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Bobby Lee Black
Writing
MANHUNT_ BENNY'S RESTAURANTE Y CANTINA (Sturgis Trilogy Part 1) Bobby is gone. The words rang through my head as I sat in shock. I couldn't believe the star columnist had just up and disappeared; no review, no word, no trace. The publisher explained the situation again with a solemn expression, in a slow monotone: "Bobby is gone. We don't know where he is. He isn't answering his cell or home phone. There's no Tattooed Food Critic for the Dining Guide." On the exterior, I'm sure he only saw the skinny, mild-mannered editor that shows up every day for work at 6 am and toils away in his three-piece suit until 8 pm, when he goes home with proofs shoved in his Italian leather briefcase. But that's only the surface of me, the me I let the office see. Underneath is an ex-Green Beret who has seen horrors unimaginable to the average entertainment journalist. And every pint of my Green Beret blood was pumping. I knew what I had to do. I took an immediate leave of absence, peddling the lame excuse that my sister needed help moving to Phoenix. They bought it. Nobody even questioned why anyone in their right mind would move to Arizona in August. With a three-day reprieve granted in the heat of deadline week, I called my old friend from Special Ops in Washington, Colonel Grimm. "Any enemies or suspect political connections?" Grimm inquired once I briefed him on the emergency. "He's grumbled in a paranoid way about enemies, but nothing concrete. All I have is a scrawled note we found in his trash can: 'Sigruts' it says, in blood." "Sigruts?" "We thought at first it might be code for 'cigarettes' since he just quit smoking. Then an old friend in the LAPD mentioned a small town south of the border called Sigrettez. He might be there. Bobby was never much of a speller." "Hm," Grimm grunted. "Assemble the old team and go after him. Terminate enemies with extreme prejudice." And so it was that I got back together with Juan Barracuda, John "Mad Dog" Murdoch, and Jean-Luc "Frenchy" Lessoir. We piled in Barracuda's hum-vee and drove south. It wasn't long before I spotted a hangout notorious for trapping diners with large appetites: Benny's. Word on the street was that Benny held big eaters in a locked room in the back, where he fed them delicious burritos, tacos, rellenos, and tortilla chips until they were too weak to do anything but siesta and turn over top secret food critic information. Mad Dog ran point with his Colt Python drawn. Frenchy and Barracuda scouted the exterior for snipers. I served back-up, holding my finger to the trigger of my loaded Heckler & Koch PSP 9mm pistol. All was clear. The team waved me in. We were seated right away. Mad Dog held the host's eye contact for three seconds. It was his Commie test: if a man could stand his gaze for three seconds without squinting, he wasn't a Commie. Just one reason we called him Mad Dog. We all dropped into our seats except Frenchy, who went to scout the bathrooms. Barracuda rigged up a small listening device with a straw and one of the comment cards on the table. He wanted to listen to the conversations of the numerous diners around us, just in case a mole dropped a clue. The waitress approached our table. She passed Mad Dog's Commie test, so we ordered a pitcher of sangria, tacos al carbon (steak), and three plates of something called Combination H (beef taco, relleno, smothered bean burrito). Mad Dog laughed. 'Combination H' reminded him of a nerve gas that gave him the shits in 'Nam. Frenchy returned. "Bathroom eez clean. No bugs." People nearby might have assumed Frenchy meant the restroom was merely sanitary (which it was), but we knew what he was really saying. The food came quickly, right on the heels of our drinks. This made Barracuda nervous; had the staff intuited our hurried nature?; Were they on to our mission? No, it turned out everyone's food was served right away, without the usual interminable wait found at other area restaurants. Just one reason Benny's had the reputation for trapping eaters. The meals were fantastic and filling. We were soon ordering another pitcher of sangria and baskets of sopapillas. Even Barracuda let down his guard. Before long, we were all leaning back in our chairs, watching the pre-season football game and loosening our belts. It was time for a siesta. Mad Dog snapped us out of it. When we didn't respond to his barked orders, he decided to take matters a step further, and yanked me out of my chair by the collar. Then he slammed me against the wall. "Wake up, man! Don't forget our mission! If we don't find Bobby and get him back to Go-Go, you'll be printing some other Communist fancy-pants food critic like all the other Red freedom-hating rags in this rat-infested metropolis!" He was right. We all sat at attention while we paid the bill. Clearly Bobby wasn't here, but Benny's had lived up to its reputation. The place was dangerously hard to get out of ... even an old Green Beret like myself wasn't guaranteed to make it out alive. On the way out, a bus boy failed Mad Dog's eye contact test. He was immediately slammed against the wall, just like I had been. We showed him the scrap of paper -- "Sigruts" -- and threatened to beat a confession out of him. He choked, "It's backwards. It says 'Sturgis' ... that's where the bigs have planned a rendezvous." Clever bastards. Who'd have suspected Sturgis as a Commie headquarters? Just before we climbed back in the vehicle, I wired the Go-Go office: "NO BOBBY STOP GOING TO STURGIS STOP RUN ISSUE WITHOUT ME STOP." I could only hope it wasn't too lateNARCOLEPSY_ ROAD KILL CAFE (Sturgis Trilogy Part 2) It was 4 am as we pulled out of Denver onto the on-ramp of I-25. It had been 24 hours since I had slept last but I knew I could pull this off. Sturgis was only about 400 miles from here and the cool night air would keep me somewhat awake. I brought our speed up to about 85 and set the cruise control. Yes cruise control! You didn't think I was going to load all this stuff on a bike and head up there did you? Where would I put my laptop, tattoo equipment, or my espresso machine for that matter? Okay, so I didn't take my espresso machine but still I had a SUV fulla stuff and I wasn't about to leave any of it behind. As we kicked into cruise control, I looked over at my co-pilot Wayne and said, "We've got a full tank of gas, a half a pack of cigarettes, and we're wearing our sunglasses at night." He never broke his forward gaze but quietly responded, "We're on a mission from God!" It was around Cheyenne somewhere that the road started looking a lot like a black licorice whip with lines of white powdered sugar along its edges. I started leaning out the window to get a better look at the confectionary miracle unfolding before us and the shock of the cold night air brought me back to consciousness. Ahhhhh! I had been asleep at the wheel! "Hey man!" I shouted at Wayne. "You're supposed to make sure I stay awake!" Never taking his eyes away from the road ahead of us he said simply, "I thought you said you had the cruise control on." I thought about it a minute but I was too loopy to try to figure out why that shouldn't make sense. We stopped in Cheyenne at some little stop and rob for gas and to re-up on Blue Ox and smokes. Once I had a few cans of the Ox we resumed our voyage. Although I was much more awake I was still suffering from low-grade hallucinations, but nothing that would impede my driving (I hoped). We drove through the night without incident, other than hitting a bat and some sort of bird, as well as every bug in Wyoming. Hey, you know what the last thing is to go through a bug's mind when it hits your windshield? Its sphincter! HA! I kill me! Anyway, we hit Sturgis at about 10 am, the smell of exhaust, fried food and sour beer floated through the air, and there were bikes, beers and boobs EVERYWHERE! We were both starved so we went into the first place we saw, The World Famous Road Kill Café. Normally the words road kill and café in the same sentence wouldn't entice me to hunger but I hadn't slept in over 30 hours and I had just driven 400 miles. The place looked like your basic biker-filled greasy spoon with a couple of exceptions. One was that the menu boasted "from your grill to ours" with selections like Poodles and Noodles, Rack of Raccoon, Swirl of Squirrel, and Thumper on a Bumper to name a few. The other exception was that the place smelled of absolute heaven! Something was cooking that made my mouth water and my stom-ach growl! The breakfast buffet consisted of eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits and gravy, hash browns, fruit of every kind and was served with my favorite four words: "all you can eat." We ate and ate and ate. I haven't had a buffet like that in years, and everything was awesome! I went out back in the camo net-covered beer garden where I laid down on a table and immediately went to sleep. Before long I awoke to the drunken whooping and hollering going on due to an impromptu wet t-shirt contest that had erupted around me. I headed out into the street and began to wander aimlessly through the never-ending parade of bikes, beers and boobs. I found my way to our hotel where Wayne had already unpacked most of the gear. A few more cans of Blue Ox and I was ready to go again. We headed back toward Main Street but got immediately separated after being swept up into the midst of some beer-crazed boob fest. After wandering about for most of the day I had seen enough weirdness to last a lifetime. I even saw a sheep dog wearing purple riding chaps! Finally I found my way back to the Road Kill ... just in time for the baby back rib dinner buffet! Just like breakfast, the food was awesome: meat so tender it fell off the bone, sauce so sweet I licked my fingers, my face, the plate, even the counter top. (I tried to lick the waitress but she ran.) And of course served in all you can eat style. And just like breakfast I fell asleep in the beer garden out back. I awoke as before to whooping and general sounds of alcohol induced merriment and wandered out into the throng of bikes beers and boobs once again. I spent the next few days prowling up and down the crowded streets eating with both hands. Things like Indian tacos consisting of fry bread heaped with a mile high mound of taco fixins. Deep fried catfish on a stick, Gyros, sausage sandwiches, hamburgers, fries, it went on and on. Everything there to drink besides beer was a study in hypo-glycemic madness. The grease congealed in my stomach while the sugar solidified in my brain until one day blended into the next. My mind reeled questioning my reality: "How long have I been here? How did I get here? When did I shower last? Whose voice is this in my head anyway?" I remember thinking that if I could just lie down for a minute maybe the world would stop spinning, and then everything went black. I woke up on a bench somewhere on Main Street as the sun was coming up; Wayne was shaking me saying something about getting some breakfast. I shambled along behind him heading once again for the Road Kill. Once we were inside, the waitress told me that there were some paramilitary guys asking about my whereabouts. "They were a pretty creepy bunch, even for this place!" she said while looking around. Then leaning foreword in a conspiratorial way she continued. "One of them was kind of a weasely little guy wearing an old beat up green beret and had a news print picture of you. The guy he referred to as Frenchy kept sniffing his fingers and smiling, while the big quiet one just mumbled about the clowns eating him." I looked over at Wayne, he just gave me a quick nod and we were headed for the door in a flash. Although I wasn't sure what I could have done to get a spook and a couple of ghouls on my tail, I knew I didn't want to hang around to find out. We loaded up the Explorer in record time and I threw Wayne the keys. I had to get this all down in writing before they caught up to us. So here I am pecking away on my laptop as Wayne speeds us into the distance. At least now if I come up missing you'll know why. Thank God for cellular modems!FULL OF POTENTIAL _ FAT FENDERS (Sturgis Trilogy Part 3) I had been back in town for a few days since my quick exit stage left from South Dakota. It turns out these paramilitary creepers that had almost nabbed me in Sturgis had been asking around Denver about me before heading out that way. That meant only one thing; it wouldn't be long before they were coming back through here. I decided to go underground until I found out exactly who and what I was up against. "Consider all the facts," I thought as I looked over my notes in the dim light of the basement I was holed up in. OK there are three total in the team that I know of, one is a weasely little guy in a green beret. "Why does that sound so familiar?" I asked aloud as I thumbed through the pages I had compiled. Then there was a guy he referred to as Frenchy, a weird finger sniffer of some sort. I used to know an explosives expert that sniffed his fingers a lot because he loved the smell of C-4; he said it smelled like victory or something like that. I also know a perv that does it for other reasons, so who knows? Finally there was the big guy mumbling about clowns eating him; I had no frame of reference for that ... clowns don't eat you! They generally just wrap you in a cocoon of a cotton candy-like substance and drink your blood through crazy straws. This guy had obviously lost his grip on reality. The more I pondered the 'facts' the less I knew, and then it hit me! If these guys had been looking for me here before they left they would have been sniffing around the tattoo shop. I called Big Paul the Prez and ran the whole thing down to him. He said he would get back to me after doing a little sniffing around of his own. I made a few other calls, one of which was to Go-Go. They acted like nothing was going on, just like I suspected, and told me that the editor wanted to talk to me then put me on hold. I hung up the phone immediately because it was obvious they had been gotten to and had started a trace on my phone. As soon as I hung up my phone rang, I thought sure they had completed the trace but it was Big Paul. He said he had nailed down the info I was looking for and had paper on it for me. We decided to meet in an hour out on old Hampden at a place he knew. I called Wayne and brought him up to speed, telling him where to meet us. I thought by the outward appearance of Fat Fenders that it was very small, but looks can be deceiving. Once inside, it was huge! Aside from a sizable restaurant and bar, it had a big dance floor, a pool room, a game room, a stage, and even a 12-foot TV! The whole place smelled of sweet succulent barbecue because this, like every Friday, was all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet day. There was barbecue ribs, barbecue chicken, barbecue pork, barbecue beef, and barbecue beans. The ribs and chicken practically fell off the bone, the beef and pork was so tender that silverware was strictly for aesthetics. And the beans, oh my God the beans ... beans of epic proportions, to which there will be songs sung for ten generations to come! I looked up from my third plateful, barbecue sauce from my eyebrows to my elbows, and asked Wayne how his food was. He had ordered something from the menu while I was doing the barbecue backstroke up at the buffet. "Uh, what is that you're eating anyway?" I asked, suspiciously eying the breaded something or other on his plate. Then he said something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up! Very matter of factly without the slightest hint of shame he said three words that froze the lymph in my glands: "Rocky Mountain Oysters." Before I could offer any form of a reply he continued. "I had some in South Dakota last week but they were nowhere near this good." Not only had my bro turned out to be one of that rare breed known as gonadus ingestus, but it turns out he had been doing it all along, right under my very nose! As I was weighing the ramifications of this new info I suddenly remembered why we were here. It wasn't to have some of the best barbecue known to man, though we had. It wasn't to eat things that are much more precious to a bull than I care to know, though some of us had. It wasn't even to learn frightening new things about my friend's habits, though I had. No, it was to get the necessary info about these paramilitary creepers that were on my tail. "So Paul what did ya find out?" I asked while still suspiciously eyeing the stuff on Wayne's plate. The Prez pushed a back issue of Go-Go across the table toward me. It was folded back to my column, so I started to read. "I didn't write this," I protested. Paul just nodded and motioned for me to read on. The story outlined how my editor, fearing that I had been abducted, had donned his green beret, got together with a couple of his buddies and had mounted a search for me. An image of a tattered green beret hanging on the wall in the editorial office started coming into focus. How many times had I had stared right at it while listening to allegations and reprimands? That's it! The little guy in the beret was my editor! Then it all started falling together right before me. Frenchy was really Delbert, our copy guy. And he is the perv that I know, always sniffing his fingers. The big quiet guy was Sol, the delivery driver. They brought him for two obvious reasons. The first, because he is the only one who can get the 1952 delivery van in and out of second gear without a hammer. The second, and more important reason was because none of them had a car. All this meant something I had never even dared dream of! Maybe the reason I'm always being called on the carpet isn't because the editor hates me! Maybe it's more like the teacher being hard on a particular student because of seeing wasted potential. That's it! I'm like some sort of unrealized literary prodigy. He has just been trying to inspire me to the greatness I've been meant for all along! When I called Go-Go back to thank all involved, my editor got on the phone and began in with the usual rant. "Who do you think you are? Where the hell are you? Where's my review?" Then there was something about irresponsibility, lackadaisical attitude, poor excuse for ... it went on, but all I could hear was the roar of the crowd as I gave my Writer Of The Year acceptance speech. It was all I could do to fight back the tears as I said, "You're the best, man, and my first Pulitzer is dedicated to you." As I hung up I thought could hear him saying, "Hello, who is this?" All Rights Reserved © 2001 Go-Go Media, LLCThanksgiving Heaven HellBobby's Best and Worst ThanksgivingsBeing raised primarily by bikers, strippers and the like, Thanksgivings as well as most holidays were never anything less than festive but always unconventional. The cast of characters would change a little from year to year considering the nomadic nature of our ilk. But the overall vibe was one of general pandemonium. So needless to say, when I was asked to pitch my 'best memory of Thanksgiving', I was hard pressed to come up with the overall Oscar winner. What I finally decided to do was offer a highlight clip reel of the surreal movie I call a childhood. There was one thanksgiving where we all had pizza because my Uncle Red thought it would be cool to stuff the turkey with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. The way I understand it is that he had a recipe for JD stuffing but after downing a bottle himself he was so drunk he decided to just use the remaining bottle as is. After the thing had been baking in the oven for a while the bottle exploded and caught the stove and part of the kitchen on fire. When asked to explain his reasoning he simply said, "It fit!" Then there was another time that my Uncle Dirty Chuck decided that a traditional Thanksgiving was in order. So he rode out to a turkey farm and picked up a live turkey. I'm sure you can imagine the comedic value of a live turkey being transported on a motorcycle so I will save you the details other than when turkeys get scared they tend to loose control of their bowels. Once he arrived home he let it go in the back yard where a couple of the drunker guys started trying to shoot it. Of course it wasn't long before the law arrived doling out tickets for discharging firearms, drunkenness, animal cruelty and who knows what else. And if all this wasn't enough, somehow in all the confusion the dog caught and ate the turkey. I think we had hamburgers that year. Most of you are probably thinking, "If these are his best memories, what could possibly be his worst?" Well, that is where the second half of my assignment comes in. This particular thanksgiving story takes place at an institution of, shall we say higher learning. One of those forced vacations with the department of corrections that have punctuated various times in my life. Generally institutional food isn't the best stuff in the world, prepared by people who don't want to prepare it for people who don't want to eat it. No need for prison food critics, ya dig? Anyway it was around 1983 or so when the night before Thanksgiving there was a skirmish in the kitchen that ended with some tear gas. These things happen fairly often and usually aren't too big of a deal but this time there were a few unexpected factors in the equation. Unbeknownst to any of us when the kitchen had been gassed, the pressed turkey roll (standard joint thanksgiving fare) had been out thawing on a counter. The following day it was sliced up and put into the oven along with all the other inedible fixings that convicts call Thanksgiving dinner. When the cooks started complaining about their eyes burning, the guards just figured it was left over from the day before and told them to "quit sniveling and get back to work." Before long we were all sitting down to our trays of congealing, quivering, indefinable Thanksgiving dinner. As I dug in, I remember thinking that it seemed a little spicy. It went from spicy to hot then my nose started to run and my eyes started to water. I looked around and saw the strangest thing in the history of the penal system taking place around me. Everyone's eyes and noses were running! Just a little at first, then worse and worse until there were 2000 of America's most hardened criminals bawling and blowing nose bubbles all over the chow hall. Just before I couldn't see any longer, I felt my stomach start to rumble. Then somewhere I heard the first person ralph, and in a few moments we all joined him. If you think we had it bad, imagine a few hundred guards dealing with a couple thousand blind, angry, puke covered inmates! I'm here to tell you that the only thing worse than tear gas, is baked tear gas! I truly hope that this remains my worst Thanksgiving memory, because if it gets any worse than that I'll give up turkey day all together!
MARDI GRAS MADNESS AND MEYHEMOur story starts innocently enough; it was to be a road trip, just me and my buddy “Bum Wireâ€. We were on a quest for a story, after the Jell-O debauchery of our last adventure we needed to come up with a story of substance, a tale of merit if you will. So we gassed up Bum Wire’s old bel air and headed toward the Cape. Unbeknownst to me the beast had a bit of a gas leak under the hood that tended to fill the car with noxious fumes, but we were only going into Cape Town after all, how bad could it be? I had decided to do the driving, as Bum Wire was still a little under the weather with a bit of brown bottle flu. We were heading for the bridge when the hum of the engine began to get louder and louder. Suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car. I yelled over at bum wire to look out as shadows fluttered across his face, “AARRGGGGHHH!†I screamed as I screeched to a stop in the middle of the road. Bum Wire casually looked over at me saying, “What are you yelling about?†I responded as nonchalantly as I could saying “Never mind. It's your turn to drive.†No point mentioning the bats. I thought to myself. He will see them soon enough. I climbed into the back seat and we were back in motion with Bum Wire at the helm. As I hung my head out the window the gas fumes were beginning to clear, and the fear of flying fauna was subsiding.Just before we got to the bridge my captain spotted a tattooed hitch hiker carrying an airbrush kit “let's give ‘em a lift†he shouted. I tried to respond with “we can't stop here - this is bat country!†but he’d already swerved to a stop inches from the guy, besides I wasn’t even sure if he was actually there or if we had even stopped. It turns out he wasn’t a hallucination after all, he was James from Art and Soul tattoo and was on his way to Mardi Gras to do body painting for the Fat Tuesday celebration. I reminded Bum Wire that we were, after all, on a mission and although New Orleans was a hoot this time if year it was about 800 miles out of our way. As James was still explaining that Mardi Gras was a bar on 47th terrace in the Cape that was having a Fat Tuesday party, Bum Wire was already careening down 47th heading for the bar. He mentioned the event was also a 50th birthday to someone named Gloria. This was obviously the code name of an iconic Mardi Gras character of some sort, so as not to look un-hip I inquired no further, just nodded knowingly, while reciting the only lyrics I new to an old Doors song “G-L-O-R-I-A…Gloooooria!â€. We pulled up in front of the bar as I was belting out another chorus, there people were laughing, music playing, glasses clinking and beads were flying. As we walked in James headed over to his booth to set up for body painting. I remember thinking “I gotta learn that art†as I watched him fending off the eager nubiles wanting to be his canvas. Just then my attention was diverted by a flurry of blonde hair and beads headed toward the kitchen (I would find out shortly that this bundle of energy was Renee; the owner of the place and creator of the event.) I thought to myself “she seems to know where she’s going, maybe I’ll tag alongâ€, and off we went. As we bustled through the crowd I could have sworn I saw a clown, and maybe a monkey on a carousel horse, or a was it a small hairy man on a bar stool? The gas fumes hadn’t worn off yet so it was hard to tell, but it was festive and colorful to say the least! Then as if I had found my way into Ali Babba’s cave of treasure, I was amidst the holy grail of Cajun and Creole cuisine. As I rounded a huge pot of Bayou Jambalaya a spoonful found its way to my lips. I felt a hand on my wrist and heard a voice in my ear “who are you and why are you in my kitchen?†whispered Renee. I quickly explained my position with the magazine, pleading for mercy (I left out the parts about the bats the monkey and carousel horse, unnecessary details after all). After a moments scrutiny she smiled a smile that was like sunshine coming through the clouds and began leading me around the kitchen telling me all about the food, the atmosphere, and the event. The next thing I knew there was a seafood ravioli melting in my mouth. Just behind that came the most tantalizing crawfish etouffee I had eaten since being run out of Baton Rouge, but that’s another story for another time (statute of limitations and all). I found a stuffed chicken breast sticking out of my mouth, and various gourmet pizza slices in both hands. Then as quickly as she had appeared she vanished back into the crowd of libation. I tried to follow but lost her somewhere between the band and a group of people dancing in a conga line. I stumbled past the body painting booth where James was painting a woman like a snake or was it a snake like a woman, either way he would have quite a story to tell when he got back to Art and Soul. And then it hit me, this was a story to be told indeed, but there’s only one thing that could give it the perfect ending, the crescendo to an opus so to speak. I looked to the heavens and in a thundering voice shouted “were going to New Orleans!†Bum wire appeared from nowhere with a host of inebriated bead clad, body painted followers. He looked directly in my eyes (as directly as he could in his Jager induced state) and said with great authority, “acting as your attorney and driver I must advise you that you'll need a very fast car with no top, a tape recorder, for special music, and some Acapulco shirts. This blows my weekend, because naturally I'll have to go with you -- and we'll have to arm ourselves…†grabbing a pizza slice and brandishing it like a weapon he headed for the car with entourage in tow. “Why not?†I said aloud “ If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right. I tell you, my man. This is the American Dream in action! We'd be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way to the end. Indeed. We must do it, do it for the story! What kind of story will this be?…A story that starts innocently enough; it was to be a road trip, just me, my buddy Bum Wire, and a few unsuspecting followers on a quest for a story…â€.Copyright STB Magazine LLC 2009NO WAY JOSE! LAND PIRATES, RUN!!Bum wire and I had been rummaging around at the Sally (Salvation Army thrift store for you less enlightened bargain hunters) most of the day looking for the appropriate accoutrements for seeing SWFL’s premiere party band NO WAY JOSE. We were standing in the check out line with our dumpster scores of sombreros, blankets, sandals and sunglasses when we met Flo (that’s what her masking tape nametag said anyway). Flo was a weathered, tobacco stained crustation of sorts that had appeared to have spontaneously grown up from behind the register. She suspiciously poked at our treasures with a gnarled nicotine encrusted claw and growled “you boys goin on a trip, or maybe… you’re already on one?†As if we had rehearsed it I said, “no way†and bum wire said “Joseâ€, then he burst out in maniacal laughter (probably because bumwire is usually trippin at least a little). From that point forward everytime I said anything he muttered “no way†then began to laugh like a loon again. That went on for the whole ride back to my house and most of the way to Backstreets where the band in question was playing. We got to the place wrapped in our blankets, wearing our sombreros sunglasses and sandals, ready for action. When we were asked for our ID’s bumwire started in with “we don’t need no stinking badges†bit that seemed to go on for a decade. I’m not sure why they actually let us in but they did, me and my sidekick Bumwirito, just two amigos here to see No Way Jose. Let me just say these guys BLEW IT UP!!! Aside from some awesome original stuff they were all over the place with their covers. Sublime, Bob Marley, Chili Peppers, Snoop, Social Distortion, Marvin Gaye (yes you read it right), House of Pain, you name it they did it. The onstage energy and antics were like ska meets roller derby. Speaking of roller derby I learned how to do something called skanking that night. All I know is I have a tennis shoe shaped bruise on my butt and I lost on of my sandals somewhere, nuff said.Before long I was covered in sweat and various spilled drinks and needed a break, so I went to find my bro. Bumwire was slouched at a table with an empty shot glass in his hand. Strangely he too had lost a sandal but I’m still not sure why. He had also regressed into the mono syllabic language of the truly inebriated. No matter what song the band played, everytime there was even the shortest pause bum wire would try to fit in the gravelly lyric “TEQUILLAAAAAâ€. I was watching Bumwire slouch closer and closer to the floor as the band ran through a Jimmy Cliff tune when it hit me like an arrow between the eyes. “JUAREZ!!!†I shouted, Bumwire sobered slightly and looked over the rim of his sunglasses at me. I started again, “dude you ever been to Juarez? It’s like the Tortugas of Mexico except without the boats!†He looked of in the distance and slurred “we could be pirates, Mexican land pirates…ARRRRGH…iasso!†And we paid up and headed for the door, well I headed for the door, bumwire just kinda flopped over my shoulder as I carried him out. As we pulled away from the curb in the Bel Air Grande I was chanting the lyrics to the no way Jose song Skanky Riddim “we aint got no money…we aint got no problems…†and everytime I took a breath bum wire would shout “TEQUILLAAAAAâ€â€¦I remember thinking “this is going to be a long drive.â€Copyright STB Magazine LLC 2009A PUSH MOWER A FISHBOWL AND JELL-O IN MY SHOESOne of my bros, who will from this day forward be referred to as “Bum Wire†(due to his inability to keep his facts straight) told me the legendary local metal band “Push mower†would be playing at Eddie Fishbowls. Needless to say I WAS STOKED.It had been a hard week of holiday hoo-hah; scrambling for merchandise, hurtling shopping carts, taking elbows from little old ladies and all the general pandemonium of Xmas. I’m not necessarily an according to Hoyle head banger or rivet head, but I am a red blooded, financially strapped, politically frustrated American male. So when faced with the opportunity to mosh through a few metal heads, sustain an injury or two, then press my face up against up against the speakers until my brain rattles loose, well I was excited to say the least. As the day wore on all I could think of was the full frontal assault of angry lyrics, screaming guitars and crashing drums. When the time came to pack up the posse and head for the ensuing carnage I never stopped to think that anything could go pear shaped on an evening such as this. The one factor in this equation that I hadn’t considered was in retrospect, the only one I should have taken into account. The simple fact is, that although well meaning, most of my cohorts are either dumb as a bag of hammers, or so perma-buzzed that their brains actually slosh when they move, but I digress. We pulled up to the club ready for musical war, but as we drew closer something wasn’t quite right. There were in fact yelling, cheering and sounds of general debauchery pouring out onto the street but the music was more clubby, mixy, dancy, than rocky, head bangy moshy. A short conversation with the doorman revealed that Push mower was scheduled for THURSday night, and due to my not so clear minded friend we were here on TUESday night. I explained this little detail to “Bum Wire†along with the fact that tomorrow was the deadline for my story to be in and there wasn’t time to scramble around and find another band to interview. He was muttering something about both days starting with the letter “T†when the doorman asked us to come in or let the line through.I figured since we were here we might as well see what all the excitement was about so into the smoke, cheering and music we went. I muscled my way toward the front of the cheering crowd as the rest of the crew headed for the bar. Then it happened, the crowd parted and there before me was the holy grail of testosteronian drunkenness… JELL-O WRESTLING. Yes my friends semi clad young women covered in multi-colored slime grappling with one another. I could have sworn I heard angels singing, this must have been what the Romans had in mind when conceiving the Olympics. And then it hit me, arts and entertainment, this is the epitome of both! What subject has been more often expressed by the artists of the ages than the female form? And entertainment? These women were athletes, as dedicated to excellence as any performer could ever be. As for the Jell-O, well that’s just a fun use of color, and one must have a hint of color! We, ragged travelers, questing for metal mayhem had inadvertently stumbled onto the pinnacle of art and entertainment. I closed my eyes for a moment to thank the Gods and could see the Roman coliseum around me, the crowd standing and cheering. I raised my sword to the heavens and shouted: For tonight we immerse ourselves in war and hunting, the two springs from which flow the river of life…†As I opened my eyes I realized the cheering around me had ceased, the music had stopped, and even the slime covered wrestlers had stopped writhing. Everyone was staring at the big tattooed, ranting, weirdo standing in the Jell-O pool. Thinking quickly I pointed to the confused wrestlers and in my deepest Zeus like voice, thunder the words “soldier on Amazonian warriorsâ€. There was a slap and a thud and the melee reconvened. I figured it was time to make a hasty retreat so I stepped out of the pool and went to collect my friends. Everyone was missing in action except for “Bum Wire†who was facing the wall of fame (an entire wall of photographic evidence that alcohol makes many women pull their tops off) with a half consumed drink the size of a small bucket in his hands. He looked up at me with the glowing gaze of the inebriated and drooled the word booooobiiiies as he fell into my arms. I caught the rest of his gigantic drink in one hand (later I found out it was a “fishbowl†thus the venues name) and threw him over my shoulder heading for the truck. As we drove home I reiterated my story of champions and conquests thanking my muddle minded friend for the mistake of the century. When we pulled up to his house he looked over at me gratefully smiling and as he opened the car door said booooobiiiies and fell out of the car…well done young soldier, well done.Copyright STB Magazine LLC 2009STRANGE ARANGEMENTI heard Bum Wire was back in town after our Juárez excursion. I had last seen Bum Wire face down in a plate of huevos rancheros at the Centro De Monterrey Hotel. No I didn’t leave him for dead, I saw the ranchero sauce bubbling around his nostrils so I figured he’d be ok while I went to the bathroom. When I got back he was gone, huevos and all. I looked around town for a couple days, asking about ‘mi poco borracho loco’ (my crazy little drunk). Finally I got the word someone had seen him traveling back across the Cordova bridge toward the US with a bunch of hippies in a chartreuse VW van so I headed back that way. 2 days and 2 right turns and I was back in the Cape, but no Bum Wire to be found. I had heard that he was following some band around called Strange Arrangement so off I went in search of the band. After a few near misses I wandered into Eddie fishbowls to find a couple guys bounding about the stage. They weren’t dancing, or just kinda’ rockin’ around they were manically bounding about the stage. And the spectacle didn’t end there the crowd was going wild, dancing, shaking, singing and screaming. And there in the middle of it all was Bum Wire doing some bizarre dance called the “strange shuffleâ€. It’s a dance devised by the band, primarily for the inebriated but I managed in a sober state. Bum Wire of course was a natural, it was weird to see him so animated, his usual state being varying stages of horizontal, but not tonight!I tried getting the story out of him about his exodus from Juarez, how he got back, where he met the band, but his answer to every question was “it was a Strange Arrangementâ€. Finally after much pointless questioning, Bum Wire introduced me to the band between sets saying “you’ll see what I mean†and ‘strange shuffled’ off. The Brothers Van Kirk, Warren (vocals and guitar) and Gregory (bass) are the originators of the musical melee. These 2 brothers who developed an early addiction to music, realized that they would never quit, so they found some other guys that were equally addicted and the rest is musical history. The rest of the band line up are: Bear (keys and vocals) grrr, nuff said, Kelly (drums) wild flailing furry of sticks and skins, Lehel Barabas (trumpet) maybe from Romania, maybe Moldavia no one knows, and Mark AKA Origin-ill (Hip Hop/Wordsmith, back up dancer, singer) motivation in motion. To say this is a multi genre band would be an gross understatement. I’ve seen other bands try to do multi-genre and it just ended up sounded like a musical garage sale. These guys blend their different musical styles together seamlessly into an unbelievable genre all their own. They do strange rock, reggae pop, funk hop, swing bop, and a soulful love ballad or two just to keep ya guessing. All original lyrics take you on a trip of social commentary that makes watching TV pointless, they don’t just sing about what’s happening in the world they are what’s happening in the world! As a matter of fact these guys should BE the news. No more smiling plastic Barbie dolls telling us about the plane crash with a gleam in their eye! No more guys with trap door comb overs trying to look sincere while cash in on some political farce. That’s right I said it! We need Strange Arrangement TV, you heard me Larry King, Oprah, and yes even you Jerry Springer you’re all going down, man. These guys are poet warriors in the classic sense! You ever hear some droning anchorman with a toupee that couldn’t look any faker with a chin strap, say something deep like “my father has a TV, the closest thing I had to a friend was a CDâ€. That’s to the point, out front commentary…and then it hit me, crystal clear, like a diamond bullet between the eyes… 4 words I thought I would never say, “Bum Wire is rightâ€. When I was asking him all those questions before he knew exactly what he was saying: Strange Arrangement IS the answer for everything…WOW…I get it now: It’s Strange but beautifully Arranged. I began to ‘strange shuffle’ again but this time…I meant it.Copyright STB Magazine LLC 2009ANTHONY’S FEELING FUNNY & EATING GOOD!It was not a fit night out for man nor beast, but I was on a mission, a mission for fun, frivolity and most of all FOOD (as usual I was starving). It had been a horrid few weeks and now things were finally turning around, so celebrating was not only in order, it was required! So what if gales force winds were threatening to topple my vehicle at every turn? So what if several bolts of lightening had almost hit my truck in just a few minutes? And so what if torrential downpours had all but cut off my vision entirely? We would not be thwarted by a little weather. Not even ‘get the canoe’ weather, not even ‘oh s**t call FEMA’ weather! We had reservations for Anthony’s Comedy Night! So we soldiered on down Del Prado at about 3 miles an hour looking for Anthony’s hoping that we didn’t encounter any livestock being blown by. When we got there, I let my wife out at the door and went to park. Partially because I’m a gentleman, partially because she scares me a little. Well, ok, a lot! She’s tiny but she’s wily and scrappy too, and well to put it bluntly she’s a biter! There I said it; I’m married to a biter! So needless to say chivalry is a small price to pay. But I digress; finding a parking spot proved a chore, in spite of the weather the place was still packed! After braving the deluge when I stepped inside the door I was drenched, dripping and disheveled. I squished and sloshed my way to the table ordering coffee and a towel on the way. After a quick round of sympathies from my wife and other guests at our table my hunger won out over my wetness and I began to order. I ordered like this would be my last meal. I started off with Buffalo shrimp, mozz moons, crab ragoons, wings, wings and more wings. After mowing through the appetizers came the Penne ala Vodka, then Shrimp Scampi, and Anthony's Shish Kabob. Someone else had Mussels Provencal and I helped them with that. My wife had Chicken Marsala that I finished for her. I even had a couple Baked Stuffed Shrimp that might have come from another table, I was in a frenzy, and it’s hard to sort out all the details. All I’m sure of is that each thing I ate was better than the last. When I finally came up for air I was so full I couldn’t speak, I just leaned back and smiled a smile only the truly gluttonous know. It was a smile of satisfaction that comes from devouring decadent amounts of excellent food. I remember thinking something about sitting in a puddle and needing to dry off just before I slipped into a food induced coma. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to Sam Kennison doing a set. I remember thinking “oh no, I finally ate myself to death!†But before I could get too freaked out the MC came back up and referred to him as the Ghost of Sam Kennison. I looked over at my wife and said “I not dead†she just smiled and said “I know honey, watch the show.†Shortly the headliner took the stage “The Barbarian of Comedy Mike McCarthy†I had seen this guy on Showtime and a few comedy specials but he slayed me in person. I was laughing so hard I was snorting. And what made it worse was, my underwear were still so wet that when I laughed it squished little rooster tails out over the back of my pants. Which made me laugh even harder, which squished more water out, it was like a slip and slide “wet summer fun for everyone.†So there I am a snorting, squishing mess so full I can barley breath laughing so hard I cant even hardly make a sound. All on a rainy Thursday night in Cape Town, I ask ya who knew? Anthony you’re the best!Copyright STB Magazine LLC 2009
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