Bend Over, Bob's Drivin'

The Most Interesting Dick

I’ll admit it. I’m a pretty boring person. I’ve never freed a bear from a bear trap. I’ve never bench pressed East Asian hookers dressed as nurses sitting on chairs. I’ve never arm wrestled anybody in a demonstration of my might to negotiate international peace treaties. I spend my time doing regular things like going to the store, sleeping in parks and arguing with insurance agents. And I’ve never been to Monaco.

I suppose I could be more interesting, but I didn’t know how.

Which is why I was excited to see the Dos Equis television commercials featuring the most interesting man in the world. That dude is FABULOUS! As it turns out, he HAS freed a bear from a bear trap. He HAS bench pressed East Asian hookers dressed as nurses sitting on chairs. He HAS arm wrestled somebody in demonstration of his might to negotiate international peace treaties. And I think he owns a time share in Monaco. He’s done everything I’ve never done and always wanted to do. I decided that I needed to become him.

My first step, obviously, was to start drinking Dos Equis immediately. He doesn’t always drink beer, but when he does, he drinks Dos Equis. I could do that. That’s EASY! I was about to pen a letter to Dos Equis management to find out if the most interesting man in the world had a Most Interesting Man in the World Mentoring Program. But then, at the end of the commercial, the most interesting man in the world told us to “Stay thirsty, my friends.”

What the hell does that mean? It destroyed my entire plan. The keystone of my strategy was to start drinking Dos Equis. How was I supposed to do that if I’m also supposed to stay thirsty? I can’t do both. Did he want me to poke a hole in my throat so I could drink Dos Equis AND remain thirsty? The most interesting man in the world doesn’t have a hole in his throat. How does he do it? Why was the most interesting man in the world being contradictory? Are contradictory people interesting? My future crashed down all around me. So, I walked to the park and took a nap.

I’m beginning to think that the most interesting man in the world is just a dick. I guess that is interesting if you like dicks.

Frost Brewed Ridiculous

Coors Light bills itself as the frost brewed taste that is as cold as the Rockies. Cold as the Rockies, huh? The average high temperature for July in Golden, Colorado (where Coors Light is brewed, which is located in the Rockies) is 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Have you ever had 86 degree beer? I have. It sucks. It sucks so bad that you end up drinking a 1.75 ml of Southern Comfort instead. Then, all of a sudden you are sleeping on Oak Street Beach at five in the morning getting eaten by sand flies while one of your friends tries to walk to Canada through Lake Michigan.

The Coors Light marketing department has been working overtime, lately. In an effort to disguise whatever it is that they are putting in their cans and bottles as something of value to the consumer, they have invented numerous novel packaging schemes. Each of these enhancements is an attempt to make the drinker forget that xe is not actually drinking beer. In fact, they don’t even use the word “beer” in their ads. The FDA won’t allow it. They can’t be honest about what is in the cans, either, since the FCC won’t let them say “piss water” in their commercials (except in Rhode Island). As a result, they’ve come up with kooky phrases like “frost brewed taste” and “involuntary regurgitative nuances” and “mountain goat renal delight”.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those beer snobs who will only drink imports or cloudy microbrews with onion skin floating in them. In fact, when I drink beer, I usually drink Bud Light because I don’t like the taste of beer, and Bud Light tastes like water. Sometimes I’ll have a few pints of Blue Moon, but only for health purposes as a method to trick myself into eating a slice of an orange colored fruit, the name of which I cannot recall at the moment. Yes, I know Blue Moon is owned by Coors. That’s not the point. I have nothing against Coors, in general. But they are overloading the cosmetic bullshitification of Coors Light. How many gilded gimmicks do they need to trick drunks into drinking their frost brewed diet sewage? Even Domino’s, while, admittedly, they downplay the role pizza has in their business model, only hides behind one marketing trick. They are the delivery experts. That's all they want you to know. They don't care if you enjoy the taste of their "pizza" or not. If you want something warm and edible, they will deliver it to you in a box real soon, no questions asked.

“Did you order pizza from Domino’s?”

“I ordered something from them. It sure got here quick. It didn’t look so good. So, I ate the box instead. I fixed the hole in the ceiling with whatever was in the box.”

What frosts my brew about Coors Light is the volume of doohickeys and glockenspiels they have built into their containers to distract us from the fact that their product is crap. It’s overkill. I don’t have time for overkill. I’m being killed at a nice respectable pace as it is. Stick to one bit of chicanery per product. That’s what my grandmother always used to say, before she lost her lips in a bar brawl.

Here is a list of the circus attractions that surround the Coors Light product:

Vent Cans: the mouth of the can has two little vents to allow more air to get into the can while drinking, forcing the liquid down your throat at a quicker rate. This allows you to get drunk faster and forget that you are drinking liquefied mountain dross.

Wide Mouth Cans: similar strategy to the Vent Cans. Drink as much as possible as fast as possible. That is the Coors Light way. When you get really drunk, try to stick your entire tongue through the wide mouth. Note from the Coors legal department: Not responsible for any tongue related deaths or maimings.

Frost Brewed Liner: supposedly Coors Light is the only beer served cold and this liner will keep it that way. However, it will also keep it at 86 degrees because the cans have been sitting in the liquor store storage room for a month before you bought it. I believe the liner is made out of those ice cubes from Don’t Break The Ice.

Cold Activated Bottle: the name of this device implies that the bottle doesn’t encase the beer-like substance until it gets cold. So you end up buying a pile of beer-like substance, place it in your refrigerator, and in a few hours, bottles will envelope it when the temperature reaches the right level. What actually happens is a part of the label turns blue when it gets to proper drinking temperature. Apparently, the Frost Brewed Liner doesn’t work, otherwise it would always be at proper drinking temperature. Also, Coors Light knows, from countless hours of marketing research, that most drunks have nerve damage in their hands from chain saw incidents inspired by drinking too much Coors Light, rendering them unable to properly assess the temperature of their drinks by touch.

Cooler Box: If you are buying Coors Light, you obviously cannot afford to own or rent your own cooler. So steal some ice from the local Motel 6 and throw it in the Coors Light box. Eventually, the ice will melt all over the vinyl tile in your double-wide, and you will be able to clean your kitchen floor with your socks each time you get up for another bottle.

8 ounce Silver Bullet Can: they’re only 8 ounces – instead of twenty-four cans, you can drink 57 of them! And they're bullets! Now, that’s what I call drinkin’!


It’s completely ridiculous.

Lovehammers at Joe's, Feb 2, 2006. Recap by Moist Rub

I spent most of my workday the other Thursday checking my personal email box for a message from StivOO with the hopes of reading something like, “We’re blowing off Improv class tonight, I got us tickets to the show.” These were pretty high hopes, as StivOO has never been known to blow off his responsibilities. In college, he had the ability to attend class, actually do AND hand in his homework and study on his way to straight A’s, all the while being shitfaced with the best of them. The “best of them” being me, Sid and Captain Break-it, among others. I, on the other hand, had a reputation of being somewhat of a slacker. Classes, for me, were just somewhere to go to find some peace and quiet to work off a hangover. I wasn’t able to achieve the academic/drunken Karma that StivOO was able to do. The chances of him actually sending me a “blow off” email were slim, but since I was busy blowing off work, I had nothing better to do than check my email frequently.

The email never came, so I loaded up my shrunken Bill Murray head and made my way to class. Class proceeded as usual, but I could tell by the way StivOO spent the first half of it trying to figure out how to use his wife’s cell phone that he was a bit distracted. Eventually, after he had asked everybody in class what they thought his wife’s favorite color is and what bra size she wears (nobody in the class knows her), he figured out her voice mail password. There was a message from his brother that he had dropped off some Lovehammers tickets for us at the Second City front desk. Reminiscent of Dewey Finn at the end of his first day of substitute teaching in School of Rock, StivOO bolted out of Improv class as if the bell had just rung, telling us all he’d see us on the flip flop. I grabbed his coat and mine and politely excused myself to our instructor. She told me to get the hell out of there.

Joe’s is a mere two-minute cab ride down the street from The Second City, so we were able to get there in time to miss the first four songs.

The Lovehammers are notorious for starting out slow and boring, so we didn’t miss much. That is a lie, of course. I’m just trying to make myself feel better about it. Luckily, we got there in time to see the Lovehammers do their 90-minute xylophonic Peter, Paul and Mary medley. I fear that with their newfound fame, they may never perform it again. At the same time, I feel lucky to have seen it one last time.

Not surprisingly, the Lovehammers rocked the snot out of that place. StivOO and I had to stand in the back, because the place was packed to the rafters. And because every time we tried moving up, the mean Hammerheads pushed us down and kicked us in the head. As a favor to me, Marty talked the band into playing I'm Only Happy When It Rains by Garbage. Either that or he saw me standing in the back sweating my bag off and, from the looks of me, he thought it was raining outside which reminded him that they knew that song. (It was a little hot

inside Joe’s, and I’m an old lard ass.) For me, that was the highlight of the show, since that is my favorite cover they perform. They also played Here Comes the Rain Again, Rain (by Dragon), The Rain Song, Fool in the Rain, Purple Rain, A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall, Fire and Rain, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, Rainy Days and Mondays, Love Reign O’er Me, Rain Rain Go Away, Singing in the Rain, Rain It Black and Big Booty Hoes by Notorious B.I.G. It was a fabulous “rain” set.

They also played their standard songs off the new album, but let loose a little bit, since they were at Joe’s instead of warming up OBINXS fans and JDidiots. As expected, Marty took a tour of the ceiling to get a better view of the crowd. He baptized a few of us with his sweat as he hung by his legs from the rafters. Those people who received the sacrament were granted a continuous loop of the song Trees playing in their head until the day they die. And those standing next to those people received a voucher for a free crotch rub from one of the roadies.

As the main set diminished, StivOO suggested we try to get into the VIP section for the encore. The bouncer had other ideas. For some reason, he did not believe StivOO was the brother of the lead singer, so he pushed StivOO down the stairs. Even with the confirmation from Brandon, Jessica Robinson’s (from RockStar:INXS) husband, who was exiting when we were attempting to enter, he could not get in. So the bouncer pushed him down the stairs, again. He suggested StivOO check at the front counter to see if he was on “the list”. The bouncer looked at me and said, “Good evening, Mr. Rub,” and he let me in after I agreed to have dinner with him and his family next Sunday. We’re having a rib roast.

StivOO made his way to the front counter only to find that his name was nowhere near “the list”. Note to my brothers: if you ever become rock stars, put my damn name on any list for any show you do anywhere, just in case I show up. With Brandon’s help, and after spending about thirty minutes in Joe’s special pillow room with the bar manager, StivOO was given access to the VIP section. His hair was a little messed up and his glasses were crooked.

I waited for StivOO with the bouncer. He wanted to hear all about the magic of blogging. When we got upstairs, StivOO bee-lined to Jessica, who seemed genuinely happy to see him. And why wouldn’t she, he’s a great guy. It’s not his fault his rock star brother doesn’t want him at his shows. After standing there like a dumbshit watching StivOO and Jessica talk for about ten minutes, without StivOO introducing me (I think he thought the pillow room was my fault), I introduced myself to Jessica. She was very gracious and friendly. And she is much cuter in person than she is on that nasty television. She touched my left boob. We talked for a good twenty minutes. StivOO and I gave Jessica and Brandon parenting advice, although Jessica is not quite ready for a family. Brandon is, or maybe he’s just horny. Or both. Jessica made me promise that I’ll come out to one of her band’s shows (Covergurl). She agreed to send a limo for me. I agreed to pretend like we never met and to bring some young people with me, because potential record companies don’t like seeing codgers at their shows unless they’re dads of the real fans. That seems fair.

The Lovehammers finally finished up and made their way to their special room in the VIP section. Bobby tweaked my nipple. Yes, my left nipple, on the same boob Jessica touched. It was quite a night for my left breast. I haven’t washed it since (or prior to then, for that matter). StivOO scolded Bob for starting on time and causing us to miss the first four songs. In the past, the Lovehammers always started late. Bob claimed that they are no longer in charge and have to do what they’re told. So, I told him to get me a beer. I’m still waiting for it.

Marty turned invisible and slipped by us into the magic room. He never came out. Fearing that he was dead, and it probably was our fault, we returned to the main floor and tormented ourselves with the braying, heinous rap music that was playing loudly throughout Joe’s, while we talked to our friends Karen and Lisa. They eventually got bored with us and started doing that, “Okayyyyyy, it was nice to see you….” stuff, but I hadn’t yet finished my story of my recent pancreatic discomfort, and StivOO had just started spinning things on his elbow. They went to buy us beers and never came back.

Upon leaving, we met up with StivOO’s eldest brother, John, who was outside parking cars. He instructed us to go around the back to the tour bus and talk with Marty. Since he’s the oldest brother, we had to do what he said, even though we really wanted to go grab some soup.

As we approached the bus, we saw Marty surrounded by a few well wishers. Before we could interfere with his fans, StivOO’s aunt and cousin intercepted us. I stood there and watched them talk for a while. And then it happened. Out of the blue, who do you think grabbed my attention? That’s right, Heather Locklear, Pamela Anderson and Brooke Burke. They smothered me with kisses and hugs and apologies (just from Brooke for the way she had her bodyguards mutilate me out in LA). As it turns out, they can actually read and are big fans of Leper Pop. As they were rubbing parts of themselves on me, I could hear the faint sound of somebody say, “I’m one of the Snark girls” to StivOO’s aunt. I heard sounds of angelic horns as a white light blinded me. I threw the three hussies to the ground and slicked back my hair with some of their spit I scraped from my face. I approached the young woman that made the remark. I said, “Pleased to meet me, I am Moist Rub,” as I extended my hand. Then the girl screamed, “BLASPHEMER!” and jabbed me in the gut with her crutch and cracked me on the head with her elbow. After I showed her my ID, fingerprints and credit card, she believed me. So, we restarted the introduction, which was accompanied by screams of joy and hugs abound. That young lady was none other than Fabiansparkle. She now holds my Moist Rub introductory cherry, as I had never introduced myself as Moist Rub to anybody before. It was strange referring to myself by that name. But she hugged me and made me feel safe.

Fabiansparkle had a few Snark friends with her, and we had a very nice conversation as she showed me some pictures of her with INXS back in the eighties. I never realized Tim Farriss had such hair issues back then. Maybe it was because I was preoccupied measuring my own mullet at the time. Don’t worry, Fabian, I won’t bring up those huge eighties glasses and that chromatic threatening long sweater you were wearing in that one picture.

I learned something very important in my brief encounter with the Snark Girls. Something that will help remind me that, no matter how crazy and horrible the world can be at times, life is all good. And that is because Snark Girls like to rock and are cool, fun chicks. It’s one of those experiences I wish I could share with everybody I know, and I hope my loved ones can have the same opportunity someday.

Like I said, we had a nice, heart-felt chat, albeit shorter than expected. As we shared our thoughts, hopes and dreams, StivOO and I were accosted by a brazen hand on each of our shoulders, as we heard a rock star voice singing, “Alan, what has happened to Alan…”. It was Marty, of course. This is how StivOO and I had instructed Marty to approach us in public – singing our hit single, Alan. One time, at Cannes, he failed to do so while we were swapping gravy recipes with Roger Ebert. Marty is still ruing that day. He is a smart boy and has learned from that mistake.

I let Marty catch up with StivOO while I went back to being dazzled by the Snark girls. Before too long, Marty demanded, “Let’s go on the bus”. So, StivOO and I went on the bus. Although, I wouldn’t jump off a cliff if Marty told me to, or play chicken with him, I will accept his invitation to go on a tour bus. I excused myself from the lovely and boobalicious Snark girls, dreaming of the day we can meet again, and I got on the bus.

The tour bus was more than I imagined it ever could be. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear the sweet sounds of Christopher Cross playing at a conservative level in the background. I was met by a group of rock and roll enthusiasts, including Jessica and her husband, who were sitting around on the bus having a civilized discussion about education fiscal issues. They welcomed StivOO and me into their conversation. Marty disappeared into the back of the bus. While we waited for his return, we enjoyed some lemonade and fresh baked cookies made by one of the roadies. Before too long, Marty returned shouting, “It’s Parcheesi time!” After our third game, of which I won one, and took second in another, I was pretty wiped out. I can’t imagine how those boys can manage this kind of partying every night. Marty pleaded with me to stay for the rest of the Parcheesi tournament. I declined. The entire group understood and sang For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow to me. I bowed to them all and exited the bus.

What a night. I chose to walk back to The Second City to pick up my car, instead of taking a cab. It was more like drifting in a dream than walking, as I reflected on the events of that night. As if brought about by the Lovehammers’ “rain” set, it began to drizzle, and I felt reborn as I floated to my car nestled safely in the parking garage. Those Lovehammers. What a show. What a group of Snark girls. What a bus. What a challenging Parcheesi match. What a crock of shit, fourteen dollars for parking!?!?! Reverie time is over, back to life in the real world.

Lovehammers: The Metro Show Nov 23, 2005

If you’ve never been to a Lovehammers show, I will try to recreate it for you. Imagine yourself on an hour and a half long tortuous and electrifying water slide, where the water you’re flowing in is the mellifluous guitar sounds of a red-headed rock and roll technician named Billy, the sides of the tube you’re banging against and keeping you steady is that of the pounding Brothers Kourelis rambunctious rock and roll rhythm section and the gravitational energy pulling you through to your ultimate splash is the heroic and unabashed rock and roll vocals of the rock star Marty Casey.

The Metro show, 23 November, twenty-hundred aught five was no different, except that it may have had a few extra turns and drops added because of the revved up crowed that attended. We ellaitchiphiles (this is a copyrighted term, please don’t use it without permission from your mother) were packed in the venue like maggots in a bloated moose carcass. If you didn’t know the person next to you at the beginning of the show, you knew her intimately by the end of the show. Well, I did, which is why missed most of the post show fun sitting in the paddy wagon.

The show began with the unmistakable and haunting drum intro to Ultrasound. Surprisingly, it didn’t end there - they played the entire song. This song is an effective way to start the show, as it gradually transforms the audience from a group of mild mannered, sheeny-faced do-gooders into a gang of raucous rock and roll rabble rousers. Except for that one guy, but he freaked me out so I don’t want to talk about him. No, don’t bring him up again. I don’t want to talk about him. ENOUGH!

I would like to run through the entire set list with you, but I was a little tipsy and things got out of hand down in the pit and, frankly, I was having too much fun to be blog responsible. They didn’t play any Haircut 100 covers. I’m pretty sure of that. But, there were plenty of highlights - too many to depict here. Unfortunately, there were two missing lights, as well. But I shouldn’t bring them up. It was an excellent show. I don’t want to harp on the negative, so let’s move on. No, really, let’s concentrate on the positive. One of my favorite moments was when...what’s that? No, I don’t care how much you want to hear what pissed me off. No, it didn’t really piss me off - those were your words, not mine. So, maybe I was a little disappointed, it’s no big deal. No, you did not see me asking for my money back. I was merely trying to redeem an LH coupon. The guy in the street said The Metro would honor it. C’mon, did you see those outrageous Ticketmaster nazi surcharges? Can you blame me? Five bucks is five bucks. That’s a whole beer. But that’s not one of the two missing lights. Nor is it the point. Let me get back to the crazy time we all had. OK, so at one point in the show, Marty pulled out one of those human cannon ball cannons, and...what’s that? Yeah, you’re right, I’ll never be able to concentrate on this until I unburden myself. Really, it’s no big thing, and I feel like a fool for even bringing it up. But to tell you the truth, every time I see the Lovehammers perform, it always seems like Marty is singing to me directly and for me alone. And it seemed like that tonight until the end of the show when I realized they didn’t perform two of my favorite LH songs. It’s not a big deal. I’m over it now. Let’s get back to the rockin’! Then Dino turns his bass guitar inside out and shoves a giant walrus tusk...Wait! What’s with the puppy dog expression? No, you don’t need to know the songs they maliciously neglected to play, which hurt my feelings more than all the thousands of hot looking women who ever told me to get a full body, including the brain, transplant. You’re not going to let me go on until I tell you, are you? I knew it. I just knew it. You know, I’m never going to be able to write for Rolling Stone magazine with material like this. Who let you in here, anyway? OK, I see that I have no other choice. Let’s get this over with. Maybe Rolling Stone will accept the second half of this article. Here it goes. This is very hard for me to say because I know the band will be reading this, since they have nothing better to do, and they are very sensitive boys. They spit in my face and farted at me and rubbed giraffe excrement in my hair by not playing Into the Deep End and Low-life Insurance (Let’s Get Wasted). They are only two of my favorite LH tunes ever, that’s all! Into the Deep End being my numero uno fave. Are you happy now? Thanks a lot for making me relive the horror. I feel like tripe right now.

Marty refused to sign our breasts, but he
did sign Captain Break-it's ticket stub.

But, they did play Yes It Do, which is a wonderful song to listen to while enjoying a hangover, and in general, for that matter. To my knowledge it is only currently available on the DVD, but I’m guessing it will be on the new CD, since I’ve recently heard word that Leper Pop, the hot hit single for the new millennium, did not make the cut. They agreed, it is a song for the new millennium, just not this one. Not the next one, either. One of the millenniums in the ten thousands, or so. They assured me. Yes It Do made me feel happy all over. Maybe a little too happy, as evidenced by the slap the woman in front of me gave me. Clouds was another highlight. During the song, I could feel the audience meld into one giant drip of lamentation and hopeful introspection. Kind of cozy. Yet another highlight was Throw My Head. Nothing magical in particular happened during that song, I just dig it, so get off my back.

The highest light came when they performed Trees. Sure, some of you may be a little tired of that song, but that exhaustion would flee your body if you ever see it performed live. This goes for all of their songs. As good as the songs sound on their CD’s, they are ten times better live. No joke. There were two wonderful effects brought about by Trees that night. The first was the energy the audience emitted. It was awesome. Simple as that. I’m not going to fruit it up for you. Awesome. You could tell by the look on Marty’s face that he was overwhelmed with appreciation of the love from the fans. I spent most of the time watching people’s enjoyment during that song. Which leads to the second wonderful experience. As I peered up to the balcony VIP section, I spotted Mrs. Casey, Marty’s mom. She was beaming with pride. Her pride and love were gushing down over the balcony, through the mass of people below and onto the stage. And it wasn’t just for Marty. It was for all the guys in the band. She’s been with them every step of the way. I think I even got a little of it on my shoe. I’m not ashamed to say I got choked up at that point. My brother, Dr. Jellyfinger, who was standing next to me punched me because he thought I wiped snot on his shirt. It was actually a tear of joy. I didn’t mind the punch because of the elation I was feeling, and I know I could take him if I had to, and I wiped snot on him later without him knowing it. I know Mrs. Casey is proud of all of her children, she just doesn’t have a chance to beam at StivOO while he’s engineering chemicals or while Chris is brokering trucks or at the others with whatever they're doing. Maybe if they would just sell tickets. I won’t even mention the fact that LH chose not to play the blues boogie anthem version of Trees I wrote with Marty. I understood since they were filming a video of the song at the time, and they had to keep it short enough to fit in between commercials on MTV2. I’m not hurt that much.

The rest of the show rocked as well, complete with a Marty excursion to the heights of the stage. I will quickly hit some of the other moments of interest. Let’s see...at one point, Marty delivered a baby of one of the pregnant fans on stage and named her Jules, Dino found the cure for cancer (it was under his amp), Billy discovered the Grand Unification Theory uniting Relativity and Quantum Physics, and Bobby had sex with at least fourteen chicks during the drum solo. They finished us off with This Town (yes, that’s up there on my fave list, too). But wait, there’s more. Next, we were instructed to do some acting as the band feigned Ashlee Simpson and performed to a recorded version of Trees for the video. Seeing as the producer didn’t offer any cash for my acting skills, I chose to stand there like a petrified monk while the rest of the crowd cheered with uninhibited glee. I hope I make the final cut of the video.

Onto to the post show bedlam. By the end of the show, the group I was with was smattered throughout The Metro. Captain Break-it and his brother got Dino to let them into the band’s VIP room back (side) stage, where they proceeded to drink all of the free beer in the tub. StivOO and some other guys you don’t know and who choose to remain anonymous made it up to the VIP balcony. Dr. Jellyfinger and I walked around looking for the lovely and boobalicious ladies that are Snarkgasm (and we were looking for our group, too). Although we were unsuccessful, we did steal a lot of beer from the non-Snarkgasm women. Eventually, Dr. J and I made it to the band’s VIP room to meet up with the Captain. Dino let us in, as well. He is the friendliest Lovehammer. StivOO was there, too, talking to his cousin. By then, the free beer was gone, so I stood around and sweated a bit and then we left. We gained passage to the upstairs fan VIP balcony. Guess what? That’s right. More free beer. Marty was up there. As he navigated the room, you could see the eyes of every chick follow him as if he was a three legged zebra and they were three-legged zebra hunters armed with lipstick, gushy praise and hopes of marriage. I talked to him briefly, as in "Hey Marty" - "Hey Moist". Maybe we hugged, I don’t remember. Maybe it was me and Dr. Jellyfinger who hugged and he wiped snot on my shoulder. I was pretty free-beered up by then. Marty was overrun. Everybody had something "important" to say to him. I would have started throwing elbows, if I were him. He was gracious to everybody.

After Captain Break-it spilled my free beer for the third time, he, his brother, Dr. Jellyfinger, StivOO, and I decided to head next door to the Ginger Man. There we commandeered a table close to the front door. Captain Break-it treated us to a round of double Jack ‘n Cokes. I’m not sure what went on there. I guess we drank. I remember buying two more rounds. On the way back from retrieving my second round, I found Marty sitting in my chair. "That’s my seat, ASSHOLE!" I politely asked him to move. But, I let him sit there and pulled up another chair. Actually, after I put the drinks down, I fell over the table and landed at the feet of the bouncer. He was nice enough to deposit me in a chair next to Marty who was catching up with StivOO. I didn’t talk to Marty much, but I do remember a snippet. Here is an exclusive interview:

Moist Rub: Have you read the blog.

Marty: No, I’m sorry, I really haven’t had much time.

Moist Rub: Good, don’t.

Marty: Please stop rubbing snot on me.

Dr. Jellyfinger: Do you want me to punch him?

There you have it. Somehow, we got home.

From the first beat of Ultrasound through the rest of the night, one thought remained in my head: I am sure glad he didn't win.

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