"
Of course I could write it now, but the whole story would have to have an [*imagined by author] after it.

AMAI said...

I prefer the nights *I* spent with Marty. Much too hot to tell YOU all about, tho.

P.S. "Dookle dookle" - are Green Day looking for royalties? 5/6 of the letters are the same as Dookie.

Doogie Howser said...

Not before I get my royalties from those Green Day fellows first.

keysunset said...

Moist, thanks for making me laugh! Over and over again.

MR: A Night Out or MC: A Night Out, you all have that covered. I'll just call my escapade Keysunset: A Night Out* [*imagined by author].

How's this for the next hit series: Night Stalker: Sid F'er, OR maybe even Night Stalker: Captain Break-It. Ooooh, I get chills just thinking about it.

bowzer from sha na na said...

Can I get a piece of this royalty action?

Sid F'er said...

This has been cracking me up all day. Even at dinner, Mrs. F'er and I spent considerable time just exchanging our favorite lines. I'm finding it as quotable as Caddyshack. Still my favorite is "Rock Star key."
Genius. You even got us some props over at Snarkgasm again.

village idiot said...

I have a couple questions, which probably aren't answerable. But just in case...

Do rock stars have medical and dental coverage?

And do they have to file taxes in every single state they perform in? How's that work, Moist, as you ARE the accountant now.

Please remind Marty to sock away most of his money. Disability can happen any time. And we sure don't need to see Marty at Burger King working in 5 years.

"Gee, didn't you used to be Marty Casey?"

Andree

Skye said...

Freakin' hilarious dude...funniest night out that I never had!

Devious D said...

OK, like, this is weirding me out, 'cuz just before the end of Rock Star, I had this dream, ya know, and Marty came to visit and he wouldn't talk to me and then he did and I was so happy and then all he wanted to do was make chocolate chip cookies...

mc said...

That was no dream, devious d. ;o}

keysunset said...

Moist, this is funnier and funnier to me every time I read it. I think I will have to print it out and add it to my leatherette binder.

But I'll have to plead ignorance on something (well lots of things, but this one in particular): what does "flip the rid with the skid" mean?

Oh, and I'm honored that Marty mentioned ME: Rock Star Key! ha ha HA!

dalebud said...

Moist,

I believe The Fat Man may blown his wad if he reads that music theory jargon.

Isn't today the official birthday? If so, Happy Happy.

Marty's got a mention in the Holiday 05 issue of GuitarOne (with System of a Down's guy on the cover) in the "You Can Learn 7 of INXS's Riffs" article complete with commentary from Tim. Alas, it's ruined by a near full-sized pic of OB with JDidiot striking a pose and mention of first single "Pretty Vegas."

Key, "Night Stalker: Captain Break-It" is genius.

Sid F'er said...

Ah, yes, the Fat Man.
He gave me my best grade that semester.

keysunset said...

Thanks, dalebud! I am honored that you think my humble suggestion worthy. I think it would be a hit, literally.

Mr. Keysunset has set us up to do a multiplayer Diablo II - Lord of Destruction on our respective computers. So last night after we got the kids to bed, I created a new barbarian character (a male) and named him Mahty. I was tempted to name him Captain Break-it. Maybe in another game. Mr. Key's character (a female) is an assasin named Paulina (After Paulina Porizkova. Mr. Key still waxes nostalgic over Paulina in the Diet Sprite ads.)

Have a great day y'all!

martha quinn said...

That would be the Paulina Porizkova married to Ric Ocasek of The Cars. Trivia - one of their sons is named Oliver Orion. Ollie Ocasek. Pretty cool, huh, Elliott?

Sid F'er said...

Rock Stars beware!

keysunset said...

Oh my! Somehow I can't see mmmMarty driving a doorless Civic around in Chicago in winter. Brrr, I'm already wishing for spring and cold weather is just getting started here.

Maybe the doorless look would go in sunny Southern California, though.

Made me think of that car, was it called the thing(?), from years ago that you could rearrange the doors,etc., etc. I think the idea tanked, stanked, or something like that.

Busy weekend, here! Hope y'all have a great one!

Devious D said...

To MC,

Ooooooh, baby. I'm now a puddle on the floor.

And desperately searching for my recipe for Snickerdoodles...