Friday, November 30, 2007

HMH #19

Chapter Nineteen- Divine intervention

The men were nearly on us and we had resigned ourselves to confrontation. How could it get any worse? The shock of knowing Arsehole Party was our one and only savior in the weekend fiasco had dropped us to the bottom of a bottomless pit. Let the fists come. I would take my beating. Ohhh thank you Jesus. Then Phil and Johnny would come in and cart our sorry, blubbering, pummeled ass out of the casino for good this time. There was no way this evening was going to magically rescue itself.


But the fists did not come. The blood did not flow, and the carnage would not disgrace the floor of the Tiger Lounge. The men stopped in their tracks by some invisible force field and decided to back off. The force field we knew as Tiny appeared to our right and stood next to our side. I guess our would-be attackers felt the beating they were going to inflict on us could be taken under further advisement, especially when one of them flippin’ homos was pushing nine feet.


For all I or Doc cared, they just as well should have pounded us to a bloody mess rendering us to an unconscious state. Arsehole Party was the last thing any of us needed. How could we ask him to step in? He was the guy who had wrecked any chance of us maintaining cohesion and moving forward all those years ago. We hadn’t exactly parted ways under amicable circumstances. However, without Grub at full capacity, how could we continue on in a weekend gone so sour? Without a reliable drummer at the helm we were nothing more than a garage band dry humping the pillow of fame and fortune. Then there was Skunk to think of. No love lost between her and Arsehole Party— absolute and undeniable. Toying with the idea of having those two in the same vicinity could be catastrophic— a rift in the space-time-continuum. Doc and I knew it. We would be better off in the eye of the storm instead of the swirling winds of controversy and mayhem. Either path from this sudden fork in the road seemed perilous. It reminded me of Doc, Wally and my journey up to the studio- how disastrous a misplaced foot could be. I wished to keep out of the shit this time. I was already without shoes, would I dare to risk what was left of my bruised and tortured soul?


Tiny was sucking the hell out of a coke, through a straw as Matt Morgolis crooned another ballad. His voice cascaded like chocolate through the speakers to the delighted squeals of most of the females in attendance. I watched as Arsehole Party pounded his snare drum. His lips moving silently in unison to the beat, but I knew the word he uttered. “Bam! Bam! Bam!” It was his unmistakable trademark.


Tiny reached the bottom of his glass with vacuous pulls on his straw. An ice-cube clung to the open end of it, devoid of liquid. I began to place unattainable landmarks on a momentous decision. OK, If Tiny actually sucks the ice-cube through the straw, we ask Arsehole Party to join us in the studio. Doc looked at me, his face suddenly drawn and gaunt as if his locksmith mind had picked my thoughts. This was going to be a hard call to make and a harder consequence to live with.


*


No one spoke on the way home preferring to labor in thought over the night’s events, or in Tiny’s case, nod off and sag his curly mess of locks on the top of my head. With the weight I already carried on my shoulders, it was a burden I could do without. Doc stared straight ahead with the windows wide open as the rumbled hum of the Hino’s diesel engine plowed through fragrant check points of manure, wet grass and skunk.


The radio blared. It was capable of AM only and spouted some spiritual talk show where callers received advice from guest hosts in the encouragement to donate to the sponsoring ministry.


“So do you feel the decision you made in this matter was the right one?” The host asked the caller. His voice dripping with feigned compassion as if he were speaking directly to me.


“I...I don’t know?”


“Look into your heart,” he instructed. “Do you feel Jesus there?”


“I...I don’t know?”


“Must we listen to this crap Doc?”


“It’s either this, static, or Tiny’s snoring.”


“Have faith in the Lord God Almighty and all your choices will be righteous ones. I
encourage you my child to find it in your heart to make a donation and Jesus will come.”



“Where have I heard that before?” I responded dryly.


“Maybe Miss Agnes listens to the program too?”


“No doubt.” I listened as the host encouraged another caller to donate in an effort to cure the pain of a lost love one.


The next caller lamented, he had been losing his hearing over the past months and needed God to help him get it back. He was practically yelling through the radio.


The host replied with a calm and even voice. “Release your hold on the material world my brother. Share your wealth with Jesus and he will deliver un to you the cure you seek. Amen!”


“Whaaat?!” The man yelled.


“My brother, I said release your hold . . . ”


“Grease my hole?”


The host yammered in frustration before catching himself.“Release! Release!....Brothers and sisters perhaps we should take a moment to hear from one of our good Christian sponsors.”


“WHA...?!” The caller yelled again before being cut off.


“You know Doc, no matter how much money we could donate. I don’t feel optimistic we’d see divine intervention coming our way.”


*


Everyone was asleep by the time we rumbled back up Faith Sound’s long winding driveway with even longer faces. We parked next to a circle of gnomes in emerald green and pink robes, rejoicing around the fallen Tower of Babel. There was also a new acquisition Miss Agnes must have added to the lawn in our absence. A stern porcelain Mosses now hoisted his tablets aloft and warned us to, "Keep off the grass!"


Doc groaned as he brought the Honey-wagon to a halt. “I don’t mind telling you Sparky, I get very creeped out by this whole gnome village they have here. I keep thinkin’ that they come to life when we fall asleep and have little gnome orgies.”


“I think Miss Agnes would view your comments as extremely blasphemous, Doc my man.”


“Yeah, well I have a good mind to have a yard sale tomorrow and sell those fuckin’ things. Except, they’d probably all find their way back here somehow after nightfall and murder me in my sleep. Shit it’s so Outer Limits. Every time we return here there seems to be more of them. Is there some Gnome Wrangler in the barn slowly releasing them into the wild?”


“That’s one vivid imagination Doc.”


Doc continued to spew. “Just look at that Sparky.” He pointed an accusing finger down at the turf from his perch in the driver’s seat of the Hino. “Where on earth do you go shopping for a John the Baptist lawn jockey? Huh? Where, I ask you?”


I flicked Tiny in the ear and awoke the sleeping giant. “We’re back at the studio Tiny. Time to get out.”

“Quietly,” Doc insisted. “We don’t want to rouse the whole house now.”

Wally, on the other hand, was not among those who slumbered peacefully. He was coming out of the control room in his socked feet with his guitar, as we tried to enter without a sound.


“Burning the midnight oil Wally? I thought you were bushed?” I kicked off the shoes he’d lent me for the evening.


“Working on the song. I couldn’t sleep anyways and didn’t know what to do with myself. Everyone elks just went to bed. Skunk was falling asleep while she was recording.”


“Doesn’t surprise me. That girl could sleep nestled in a roaring jet engine.”


Wally inquired. “So? How did it go? Do we have a drummer?”


“Not now Wally. We need sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow and tonight was emotionally draining to say the least.”


Wally let well enough alone and let us pass to our creature comforts without further inquiry. He stood at attention with his acoustic guitar as if he were the member of a color guard saluting passing dignitaries. We headed for our respective sanctuaries and sunk into the enveloping softness of beds unmade. The band was fragile as it was and adding another unstable element would very well, push it past the brink to hostile. I wanted only to get to bed as if somehow the morning would deliver better news and wipe tonight away like a bad dream. As calamities go this night hadn’t been any different from others. In fact, there had been times I could recall, laboring in the much worse category. A long forgotten history numbed and faded by the passage of time, a million heartbeats ago.


I fell asleep thinking of Arsehole Party and the blown showcase so many years removed from the present. A night which had been far worse than anything we’d experienced this weekend. It was a night that had caused the eventual death of the Oral Blondes and set us all on our paths to mediocrity.

New release this week


Suddenly, I'm no longer nervous about performing tonight.

WATN file #5

The Atomic Rockin' Riff Rooster

Instrument: Lead Guitar

Influences: Stevie Ray Vaughn, Da blues, grilled cheese, Converse All Stars.

Member from: 1985-1990 and a brief appearance in ghostly form at Sparky's Cove in Brewerton N.Y. Nov. 3rd, 2007.

Reason for leaving Private Sector: Beats me.

Favorite saying: "I was just going to call you."

Last known location: Look up......waaaaay up...north of Toronto and I'll call Rooster.

Rumor has it: All his Friday nights are booked.


Thursday, November 29, 2007

WATN file #4


Michael Spencer Arsehole Party

Instrument: Drums

Influences: Welly boots, A spot of tea with a wee nip of whiskey.

Member: 5PM, Jun 3rd, 1990- 4:32:07 PM, Aug. 26th, 1990

Favorite saying: "If I got a spoon could I 'ave a taste of that Mate?" - "The guitarist is stepping on everyone else's dick Mate."

Left Private Sector....actually was told to leave....really was forced out......drop kicked into oblivion.

Last known location: "Just sittin' around the house with my balls hanging out Mate."

Rumor has it: Lives in a box underneath the Hog's Hollow overpass.

Just kidding Michael.....NO I"M NOT!......No really, no hard feelings........I hate you......No I don't................*cough* Imbecile!

Xmas gift ideas for all.....

...and to all a good night after you give them this dreck, or dreck the halls if you will?

Camel head (for that special girl)

Come on, it's better than camel toe don't you think? Besides, what guy wouldn't want his special lady to wear this to bed? Ever since that CSI episode involving people dressed up in animal costumes scritching one another, this idea has really appealed to me.

Although I'm not sure how I'd explain the semen stains to the Dry Cleaner....



The Dick Putter (for that special guy)

Not sure the message you'd be trying to send here: You're a dick, I don't get enough dick, You're dick's a tiny little putter and the mailman is the one with the driver, Thank you for the camel head?

However, I'm sure there is one. Just ask before you bat her over the head with it.



The USB Gimp (for that special teen)

I can't count the number of times someone has mugged me for my memory stick, wishing I had somewhere to hide it where it wouldn't be discovered outside of my asshole.

Enter the USB Gimp and worry no more. Although asking your teen to wear this ugly bugger might lead them to getting a similar item they can stick pins in and looks remarkably like you.



The Toy Virus Toy (for that special child)

Or you could just get them something made in China. It would be equally as effective.

Is it just me or are Asians really fucked up trying to market all this crap?

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

WATN file #3

Demon Mucus

Instrument: Bass/ B.Vox

Private Sector member: 1990-91

Influences: Genesis, Yes, being an obnoxious prick.

Left band because we told him we were disbanding. *snicker*

Last known location: Key grip and musical composer for the movie "Deadly Amazon Chicks of the Deadly Amazon" and "Gut Chompin', Tobacco Chewin', Cannibal Kinfolk From Hell".

Rumor has it: Is starting a clothing line for really,really,really, really tall women.

Screw you guys.....I'm going home.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

WATN file #2


David Rhodes


Instrument: Guitar/B.Vox

Member from '94-....well...never actually a member of Private Sector. Played on the unreleased Primitive album in the mid 90's


Influences: Peter Gabriel, Talk Talk...I guess they'd have to be since he played with them.

Last known location: Continues to do session work, touring with Peter Gabriel and living quietly in the English country side.

Rumour has it: David is seeking litigation against me for posting this.

I only counted two

Only in Japan would they come up with a game show where they attach counters to women's breasts and have them jump up and down. Somebody call Guinness!

Monday, November 26, 2007

WATN file: #1

Welcome to Private Sector week at Strangedaze. Think of it as Grey Cup week except with out football, parties, and the Grey Cup. Well....without any hoop-la what-so-ever. Today and, subsequently, on following days we'll take a little trip down memory lane with former members of Private Sector.

Wally Cornfield


Instrument: Guitar/B.Vox

Member from '85-'86

Influences: Neil Young, corn (not the band, the vegetable), and flatulence.

Left Private Sector because the guys wouldn't work on the harmonies first.

Last known location: Salmon fishing in the B.C. Interior.

Rumour has it: Has been asked to replace Kevin DuBrow as the next singer of Quiet Riot.

Tasteless cartoon of the week

Sunday, November 25, 2007

There's hope after all

Yes, even for me. Yet, that is not the subject of todays post.

I thought after so many subjects dealing with sexual conotations and defication into cups for personal enjoyment, I would put up something heart warming, inspiring, incredible, unbelievable. Something with hope as one week ends and another begins.

A close friend of GIGC and myself suffered a spinal injury a couple of months ago. She was told she was paralyzed from the waist down and would not walk again.

The following, shot by her Son, shows the astounding progress of her recovery.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

HMH #18

Chapter Eighteen- The Tiger lounge

Darkness descended on the room courtesy of a passing cloud blocking out the sun. It smothered any optimism remaining and I felt the dour clutches of despair. They all stood motionless, even Suds and Tiny who hid behind his tissue veil. They were waiting for the next words and they had to come from me. I began my journey through remorse. “You were all the last to agree . . . or at least that’s what I told you.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I should have been straight up with everyone, I realize it now. I was afraid this wouldn’t happen If I didn’t . . . push a little.”

“You lied to me Sparky. To all of us.”

“I know Doc. There’s no excuse for what I did. I should have had more faith in all of you. I just got carried away with the opportunity. A chance to finally do something with my life. Yank it out of the mundane and set it on a new course. I wanted that for us all. We don’t exactly have great jobs with banker son’s hours. I am truly sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you, as a result of my actions. I hope, if not today, you can find it in yourself, to someday forgive me. If you don’t want to continue, I’ll understand. I’ll call Alexander and tell him we couldn’t do it. There will be no further harm done.”

“Under the circumstances I don’t see how we can continue anyway. The drums look totaled.” Doc said.

“There’s a place in Crabbucket. They might have stuff.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Suds,” I reposed. “I’m sure this is the final straw. We’ve been defeated, and by what? My own careless folly. As much as I feel we should pack it in, I don’t like to quit. I’d like to see this through, but the decision’s no longer mine to make.”

The others stood silent, looking at me, weighing the history of our friendships against the underhanded deed. The long list of disasters and deceptions of others, to the newest exposé from one of their own.

Skunk spoke first. “We’ve been through a lot together, Sparky. A couple more days won’t make a difference. Besides we’re already here.”

“I’ll take Grub into town and see if we can’t get some replacement skins.”

Grub nodded in agreement to Wally’s offer.

Doc slapped me in the back. “Looks like you have a reprieve Sparky. Call it a last minute call from the Governor. I don’t like to quit either.”

After all was said and done the damage to the drums, seemed to be less than first thought. Only the snare was in need of an official make-over. Everything else, with a little reconstruction and duct tape, could be rectified.

Wally set out with Suds and Grub in the Honey-wagon, in a quest for replacement parts. Tiny set the raccoon traps as Miss Agnes had instructed and returned to gently clear the mess he’d caused. Skunk, Doc and I, convened in the console room and began to jam out some early song ideas.

It was a good three hours before the lads returned with substitute skins and another four before we found ourselves at the same point we’d witnessed late Friday night. We plowed on through lunch and dinner, choosing to snack instead. Somehow we managed to deliver the skeleton of a workable bed-track as the sun faded from view. Everyone seemed to be recovering the fractured shards of their damaged spirit.

“It’s getting on, Doc. We have to head to the casino soon, to talk to Matt’s drummer. Skunk and Grub can stay here and add to what we did this afternoon. — Fire up the beast Wally.”

“All the same Sparky. I’m bushed. I’d rather stay here. I’m tired of playing taxi any how.”

“How are we supposed to get there, Wally, take the tractor?”

“No, take the Honey-wagon.” He tossed the keys to Doc. “You know how to drive standard?”

Doc nodded affirmatively, "What, am I new?"

“All right, Wally, but I also need your shoes," I replied.

“God damn it, Sparky.” He started to unlace.

Suds added. “Take Tiny with you. He knows the back way, and will get you there quick.”

With Tiny squeezed into the middle, we hopped aboard the Honey-wagon. We headed out for the casino, with Doc behind the wheel and a shoeless Wally, waving in the side mirrors. Our gregarious group in a transport of waste-tanks, pumps and hoses.
Forty minutes later, we pulled into a long, widened stretch of pavement. The casino blinked at us from the distance. An electronic sign bid us welcome to Little Big Horn, under a passageway of a thousand bulbs.

“Let’s get the valet parking.”

“Doc no. We can’t afford it.”

“Who cares about that. I want to see the guy’s face when we pull up in this chick magnet and tell him to park it.”

The night sky was alight from Little Big Horn’s illumination as Doc, Tiny and I, wedged the Honey-wagon between a Volkswagen and a Smart Car, in lot touted as, Tomahawk Row F, and headed in. Beneath a neon tepee of red and gold we passed through the exterior of huge glass doors sliding silently open to bid us welcome. Front door greeters in full Indian regalia waved us in and we jumped aboard the escalator to the action. The ringing and jingling increased with every metal step folding into the floor in front of us. Suddenly we were accosted by rows upon rows of slot machines, some in mid pull. It was like a great mechanical hedge maze where smoke signals rose from the tips of a thousand cigarettes. Around us the gamblers went to work — gold panhandlers trying to scrape out a fortune— sinking their hard earned money into the cess pool of dreams. In ways it was a lot like the music industry, except we had gambled with our creativity and spun the great wheel of chance hoping the tumblers would deliver jackpot across the board. Our financial death had taken longer, but was just as painful with pockets equally empty. Doc lagged behind. He pumped a few quarters into a slot called Blazing Arrows.

“Doc, no time to gamble. We have a purpose.”

“Woo-hoo!” Doc yodeled as his machine paid off. “Twenty bucks just like that Sparky.”

Tiny looked down and clapped appreciatively. A blue-haired woman, howled from the stool next to him. “That was my machine!” She had been tickling the window of her slot like some good luck, voodoo curse, as the images whizzed by. A cigarette hung from her mouth with a burnt ash extending almost to the butt. Her face was in an broadened prune pucker and she seemed quite upset. “Couldn’t you see I was playin’ it you son of a bitch?”

“Hey, lady. It was vacant when I got here.”

“I play three at a time. That’s my machine and so is this one here.” She waved at another vacant machine next to her, with a stool holding nothing but her purse. “That’s my money, Sonny!”

“Look Mam, calm down. First of all, those are my quarters in the machine that won, not yours. Secondly— ”

“— I’ve been here for four hours on these same machines. Ask anyone around here.”

“Split it with her Doc.”

“No Sparky. This is a matter of principle. It’s obvious this woman has addiction problems or worse . . . ” He turned back to her. “ . . . mental! I'd only be contributing to her sickness by giving her the money.” He started to scoop the coins into his hands and then his pockets. The woman grabbed at Doc’s arms and tried to pull at the small treasure. Some of the coins flipped, falling to the carpet in a rain of heads and tails. Her protests escalated as Doc vented during the struggle. “Did you know that gambling addiction is rampant in this country to the tune of five hundred billion dollars annually you crazy bitch?”

“GIVE . . . ME . . . MY . . . MONEY!”

Tiny reached down and lifted the poor woman off her feet as she screamed bloody murder. He put her down two machines away to her continuing cries of, “HELP! HELP! RAPE! FIRE! MURDER!” Other people had turned and glared at us as if we had interrupted their ability to lose money. A crowd began to gather as the woman yelled unabated and pounded away at Tiny’s midriff. He had stepped between her and her foe. Doc was on all fours collecting the last of his booty.

“What’s going on here . . . Oh! Not you guys again.” Johnny Two Fingers stated as he and Phil Screaming Eagle fought their way through the crowd to our position. They had traded in the Ranger green for the dark blue of security and their weekend moonlighting. “I thought we’d seen the last of you? Aren’t you supposed to be at Faith Studios recording?”

“Hi, yes, sorry.” I volunteered. “We ran into a small snag and had to come here to talk to one of the musicians in the Tiger Lounge.”

“If that’s so, then why are out here angering the patrons?”

The blue-haired woman pointed a finger of accusation. “That one there, stole my machine and my money. And this giant tried to violate me sexually!” She spat, amid pants of feigned exhaustion.

“I doubt that,” Doc shot back. “You couldn’t get sexually violated if you had the loosest slot in here.”

She clutched her chest. “Oh my heart! Oh my heart!”

“Quiet!” Phil grumbled. They forced Tiny aside and separated the two at arms length. They waited, heard both sides of the story, and the one-sided comments of biased gamblers who had been with in earshot.

“As I see it Missus.” Johnny Two Fingers reported. “The money legally belongs to this man, but we’ll escort these gentlemen out of the casino so they don’t cause you any further distraction. Not to worry.”

“Escort us out! We didn’t do anything!”

“You created a disturbance to others. That’s against casino policies.”

The woman seemed pleased we were being thrown out on our haunches and went back to playing her three machines, shifting her voodoo fingers to full speed.
Johnny and Phil placed their arms of authority on our shoulders and urged us forward. Tiny trudged in front of us like the prow of some great ship cutting through the icy waters of the North Atlantic. They led us past a barrage of gaming tables, Roulette, Caribbean Stud, and Craps. We’d just sevened out and there was nothing we could do about it. Once we were beyond the Black Jack section and nearing the exit doors next to a place called The Covered Wagon Snack Bar, they abruptly marched us to the left and headed to the Tiger Lounge Saloon. They brought us once again safely to our destination without further incident.

“But I thought . . .?”

“That old codger has given us trouble before. She feels like she owns those machines. The best way to defuse the situation, was to let her believe we were kicking you out.”

“Seems you guys are destined to get us out of jams this weekend.” Doc said.

“I don’t much care for that, believe me,” Johnny Two Fingers replied. “ At least you guys smell better this time. But, I swear to God if we have to come to your rescue one more time . . . ”

“— You better send us a Christmas card that’s for sure.” Phil added.

“OK guys, through that door is the lounge. Whatever you do, make sure it’s something where we’re not needed. Don’t make us look bad, and stay clear of the blue-hairs. Got it?”

We thanked them again and followed Tiny through the saloon type doors as he shoved them both open with his hands.

“Wonder what they did with the chicken, Sparky?”

“Why don’t you ask them next time you see them?”

“I hope there won’t be a next time.”

We strolled through the dark interior of knotted wood, past a line of twinkling pinball machines. They seemed to mesmerize Tiny.
Doc reached into his pocket and handed him a handful of quarters he’d managed to keep from the blue-haired woman. “Here, go play. But don’t wander off,” Doc scolded like a concerned parent. “Remember what the security guards said.”

Tiny took the coins from Doc appreciatively and began to pump them into the slot of the closest configuration of flippers and silver balls. “Tiny play.” He leaned over the machine with a haunted house and spooky decals adorning the bumpers and flashing lanes. I thought he was going to lose his center of gravity and come crashing through the glass, but unlike Grub’s drums, he didn’t. He banged away on the buttons tilting the machine repeatedly. We left him to his devices.

Doc stopped at the Men’s room door. It had the word Pardners etched into it. “Pit stop, Sparky?”

“Good idea.”

Doc snagged the last open urinal and I was forced into a cubicle. The door banged several times with the exodus of those who had come before us.

Doc echoed. “So, have you thought about what we tell this drummer?”

“No, I wanted to make sure we made it here first, and as you saw, it almost didn’t happen.” Someone entered the restroom with another smack of the door, as I continued my banter with Doc. “I say, we just go up to him and tell him straight out, we need him. It’s urgent, he has to come. We’ll pay him for his services, and that’s that. Agreed?”

“And what if he refuses? We supposed to tie him up and make him do it anyway. You can’t just force someone to their knees against their will.”

“I got Grub to his knees finally, didn't I? Persuasion, Doc. I’m sure he’s been in this situation before where a bunch of guys have needed him to perform. Don’t worry. He’ll rise to the occasion.”

“I hope so. It’s not like we can do it by ourselves.”

I finished, flushed and joined Doc at the sink.

“You know, Sparky, you should pee into the middle of the bowl. The resonation makes your dick sound bigger. Nobody wants to go home with little-man-dink-co.”

“Doc this is a men’s room. Who’s listening to me pee besides you?”

The man who had entered after us, left the urinal he’d occupied and glared at us maliciously. “People like you make me sick!”

“You’d feel differently if you didn’t have a gag reflex.”

“Doc!”

The man shot us a seething glance and left with cross words. “Flippin’ Homos.”

“You know, that’s exactly what Johnny and Phil were talking about. Don’t go angering
anyone else tonight, OK? Promise me Doc. We need to remain low key.”

Doc nodded as he turned on the tap to wash his hands. With a blast of liquid soap he started to sing. “Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me . . . ”

“What are you doing now?”

“Singing happy birthday.”

“I can hear that. What on earth for?”

“So I wash my hands for the correct amount of time to sanitize them. One chorus is
usually sufficient. Do you know how many men don’t wash their hands properly after they urinate? It’s disgusting. They leave traces of piss on everything, from door handles to the bowls of peanuts at the bar, or worse seminal fluid and— ”

“— Doc, that’s enough. You’d think by now I’d just stop asking you questions.”
Doc grabbed a paper towel from the rack and dried off. He rapped the wet rag around the door handle, pulling it open. We headed for the bar. A bartender with slicked back hair, parted down the middle and dressed like the old west, wiped down an area in front of us and stood waiting. We ordered a couple of beers. Turning our backs to the wood and supporting ourselves with our elbows, we studied the stage. We watched the crowd filter in and begin to grow. It was like watching time lapse photography of mold, or a pot of milk bubble up and boil over. Tiny had returned from his pinball exile and mulled about the side of the stage looking at the equipment.

“Didn’t take him long to go through the money I gave him.”

“Were you expecting any different?” I responded, as I shoved the bowl of peanuts away from us and retrieved the beers.

A guy of considerable girth emerged from a doorway in the corner to the right of where Tiny stood and wove his way through a labyrinth of loaded tables. He reached the barkeep at the far end from our position and placed his order.

“Doc, look. That has to be Morgolis. Holy Shit, the Mayor wasn’t kidding. Look at the size of him.”

“And I thought Wally had packed on the padding.”

Matt Morgolis looked as if he’d swallowed a half-inflated inner tube. His stomach protruded and hung over his belt buckle, staring at the floor. He had been a bit of a sex icon in his youth and had flaunted the fact to its full potential. However, despite his obvious overindulgent ways, we could see he was still clinging to his faded image. All his blonde hair was still there and stuck out of a headband like a sheath of wheat. It flowed down his neck the length behind his ears and onto his jacket. Although the club was dimly lit at present, he insisted on wearing dark shades. His cheeks were puffy and laced with red capillaries. They sat above a pancake stack of double chins melting into his shoulders. It was a far cry from the days when he’d have his chauffeur drive the limo by the lines of people with the windows down, so he’d be recognized by the worshiping faithful.

His short strut to the bar had caused him to perspire into a thin glaze. It glistened on his upper lip and forehead. I wondered how he was going to make it through the night on stage with any energy. He waited for his drink while he drummed impatiently on the bar. Like most people with celebrity he seemed smaller in person. The on stage persona had hammered the public from posters and music videos for many years, creating the vision of an Adonis, not the aged rock version of Meatloaf now standing before us.

Doc and I approached. “Matt! Hey how are you? Remember us?”

He lifted his sunglasses to his head and squinted through the dusk to study our faces. His cologne was thick and spicy, fighting a heavyweight bout with the smell of festering alcohol, and winning.

“Remind me.” He said, touching his index finger to his temple.

“Syracuse. 87' We opened for you at Uncle Sam’s.”

“Naw doesn’t ring a bell.” He turned back to the bar.

“They had the small cul-de-sac of a dressing room. You got cornered by a host of groupies. They were all pawing at you. We beat them back, and got you out.”

“OK, yeah. Right I remember you now. How are you? What was the name?”

“The Oral Blondes.”

“Oh That’s right.”

He had absolutely no clue.

“John Malveen and Doc Barlow.” We reached out, and one after another, shook his greasy paw. I wondered if our man Morgolis sang his own rendition of Happy Birthday after he finished his bathroom business?

“Still playing?”

“We’re recording down the road in Ernie’s Bay. Faith Sound Studios, ever hear of it?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Anyway we decided to make a side trip and stop in here.”

“Having any luck on the tables?”

“We didn’t come to gamble,” I said looking at Doc. “We came to see you.”

Doc, without going into too many details, relayed to him about the accident and the
subsequent injury sustained by our drummer. “He’s incapable of playing the way we’d like and we don’t have a lot of time. We were wondering if we could speak to your drummer about laying down a few over-dubs tomorrow. Some high-hat work, rolls, that kind of thing. Nothing too elaborate, or obtrusive.”

“You have my blessing guys, but you’d really have to ask him.” Matt’s scotch arrived and he shoved a meaty digit into it to swirl the ice. “Just do me one favor,” he said, as he sucked his finger clean. “...and wait until the end of the night. He has a hard enough time focusing as it is.” Matt picked up his drink. “Excuse me. I have to go get ready. Enjoy the show.”

Matt took his scotch companion with him and left us by the bar. He returned through an alcove to the unseen dressing room without any bother from the nearby inventory of females. They were probably expecting the slimmed-downed version of Matt Morgolis, not the onset of obesity now enslaving him. He paraded by them in a pseudo sexy swagger, to not so much as a yawn of recognition.

“Matt still pulls them in huh, Doc? And on the strength of one hit song in 88'. He’s been milking it for years. See, Wires was right. All it takes is one song. Look at this crowd.”

“Yeah, but would you do any of these Chubs?”

“You’d get a positive response from Wally.”

“I’ll tell you Sparky, there would have to be some serious green on the table for me to offer up the Popiel pocket popsicle to any of these women, and remember, I’ve been married for ten years.”

Matt’s following was extensive but they had not aged well. They fell in folds out of tiny leather skirts and fishnets, wobbled unsure on high heels, and had hair that looked as if they had sprayed it, then walked into the nearest wall to get the bouffed forehead. The make-up was stenciled on to the point of no return. Fifty shades of ruby red, dark powdery blue eye shadow and war-paint stripes of coral rouge set the sexy meter to barely above Rodeo Clown. We could see Tiny standing amid the throng on the dance floor, waiting with them in anticipation of the band. He waded through them as one might through a field of waist-high grass. He stood dead center. A smallish woman poked him repeatedly in the back to move out of her line of vision. Eventually he settled next to a rail holding back the second level of the club with its tables filled to capacity.

“Sparky, you ever see that movie, Journey to the far side of the sun?”

“I think so. Why, does this scene remind you of it?”

“No, but when I was little I thought that movie was really cool, til I saw it again years later. It sucked. It didn’t hold up well over the test of time. That’s what I’m reminded of when I look out there. Do you think it would be much different for us if it we were still playing? Doing the casino circuit? Playing to an aged following? I guess I’ve been spoiled by CGI and technological doo-dads.”

The lights dimmed. A thin decrepit man with the physique of a pencil and a narrow faced look of a weasel took to the stage on the right side. It looked as if years of heroine abuse were finally taking its toll on him. He stood next to a metal bucket and a stack of white towels. His long nimble fingers tweezed the end of a tiny flashlight with great importance, as he signaled to the sound engineer the band was ready. The intro tape began to play and the stage descended into further darkness. The massive bulk of Matt Margolis lumbered up the steps, cutting through shape and shadow, and stood in the marrow of the black stage. The light began to grow around him. He was wrapped in a huge black suit with a tuxedo shirt already undone at the neck and a bow tie that clung to the edge of it for dear life like a climber from a rock-face precipice. He engulfed the microphone with a sweaty mitt to the screams of delight from the mostly women in the audience who had quickly adjusted to the shock of his appearance. They waited for the trademark of his velvet voice to roll over them.

The heroine weasel grabbed a fresh towel and sank it into the bucket of liquid. A guitarist emerged from the darkness and began to pick softly on an electric guitar. Matt was already starting to sweat profusely. He pursed his lips and sang sweetly into the microphone like he was about to make love to it. The screams increased as he began his serenade of romance and ecstacy. He sang about love, and loss, and pain, and surrender. The guitarist was joined by a pianist underneath an umbrella of light as the ivory keys danced around Matt’s crooning, inciting more screams of lust. Matt thrust his hips to the left as his inner tube sank to the right. He leaned on the stand as if he were crippled by love and required it for support. The heroine weasel pulled out the white fabric, languid and dripping. He gave it a quick squeeze and crouched down like a poised puma ready to strike. Matt hung on a note as it cascaded from the speakers. He thrust his hand up in the air and the wet towel sailed across the stage, smack, right into it. He squeezed it above his face. A gentle shower of water tricked from it into his mouth and ran down his chin. Matt wiped his face with it and tossed it into the wall of hair before him. They tore at it like a pride of lions feasting on a gissel. The heroine weasel seemed quite pleased with his aim tonight and grabbed another towel for drowning.

To our left the man from the washroom stared at us instead of the stage. He still looked quite pissed about our earlier encounter. With him were two other burley brutes also gazing at us intently. I felt a sudden sense of terror as I nudged Doc with my elbow. It appeared as if Doc’s words to the man in the men’s room were going to lead us to trouble yet.

The guitarist and piano escalated their sound and were joined in the crescendo by the throbbing pound of a bass and drum in unison with blinding flashes of white light. The heroin weasel let another towel fly. Smack! Right into Matt’s hand. The house lights exploded and the band kicked into an onslaught of musical thunder.

“Fuck me!” Doc screamed over the noise.

I too, was absolutely beside myself.

“Sparky, my eyes are fucked up. Please, Je-sus! Say I don’t see what I see. Please not after all we’ve been through. God help us!”

“This is the worst possible thing that could have happened.” I yelled back. “Fuck!”
The three men by the bar headed for us, but we had bigger problems. With the lights on stage at maximum blaze we could easily see Matt’s drummer pounding away. It was Alister Pare’ III. The man we’d all come to know and despise as Arsehole Party.

Doc and I were stunned.

Friday, November 23, 2007

New release this week

The Frivolous Five- Sour Cream and Other Delights.

As long as there isn't a cup involved. Because if there is, they're going to need a bucket.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

2 girls 1 cup

I'm the first one to admit when I go too far........OK maybe the second. I've been hearing about 2 girls and 1 cup and the uproar it's causing. It's here if you really feel brave enough to watch it.

You know....I think one of those women is a former girlfriend of mine. I remember telling her to, "eat shit and die". She seems to have taken the first part to heart.

I didn't post it on my blog, because first, I don't want to be shut down, and secondly, it's more of a Christmas video anyway. The gift of giving and all that.

However, here's a song about it.

If you close your eyes and do the Doobie Brothers thing. "Listen to the Music", you'll get a good visual idea, especially if you still have no clue as to what this is all about.



I wonder if it's too late to add this guy to the Private Sector show on the 30th? or 2 girls and 1 cup for that matter?

"Thank you! Good night! Now get the fuck out!"

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

More X-mas toy ideas

With the American Thanksgiving on the horizon and Black Friday looming just beyond, the holiday free-for-all will soon be on us like an invasive sexual disease. To help you navigate through the festive shoving to the unique , yet bizarre gift for your child, I offer the following suggestions.

Gut Fish

Ever play Operation as a kid? This is the same thing except instead of wanting to be a doctor your child will want to be a sushi chef.....or murder you while you sleep.



Hazmat Toy

What better way to teach your child about the world we live in? Not to mention the lead-tainted toys from China.



Poop Shoot

I don't think I need to say any more, except this comes from Japan, and you may not get murdered in your sleep after all.



Ram it! Ram it! Ram it!
Ram it up your poop shoot......

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Cold season is here

Got the sniffles? If you were Japanese you'd never have to worry about having a cold again.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Friday, November 16, 2007

HMH #17

Chapter Seventeen- The morning after the night before


In the morning we all sat around the kitchen table eating cereal. There was toast pasted with jams, honey and marmalade. Our coffees smoked like chimneys over the slaughter of a battleground of utensils, splatters of milk, sugar, obliterated crumbs, and suicidal Cheerios.

Tiny had joined us, but not having a chair to sit on, perched on the steps between the kitchen and the breakfast nook. Currently, a humming bird buzzed and darted outside the window in a frenetic pattern, holding his attention. Tiny pawed at his left ear, like a hound dog successfully renting his fur to fleas. His crazy mass of hair flowed from the effort. Today he was dressed more sensibly in jeans— the fabric of which, would have easily covered the table. He also wore a grey T-shirt, stretched and bulged like a second skin around his upper body.

Nothing was said about the night before, other than Grub stating, he’d slept well. I assumed by his declaration, the ghostly murmurs had ceased, and neither Doc nor I, offered up further inquisition. We continued our carnivorous ways, navigating past the skyscrapers of breakfast cereals and delivering the swaths of butter to bread with surgical skill. Our gorging remained uninterrupted until, we were startled by a woman who seemed to appear out of nowhere. She was standing off to the left by a pantry of fine china and a hangman’s row of spoons from obscure global destinations. She was busy scrutinizing our habitual morning routine before Doc jumped as he looked up, alerting everyone to her presence.

“Je-sus!” He said.

“No.” Tiny replied. “Not Jesus. Miss Agnes.”

Miss Agnes was a woman of dark skin in her fifties. She was appareled in a dress of yellow daffodils bordering on bourgeois and her accentuated lips spread into a wide smile as if there was a well of good cheer inside. Her hair was tied back, clipped by a metal butterfly, and her eyes portrayed deep, dark pools of theological wisdom.

She radiated warmly. “Agnes Cooley,” she said, sending the echo of a smile our way. “You boys recording here in my father’s studio, I guess?”

“Yes Mam.”

She searched our faces for vulnerability, then settled earnestly on Doc. “Are you a church goer?”

“No Mam. I’m what you might call a retired Christian.”

“What does that mean? I’m not familiar with that term.”

“It means I attend the church within. I just decided to cut out the middle man.”

“I see. Personally I feel we all need guidance from those chosen to help us on our path.” She looked at Grub. He was rubbing a small pot, waiting for a steeped tea genie to emerge. “You’ve suffered a great hurt recently,” she probed.

Grub held up his bandaged hand as he gnawed his way through a bagel. “I broke my wrist.”

“Not that type of hurt Sweetie. A hurt of a different kind. An injustice. I can see you all have.” She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes drawing her breath in deeply as she shook her clenched fingers. “Yes, I feel it.” She said as if she had tapped some psychic link to another world. She released her hands and curdled her mouth into another curve of delight. She looked at Wally. “Is there something you want to say? Perhaps something you’ve kept hidden inside for sometime?”

Wally looked dumbfounded. He let the toast drop to the plate as he gazed up with puppy dog eyes. “Er . . . ,” he said, after a moment of contemplation. Crumbs were impaled on his stubbled beard like he’d ingested a jar of paste before attacking the bread. “You look nice?” He offered finally.

“Not the answer I was expecting, but thank you for the compliment.” She moved on to Skunk. “People at home miss you.”

Skunk, like myself was not worship material. She didn’t even lift her head as she continued to shovel cereal into her open orifice. “That’s nice. You tell them I miss them too.”

Agnes trained her gaze on me, as much as, knifed me with it. She came closer and touched a sandpaper finger to my cheek. I felt the shell of her nail, in contrast, cold and smooth like bone. Her perfume was tart and not the least enticing. To me it smelled more like she was marking her territory.

“You have much turmoil inside you,” she said. “You need to make peace with that. Cleanse the sin.”

“I have to be honest Miss Agnes. No offense, but I’m not religious. Not even by the tiniest of margins.”

“That’s OK darlin’. In time, you will come to Jesus.”

Not unless he’s in a porno, with wah-wah guitars playing in the background, I thought.

She tilted her head and spoke to the gargantuan gaffer. “You’ll have to get the traps out. The racoons are back. Me and Florence saw two of em last night out on the lawn when we were praying.”

Is that what she calls what she was doing?

“...Big critters. They got into the garbage. Made an infernal mess. They even broke the hand of my sweet Jesus. Ohhh.” She closed her eyes and clasped her hands again. “Now, he looks like he’s cussin’ the Almighty. We can’t have that.” As she finished her statement, she opened her eyes and traced them from me to Doc. I felt like I had suddenly been stripped of all my clothing.

Tiny jumped to attention. “Yes Miss Agnes. Right away Miss Agnes. Tiny likes to help.” He excused himself. “Tiny needs to go now. Bye Miss Agnes.” He bowed to the exit, and disappeared through it in a forward waddle.

“What’s the name of your musical group?”

“We were known as the Oral Blondes at one time,” I told her.

“Oh,” she said. Her mouth’s drawn arc of happiness, subsided to a flat line of disappointment, like the patient had just died. “I don’t much care for that name. No, not at all. I can’t say as I do. A name should praise music, represent its beauty, deliver the cadence of its wonder. That’s what my father had in mind when he founded Faith Sound Studios.”

“So that’s one for No,” Skunk said. She placed another spoonful into her waiting mouth and began to munch.

Miss Agnes ignored the comment and turned to leave. She paused at the doorway and wagged a threatening finger at us. “You boys stay out of trouble now. Idle hands you know.”

“Yes Mam.”

We watched her glide out of the room as she hummed softly to herself. Some hymn no less. We looked at each other and Doc made a cuckoo motion with his finger spiraling clockwise.

“Skunk, you didn’t have to be so rude.”

“Bible thumping is not acceptable to me. Especially before noon on weekends, Wally. Besides, you want to talk about rude? Look at the way you’re sawing through everything on the table. I feel like I should be nailing shit down to save it from that hurricane mouth of yours.”

“But she owns this studio with her sister. We should be careful what we say.”

“Because of us, she pays the bills. I doubt she gets a monthly check for utilities from her Lord and savior.”

“I’ll bet she says, he pays her in other ways.”

“Bottom line, Wally, the customer is always right, and that’s us.” Skunk seemed contented the conversation was at an end and went back to digging in to the fathom of her bowl.

Suds came into the kitchen to a hail of good mornings. His hair looked more controlled today than it had since I’d met him. It had been brushed and now had the appearance of a tiny pelt of wolf fur. He was dressed in a little, charcoal-colored suit, no doubt obtained from a rack in the boys section of a department store somewhere. He stood with his feet slightly apart and his hands on his hips. From the top of the steps, he was an appropriate height, which at present, would save us from more sore necks. “I see you met Miss Agnes.”

“Nice woman . . . very intuitive.” Wally blushed.

“They live in the guest house here.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Doc chatted nervously. He was still trying to recover from the x-ray vision of the woman’s gaze.

“She doesn’t usually come in here. She must have been called to do so. Not much gets past Miss Agnes, that’s for sure . . . Oh, I found out who’s playing at the casino by the way. Somebody by the name of Matt Margolis.”

“Matt Margolis? You don’t say?”

Grub blew out some crumbs, as he poured his tea. “Isn’t that the guy we performed with who does Metallica like a lounge singer?”

“Yeah, when he was Matt Tallicas. But he’s gone back to his roots and his original name. The Mayor says he’s as big as a house now.” I spun back to Suds. “— So he’s playing at the casino?”

“He’s doing the Tiger Lounge. There’s no cover charge. You shouldn’t have any problem talking with any of the guys.”

“We know Matt. This should be very interesting. Finally some good news. We shouldn’t have too much trouble persuading his drummer to drop by for a session. Those guys are always looking for a few extra bucks. Things appear to be coming together at last.”

There was a thundering crash from the studio and we immediately stopped our chatter. Exchanged looks of bewilderment quickly melted into panic. We rushed to meet the explosion of sound in a storm of squeaking chair legs and thundering feet. We found Tiny brushing himself off over the annihilated remains of Grub’s drum kit. He must have fallen on top of them. The percussive instruments lay in a jumble, underneath the tent of the plexiglass barrier, like a train derailment.

“My drums!”

“Tiny, sorry. Tiny fall.”

“Yeah, how many times?” Doc erupted, as he surveyed the remains. He looked angrily at Suds. “What the fuck was he trying to do?”

“Tiny, sorry.”

“My drums!” Grub began to hyperventilate again. “Meeya! Meeya!”

Tiny hung his massive melon and began to cry, while Grub ran to the heap. He peeled back the plexiglass barrier as one would pull the aggressor off a weaker foe. He began to sift through the mess, formerly known as his crimson set of Premiers.

Suds tried to calm Tiny down. “What happened big man?”

“Tiny was getting raccoon traps for Miss Agnes,” he said through sniffles.

“Who the fuck keeps raccoon traps next to a drum kit?”

“We keep stuff we don’t have much use for in a small storage area in the corner,” Suds defended. He pointed to a small open door and the two metal cages now laying on the floor next to Grub’s deceased musical baby. Suds returned his attention to Tiny, brushing his massive mitt, like it was a cat who craved attention. He handed him a hanky pulled from his breast pocket and Tiny blew a trumpet blast into it. “The traps must have been lodged in there tight and he lost his balance, is all.”

“Uh huh,” Tiny whimpered.

“Oh Fuck! Just beautiful!” Doc boomed, as he looked to the heavens.

“My drums.” Grub wheezed. A feeble whimper escaped his lungs, as he carefully extracted his snare drum. It had a hole in the center punctured by a microphone.

“Think of every possible avenue for disaster and you have this weekend,” Skunk scoffed. “I’m definitely not going back to my family, or work relaxed after this.”

“Tiny, sorry.”

“You should be ya big galoot!”

“Don’t talk to him like that. He said he was sorry. It was an accident.”

Skunk shook her head in disbelief. Like all of us, the burr under her saddle was becoming mighty uncomfortable and we were all on edge. “I can’t believe this. We didn’t have this much shit happen to us when we did this full time.”

“Rooster calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down Wally! That could’ve easily been my guitar and amp he fell on!”

“Wally’s just trying to help.”

“Doesn’t sound that way to me Barlow.”

“We’ll figure out something,” Suds reassured.

“Great, let’s all get on the tractor and ride to the nearest music store like a troop of Chinese acrobats. I’m sure there’s one right down the frickin’ highway,” Doc spat in true Barlow sarcasm. “Or maybe, we can go back to Old Man Thompson’s place and get fleeced again? I’d bet he probably has what we need if the price is right? Snare drum? Yup. Gots one in the stall next to the chickens.”

“I don’t know why I agreed to do this. What a fuckin’ mistake. I’ve got cracked ribs, sore tits, a totaled car my husbands going to kill me for and we haven’t recorded one single note.”

“You agreed to do this, because you wanted to do it, Skunk.”

“No Wally, I’m only here because I felt guilty you all agreed to do it first.”

“You’re wrong. I was the last one to agree, Skunk. Sparky said so.”

Oh-oh

“Stop talking shit Wally. If it wasn’t for me saying yes, you wouldn’t even be here.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“What if I am? Are you going to do, fight me? You couldn’t fight your way into a vagina, let alone somebody with one, Wally.”

“Stop it please!” I pleaded.

“See, Sparky. I told you all we ever did was argue,” Grub reminded. He cradled a tom drum lovingly in his arms. “Besides, I was the last person to agree to do this.”

“You’re all wrong gents, I am the one responsible for us being here.” Doc raved. “Right Sparky!”

I am so fucked. Why didn’t I listen to the Mayor?

The jabbering continued like a bunch of school kids fighting over possession of a playground swing.

“I was!”

“No, I was!”

The argument reached a fevered pitch of discord and hypnotic tones. Threatening tenors jousted salacious sopranos, who were in turn attacked by aggravated altos. Even in its dissonance, it was the most music I’d heard all weekend.

“You’re crazy!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Fuck you and FUCK THIS!”

“My drums.”

“Tiny, so sorry.”

“Sparky! What have you been telling the others? Hey are you trying to sneak out of here? Come back right now!”

Everyone ceased the octagon of ultimate bickering and gazed at me. I felt as if I were suddenly a condemned man being taken to the chair. A hopeless wretch led by a chain with Miss Agnes pulling from the other end, and encouraging me to, cleanse my sins. Leading me down streets covered in shard glass with not even Tiny’s boots to protect my naked feet. My accusers were dining on a buffet of curses, and it was all you can eat. Rightfully so, I was the target of their verbal lashing. I could almost smell the smouldering of my ass soon to be set ablaze with the truth. “Sparky! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Forget the drums, I felt like Tiny had just fallen on top of me.

Double your new release pleasure

First off we have Pump Pump by Fredi and Friends. I guess that's Fredi, bottom middle?



Looks like the Friends should have dumped dour Fredi for mutton chop Harry. He looks like a much happier fellow.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Xmas is for the kids

Christmas will soon be here. I know this because I've been seeing Yule-tide commercials since mid October.

Therefore, as always, I'd like to help in your sellection of toys for the kids.

Say how about the Star Wars Darth Tater? Always a hit with kids.




Awww that's cute, but you say,"Strange, my kid gets board after thirty seconds and starts to play with the box the gift came in."

Well my friend, never fear for Strange also has suggestions that will keep your "little obnoxious you" busy for hours. Mainly because it will take him/her/it that long to figure out what the hell you got them and countless days after to pray to God that you die in some horrible way.

You're welcome.

Doll with a penis



I know it sounds like a Smiths song but it's also a great toy too. If your child is already confused why not have a little fun at their expence?

What do you mean you don't have a pee-pee Amy? Look at the dolly.

Yes Billy. All little girls look like that.


The Happy Fun Sled.




This one I bought for GIGC last year. I still haven't got the smile off her face. Although this toy is a bigger hit with girls it doesn't have to be gender specific and it seems to be a hit with the adults too especially if you're involved with one of those secret Santa gift exchanges.

The Jesusbot



Forget Transformers. Your kid should have the Jesusbot. It's a great way for them to cut corners when they ask God to kill you.

The great Bumbo recall

This article was sent to me by Bob Noxious weeks ago. However, with all the self-indulgent Private Sector rig-a-marole I was mired in, I failed to post it....until now.

I do apologize as I could have saved many an infant from head injury....nay, even death, had I simply chosen to warn you earlier.

With all the Chinese recalls going on, I feel I cannot allow something of such an important nature to slip from my grasp again.

Yet, I will say, had Bumbo been used correctly and as intended, parents would not be in an uproar and children would still have full mental capacity.

Mr. Noxious and I, as well as Dickie Sanchez and OBJ, tested this product repeatedly during the summer months and found, when used correctly, no injury- not even the tiniest of scratches ensued.

The fact is, we found Bumbo provided more protection, enhanced equilibrium, and gave us clairvoyance into future events.

Although I believe Dickie is now sick from lead poisoning.

Thank you China.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Getting Tuesday by the numbers

I know I usually post a YouTube on Tuesday, but I'm get board with routine so......

The 10 best one liners in movie history.

The top 10 celeb contestants on SNL Jeopardy.

Five Perverse Japanese video games.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Adding to the bill

Who are these scraping young devils who look like they just got out of post-op?



Why it's "The Private Sector".

Don't know much about them except they have some songs on itunes and they share the same name as us.

Personally I think we should contact them about adding them to the line-up on the 30th at the Reverb. Private Sector with special guest Private Sector.

Has a nice ring to it, don't ya think?

Rememberance Day means something to everyone

To me, besides the obvious, my remembrance falls around the best American Beer I've ever tasted- Yuengling out of Pennsylvania. I had it last week at the Sector show in N.Y. and I tell you, I couldn't blow through the sets fast enough. I needed the bold, amber lager on my pallet once again. Not to mention with the Canadian dollar soaring, a ten drink round could be had for $5.

So raise a glass and "Cheers" to my Yuengling!



With posts like this I'll never get considered for the Weblog awards.

Congrats to Mitchieville BTW for finishing in the finals.

Friday, November 09, 2007

HMH #16

Chapter Sixteen- The ghost of Ned Cooley

“There’s a ghost in your room? Don’t be absurd.”

“Come and see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“All-right damn it! Hang on.” I slipped into my clothes and followed Grub down the hall. We passed a sleeping Wally sprawled out on the couch. His limbs we all splayed and dangling like his heart had just exploded. He had flopped backward into his current position. The television was still on and played in the background. "Green Acres is the place to be . . . farm livin’ is the life for me ...."

We continued past sleeping beauty through the kitchen and the ensuing hallway, to a small room located adjacent to the studio. In fact, the control room itself sat above us like a chicken on an unhatched egg. I could see the bulging, angular frame of the drywall where the staircase ascended and Grub’s single bed, with his sheets in disarray, lay willingly underneath it. Something had scarred the hell out of him.

Grub pushed the door in wider and we cautiously crept in.

“So where’s this ghost of yours?”

“Shush! Listen . . . do you hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“There it is again. Listen.”

“Grub, it has to be those damn pills you’re taking. You’re starting to hear . . . ” I stopped in mid sentence. I could hear something faintly resonating from somewhere in the room. A disembodied voice. It moaned. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh.” And it was followed by a faint sound. Twack! The type a ping-pong paddle or a rolled-up newspaper might make hitting its target. “I hear it.”

We both strained our ears. “Ohhhhhhhh,” the voice said again a little louder, followed by the twack! A troubled expression furrowed Grub's brow. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get Doc.”

“Why Doc? What about the others?”

“I don’t want to bother Suds with this just yet. Wally wouldn’t be of any use, and Skunk would be asleep again before we ever got her in here.”

It was true what I’d said, especially about Skunk. I had witnessed my fair share of sleeping disorders from deprivation, to apnea, to chronic snoring, but I had never seen anything compared to Skunk and her ability to nod off at the most inopportune times. It wasn’t like she was narcoleptic and would fall asleep in the middle of solos or anything, it’s just, when she was tired, she slept, no matter where she was. She called them power-naps. We called them close brushes with death. There had been more than a few white knuckle experiences, usually when she
was driving us back from a late night performance. She’d nod off at the wheel and we’d end up in a ditch a few miles down the road. Skunk would still be asleep. In fact, when I had heard of their accident this morning, my thoughts had immediately been, she fell asleep again?

We now stood outside of Doc’s room located in the lower level of the ranch end of the complex. Next to his door was a weight room and a sauna filling our lungs with a dry cedar smell. I rapped lightly. “Doc, you awake?.....Doc, it’s Sparky and Grub. Are you awake?”

There was a rustling of covers from somewhere inside the tomb. “Je-sus I am now. Hold on to your britches. I’m comin’.” Doc opened the door and rubbed his eyes. “I was having the nicest dream . . . Three naked, moisten bints were feeding me grapes and— ”

“— Doc, no time.”

“What is it?”

“Grub’s having a problem in his room with an apparition of some kind.”

“Je-sus Sparky. You said no practical jokes this weekend.”

“I heard it Doc. I’m not shitting you.”

“OK,” Doc said. “Let’s go see the ghost of Wires Whitmire.”

“The ghost of Ned Cooley’s more like it. Didn’t Suds say he drowned in the pool here? Maybe his ghost is roaming around the place looking for another pair of water-wings?”

“Oh don’t be silly. What are ya, just out of diapers?”

We waited for Doc as he warily put on some slippers and attired himself appropriately in a dark blue robe with yellow diamond flecks. We ventured back up the stairs into the living room. Wally was still on the couch, but had turned over. His face was planted into a puddle of drool. His arms were at his sides and his ass stuck straight up in the air. He looked like an inch worm that had died in mid-inch. The TV was still on and Mr. Hainey was making life difficult for Mr. Douglas.

Doc took point, and marched our little troop over to the room in question. Silently we crept in and listened.“Ohhhhhh . . . ohhhhh,” the disembodied voice chanted.

“See, what did I tell you, Doc.”

“Ohhhhhh Jesus . . . help me Jesus!” Twack!

Grub gaped awestruck. “The ghost of Ned Cooley,” He said as he crossed himself. “He’s trapped in some other dimension and wants Jesus to help him get out.” He began to hyperventilate. “Meeya, Meeya.”

“Suds said he was a religious man,” I added.

“Help me Jesus!” Twack!

“This is horrible. He can’t find his way to heaven?” Grub said.

“Fuddle duddle!” Doc blurted. “The voice sounds female. Unless Old Mr.Cooley had his balls ripped off too when he lost his water-wings? I’d say we can squash that scenario.”

“Ohhhhh Jesus” . . . twack! “Thank you Jesus.”

Doc was right the voice, although guttural, did resemble a female’s. Doc started to inspect the room and stopped at a heating vent belching cool air from a horizontal, metal grid, in the corner of the ceiling.

“Grub, get me your chair.”

As Doc continued to look up, Grub dragged the padded seat in question over to him with his one good arm. Doc Barlow positioned it below the grate and climbed aboard. He pressed his ear to the slats and jumped back startled with surprise. “Je-sus!”

Grub and I yammered in frightened squeaks.“What! What is it?”

“Frickin grate’s cold on my ear.”

“Christ Doc! Grub and I nearly shit ourselves. Can you not do that again?”

“Sorry.” He placed his hands on either side of the opening and returned his ear slowly to the grid.

“Ohhhhh Thank you Jesus!” Twack!

Doc stated proudly. “It’s coming from here.” He pulled his head back and jumped down. “Problem solved. Now if you don’t mind gentlemen, I’m going back to bed. I have a date in my dream I need to attend to.”

“Doc, Suds didn’t say one word, about anyone else staying here. We have to find the source. What if it’s a burglar?”

“What are you, Wally? ‘Ooooh thank you Jesus for leaving the door unlocked’,” he capered. “Sparky, get a grip.”

Grub continued his labored breathing. “Meeya— Well, it’s still creeping me the fuck out, Meeya— and I’m not sleeping here with some voice moaning all night.”

“I agree with Grub, Doc. We need to get to the bottom of this. Don’t you want to find out who’s making the noise?” Even though there was a logical explanation for the disturbance, I was still troubled by it, and my nightmares of Wires had not helped the situation any. The talk of unexplained phenomenon always got my drawers in a knot. The thought of dead relatives invading my personal time, looking at me while I masturbated, or sang into a hair brush, bothered me to no end and I just had to have an answer.

Doc sat on my words for a moment before he spoke. “Ok Nancy Drew, Shit! The things I do for you guys.”

“Grub you should probably stay here. I don’t want you wandering around in the dark. You’re likely to damage your hand further. We can’t risk it.”

“Yes mother . . . Meeya.”

“But I’ll need your shoes.”

“Their too small for you.”

“I’m not going out side in my bare feet! What if I stub my toe on a Judas Iscariot gnome? I already broke one of those ungodly...God thingys today. Didn’t you notice the angry Christ giving us the finger when we drove up?”

“Grub just give him your shoes.”

Grub finally relented and swept his runners over to me with his foot. I jammed them on to the front part of my feet and tried to hold them on with clenched toes. Doc and I headed for the front door for further investigation.

There was no moon. Not even the pin points of a million stars to punch through the dark vale. It was all hidden behind sullen grey clouds and the damp coolness. Doc and I crept through a fissure between the tractor and the Honey-wagon and continued around the side of the guest house, where we deduced the voice originated. There were no windows only a row of garbage receptacles set up like a game of chance at a carnival midway. We proceeded with caution to a clearing around the back of the house.

By the fenced-in darkness of the pool, there was a door and a window. Both were dark and brooded over wooden flower boxes, carved and painted to resemble the Last Supper. Cherubs presided with blessing and a ghostly luminescence. They clung to the houses siding in solemn profiles. However, in one of the upstairs windows, there was a faint glow from the flickering tongues of candles, and there stood two black shapes facing one another. One of the shapes appeared to be periodically flogging the other with a strap of some kind.

“What the hell’s going on up there Doc?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled his housecoat tighter around his upper body to avoid the cool night air.

“Maybe we should rush in there and try to scare them off.”

“Sparky, get off the burglar crap, will ya. You can’t just go barging in there like Captain Doodle Winkerbean, expecting to save the day. Think about it. No one breaks into someone’s house, especially out here in the middle of nowhere, to perform a flogging ritual aimed at warding off the engorged member of Satin. I think it must be Cooley’s two daughters. Suds said they owned the place. I guess they live here too.”

“But he also said they wouldn’t bother us.”

“No, he said they probably wouldn’t be coming into the studio. Now, we know what
we’re dealing with. We can tell Grub, and he can sleep in the frickin’ kitchen with a tea bag for a pillow, if he prefers.”

The two figures suddenly stopped and appeared to be looking directly at us. Then they both dropped from sight like they had vanished into air. I had a sick, chilling feeling rising from the deep pit of my gut. Doc must have felt it too, because he nearly pulled me out of Grub’s shoes as we ran to the protective cover of the guest house. We plastered our backs to the wall next to the door. The cherubs fluttered and rattled against the siding.

“Je-sus we’re forty-year-old men,” Doc panted. “Why are we hiding like scared rabbits? We should just tell them we heard a noise and came out to inspect it. Sparky, there’s nothing wrong with that. Right? They’ll probably thank us for our concern.”

“You think? But they saw us running. I’m sure of it.”

“We were startled, that’s all. They were startled too. We’ll probably all have a good laugh about it, over black coffee and biscuits.”

“You’re right Doc. This is silly.”

An outside light suddenly came on with the intensity of the sun, blinding us and exposing our covert mission. Doc shifted quickly and dislodged one of the clay angels. It fell with a startling smash into a pool of fragmented wings and body parts. “Shit! Sparky, we’ve been spotted. Run for it!”

Quickly we slithered around the far end of the guest house and ran with abashed panic, back to the safety of the studio. I smashed into the emptiness of several aluminum trash cans, decapitating the lids from their bodies, and fell flat with a chattering crash.

“Sparky come on!” Doc urged.

“Save yourself Doc. I’m done for.”

Doc pulled me to my feet, and with his assistance, I limped into the house. Grub was waiting for us. “What happened? I heard a crash. What’s going on?”

Doc dragged me like I’d been shot, with my arm draped over his shoulders. Grub’s shoes slid from my feet as I was pulled. “Can’t talk. Going to bed. You’re on your own Grub.”

We blew by Wally mumbling in his sleep, “Arnold Ziffle . . . stupid pig.”

Doc unloaded me onto my bed like he was throwing down a heavy duffle bag of dirty laundry. Without a word he retreated to the safety of his own domain. I slid beneath the covers, fully clothed, pulling them up tight to my nose. I waited for the imminent attack, the terse words of warning and subsequent banishment. Even the pointing fingers of accusation, at least.

It never came.

New release this week

Oh man......just when I thought Private Sector had a decent shot at a comeback Roger puts out a new album. How can we compete?

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Nectar of the Sector


Halloween may be over, but Private Sector rose from the dead at Sparky's in Brewerton N.Y. last Saturday for an inspiring performance at the Boaters Black Party- a traditional outing the 1st weekend after all Hallows Eve. It was the first time most of the original lineup had graced the stage-any stage- in nearly 15 years, as they kicked off their "Tour of Supreme Audacity", a tour that will encompass only two cities.

Show organizers, Audrey Pisiak and Emily Merrit, both agreed,"it's like they haven't missed a beat in all those years. Except they do look happier."

....and fatter and balder....take your pick.

The 1st set opened with a powerful rendition of "The Cure" before a near capacity crowd and thundered on as Sector plowed through their storied past. New versions of "Sleepless" and a Foo Fighteresque arrangement of "Holdin' Out" with guitarist Stu Green at the helm were particular crowd pleasers. As was "Standing on the Edge", a song featuring "Message in a Bottle", "Tom Sawyer", "Come Sail Away", "Don't go Breaking my Heart", and "My Hump" in a juicy, entertaining, middle to the song.



From drummer Brian Christopher's solid beat, to Don Barley's infectious bass grooves, the band moved effortlessly from one song to the next, visiting "The Mask", "The Colder the Compromise", and continuing to the nights conclusion- an encore of "You Move Me" and "Subliminal Messages". Even a sound miscue in "The Gardener" could not spoil this evening as keyboardist Bob Stone and the boys easily pushed on past any musical speed bumps.

As singer Chris Strange noted early in the proceedings, "We're here to give you 100%, or given the current rate of exchange, I guess that would be 107%".....

....and Private Sector delivered.

Next Show: Friday November 30th @ the Reverb, Toronto, with special guests Kong and Poker Face.

National Post blurb here.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Jumping Japanese

Just when you think all is right with the world, you find a video of Japanese in bug suits competing in a narrow jumping challenge and then you are sure we will all die soon.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Saturday, November 03, 2007

HMH #15

Chapter Fifteen- A sixth sense

“What do you mean you won’t be able to play?”

“Look, Sparky. Broken wrist. I’m a drummer. I kind of need my hands to perform.”

“How in the hell, in the name of rhubarb tarts, did you break your wrist?”

“Excuse me Doc, for trying to stop myself before I was propelled through the windshield.”

“What exactly did the doctor say?” I asked.

“He said he feared it was a hairline fracture in the thumb, forefinger and wrist. He gave me a shot for the pain, a prescription and said I shouldn’t play drums.”

“Shouldn’t? Shouldn’t play? Not can’t, shouldn’t?”

“Je-sus Sparky what are you going to do tape a god damn drum stick to the man's hand?” Skunk said.

Wally interjected, as he wolfed down the remainder of his burger. “Maybe you could do it like that one-armed drummer from Def Leppard?”

“He’s got foot-pedal triggers to make it sound like a full kit. We don’t have that luxury.”

“Then we have to find a replacement and fast.”

“Doc, it has to be the original members on this recording you know that.”

“Why?” Grub asked. “I’d like to know. You never explained it to me.” He seemed quite perturbed.

“Look, guys we’re wasting valuable time by standing here. We have to get back. I can tell you the reasons why on the way.”

“Woh . . . ho . . . ho . . . wait a minute Sparky. I can only take three people at a time in the Honey-wagon.”

“You’re going to have to bend the rules this one time Wally. We still have to send someone back to Skunk’s car for the equipment and It’s not like we can hail a taxi or hop the next pig truck that happens by. I won’t tell your boss. I promise.”

“Alright, Alright! But you’ll have to take those damn boots off.”

We all crammed into the front of the Hino like we were trying to break the world record for most people in a sanitation vehicle. With Tiny’s boots firmly wedged between the tank and one of the Honda motors, we started off. Between the labored breaths of our confinement, I informed Grub and Skunk of our own trials and tribulations, and the specifics of what I had been told. At the end of all things the fingers pointed to one person- Griffin Alexander.

“So you see Grub you have to perform on this recording. Everything is null and void if you don’t and I couldn’t tell you until now. Everyone had to agree to do this first. But you can see this is a great opportunity for us to finally accomplish something.”

Skunk huffed. “That is the strangest arrangement I’ve ever heard of. Something’s going on underneath it all, I’ll bet on it. It reeks of dirt.”

“The Mayor thought so too.” Again I found myself wishing I’d heeded his warnings. “But these are the cards we’ve been dealt people. We’re committed to this game now. We have to bluff our way to the pot.”

Doc spoke out. “The thing I’d really like to know is, why do I get Grub on my lap?”

“You get him because Wally’s driving.”

“Then you could’ve given me Skunk. She’s smaller. No offence Grub but you’ve put on the pounds.”

“Who here hasn’t?”

Skunk protested, "Hey Doc don't talk about me like I'm some sort of tart to be passed around."


“Skunk has a boney ass Doc, I’m going to have bruises for weeks. I thought most chicks put on ass as they get older?”

“Hey!”

“Anyway, what was it you used to say Doc? 'It doesn’t matter where we are as long as we’re all together'.”

“I didn’t have homoeroticism in mind when I made the statement Sparky.”

Wally spoke up. “I guess this as good a time as any to tell Skunk and Grub about my song idear?”

“No it isn’t.”

Wally ignored Doc. “We write a song with a phone number in it, see. It has a catch phrase like For a good time, call, and . . . ”

“Not now Wally,” I chided.

Grub snickered. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard since you wanted us to call our first album Three and the magic worm, Wally.”

Skunk rubbed her ribs tenderly making her breasts nod in affirmation. “So what happens next with this Griffin Alexander?”

“I’m going to call him as soon as we get back. I’d like to see him wiggle out of this.”

Our trip back took less time and Wally turned onto the winding dirt driveway leading up to the house within twenty minutes. We passed the graveyard of junked cars laying in wait behind tall grass. Up over the hill the bible village came into view.

“Mother of God! What the hell is all that?”

“It’s creepy looking,” Grub moaned. “If I find a devil pinata in my room, that’s it, I’m going home.”

“It’s much worse at night, I assure you.”

“Hey, devil spelled backward is lived.”

“That’s wonderful Wally. The teacher give you a gold star?”

“Why do you have to spoil everything, Doc?”

Wally parked up behind the tractor and we all poured out with sighs of relief. The rest of the group went about taking in what instruments and bags were there. Tiny thundered out to help them. He shook the hands of the astonished new comers and gobbled up most of the gear under his elephantine tentacles.

I met Suds inside. He was sitting at a desk going through the mail as his little legs dangled over the edge of his chair. He had a small pair of bifocals that teetered on the brink of his nose.

“I need to make a call.”

“There’s phones all around,” he said. “The control room, the pool, the bathroom, take your pick. There’s one in the hallway leading to your room, if you need the privacy.”

Wouldn’t I get that in the bathroom? I thought, but instead I just said, “Thanks.” I marched off to my room and flung my bag on the bed. Digging through it, I found Griffin Alexander’s card. In the hallway there was an inlet where a small stand supported a phone next to a cushioned, pillbox, window ledge. I grabbed the phone from the table and began dialing.

The phone rang several times before a female voice answered. “Alexander, Myers & Brock,” she said. “How may I direct your call?”

“Griffin Alexander please.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

“Tell him it’s John Malveen and it’s urgent I speak with him.”

“One moment please.”

After what seemed like hours, a voice answered. “Mr. Malveen?” It was Griffin. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had another long distance call. I had to take it first. Listen, Mr. Malveen, I have an important message for you. Do not. I repeat. Do not follow the directions I gave you to the studio. It has come to my attention they are erroneous. I tried repeatedly to get you yesterday at Faith Studios, and on the cell number you gave me.”

“That’s Doc’s number. He’s been having trouble with reception up here.”

“Where are you now Mr. Malveen?”

“I’m at Faith Sound. We found it without much trouble.”

“Thank God. I was worried when I couldn’t get in touch with you. I expected the worst. And as you know, this is the final weekend to fulfil the stipulations set out in the will. Monday will probably be here quicker than you expect.”

“It always is. No, we’re all here working hard, getting it done. Right on schedule. Not to worry. Everything is running smoothly.”

“I assure you. I am looking in to what happened.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Look I have to get back. We’re ready to lay some tracks down.”

“I understand. Mr. Whitmire would have been pleased. Call if you need any more assistance.” He hung up with a click, and severed our vocal umbilical to dial tone.

I felt like such an idiot. I had lambasted the man up one side, and down the other. Yet, here he was trying to get hold of me. To warn us the directions were wrong, even as I was lighting the fire to burn him at the stake. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt like such a boob, so often, in a short period of time. “That’s it,” I said to myself. “No more conspiracy’s. No more excuses. We wipe the slate clean and get this thing done. Fuck all obstacles.”

When I informed the others of my conversation, they seemed a little disappointed. The gung-ho rally cry of, Get him, seemed to ignite us into a unified front, but now I had the sense the winds of passion had been sucked from our sails. Griffin was no longer the common enemy we had made him out to be.

By the time everything was collected and Skunk’s car towed to a mechanic it was getting late. It was well after supper before we were set up completely, ready to get some sounds. We all sat around in the control room on a plush black leather couch beyond a center console of encased effects and modules. The room sat above the main studio. The only link to the musicians below was through two television monitors above the sound board. Suds and Tiny sat next to each other creating forced perspective. Atop the sound board was a lava lamp sending green waxy bubbles floating to the surface and creating a contaminated greenish glow on the walls around us. The room had been hot and had a smell of burnt dust until the lights were dimmed and an upper door was opened letting in the refreshing evening air. The portal opened onto a small deck with a walkway draped down the backside of the house.

Suds fiddled with the equalizer and volume pots as he instructed Grub through a system of checks. Say what you want about Tiny’s mental capacity, but the boy followed all instructions he was given with ease — amazing considering his size. He plugged in effects, routed direct lines and adjusted microphones with the skill of a surgeon. We watched intently as Grub tested his kit behind a plexiglass sound barrier in a corner of the room next to a vacant stone fireplace and a row of storage cabinets. He looked as if he were being imprisoned by a heap of stabbing microphones and two Telefunkens hanging from boom-stands above his head. With his good hand he pounded away on his drums over the monitor screens.

Doc groused. “Anything else on? This is boring to watch.”

“Who owns this place?” Skunk asked.

I shrugged in non compliance. All I knew was Suds was the engineer and Tiny helps Suds, cause Tiny likes to help.

Without turning Suds told us. “Ned Cooley. Mr. Cooley bought this place years ago and turned it in to a studio. He was a great lover of music and the arts in general.”

“Was?”

“Yes. He passed on several years ago.” Suds slid off his seat and turned to us. He began flipping through a series of reverb effects over the repeated smacks of Grub’s snare drum. “He was also a great lover of water as well, but couldn’t swim. After he put the pool in, he went for a dip, but his water wings came off and we found him floating face down the next morning. Shame that. His daughters inherited the place, but they rarely come to the studio. They keep the place running, but they don’t have the interest in it like Mr. Cooley did.”

“So I guess he was responsible for all the little bible doo-dickies we see on the lawn?” Doc questioned.

“Mr. Cooley was a deeply religious man..yes. They were put there in his honor. A memorial if you will.” Suds hopped back up on his seat and pulled himself into the console. He pressed a button and instructed Grub to whack the snare drum again.

As the evening wore on and approached the move into a new one, it became evident our drummer could not use his left hand to full effectiveness. He would be relegated to keeping time only. This sparked a new debate.

“What do we do? Grub can’t play.”

“He has to Skunk.”

“What about you Sparky? You played drums at one time.”

“That was when I was a kid, Doc. I’m way too rusty to attempt it now.”

“Then, I say we get the Mayor up here. He’s played with us before. He can handle the chops.”

“The Mayor’s not an option either. He had to go out of town for the weekend on assignment. He won’t be back until after Monday or Tuesday, and that’s too late. Besides, Grub has to play on this thing. There is no other way.”

“What if we get someone to come in and over-dub some percussion on top of what Grub lays down. Alexander said it has to be the original members but he didn’t say anything about having a guest musician or two. As long as there are some of Grub’s tracks on the recording, I don’t see a problem in that.”

“Where are we going to get a drummer up in these neck of the woods Doc? Old Man Thompson, the farmer with the fork in his head, Johnny Two Fingers & Phil Screaming Eagle? Perhaps the receptionist Mrs. Bugupherbutt? I’m sure all she does on the weekends is beat on things. Probably at home now banging away on a nice set of Pearl drums like it’s a damn computer keyboard. Fuuuck. This is so frustrating. Think guys. Think!”

“There’s a band at the casino this weekend.” We all stopped gabbing and turned to Suds as he swung around on the swivel of his chair. Tiny stopped him before he made another revolution. “Perhaps you could convince their drummer to come out and over-dud the parts you need. ? It’s a long shot, but I don’t feel you have much choice at this point to get this done by Monday. From what I’m hearin’, the little fellow’s not going to be able to do everything you need.”

Sud's calling anyone little was comical, but I avoided the giggles. “What’s the name of the band Suds?”

“I don’t know but I can find out for you. It’s too late to do anything more about it tonight. By the time we got there, they’d be done and packed up for the night. I say we turn in and try to establish some concrete tracks tomorrow. Then we’ll go and make an attempt to convince this guy to come here Sunday and dub over what we have.”

Everyone agreed with the plan and turned in. Skunk called her husband and kids. Grub took his pills, Doc retired to his quarters and Wally decided to pass out on the couch with the TV on.

I found myself in the solitude of my room once more, away from the chaos and the noise of the outside world. I was about to turn off the light when I realized, the contract! I told Doc I was going to take a close look at it when we got here. But with all the wrenches thrown into our plans, I forgot. We all forgot.

I leapt out of bed and plowed my hands through my bag like they were searchlights. I retrieved a manila envelope containing the document. I sat on the edge of the bed and glared at it intently. As I opened the flap there was a knock at the door. I put the envelope down. “Come in.”

The door opened. It was Grub. His arm swung from a makeshift sling of fabric. I was sure until recently it had been a dish towel hanging from a rung by the kitchen sink. Grub was fully clothed like he was getting ready to leave.

“Christ Grub what are you still doing up? Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in pain or something?”

“No.”

“Then go to bed!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not! Out with it.”

“There’s a ghost in my room, Sparky.”