I'm used to it now but still it's creepy. I can say that two years or so ago, when people finally started to realize that it was true, and asked me about it, I could hear the unease in their voices. Well, guess what...WE let it happen. If this doesn't bother you, then go back to checking your Faceboo...I mean "Meta" status, and have a nice day. If you're finally ready to admit something's up, and want to know the truth, it's out there for all to see. Time's a-wastin'. Wake up.
Anyway, this is a story about the second thing I ever stole, and to be honest, I'm not including "trivial" stuff such as store signs, Steve Morse's fork and other "collectibles," which wouldn't warrant even a misdemeanor, but as far as stuff you could possibly get in trouble for, this was it.
When I was five I think, I stole a bag of those foil-covered chocolate coins from an historic family deli, run by people I grew up with in church no less. Hey, at least I went for the good stuff. Sadly I can guarantee that what would happen with way too many parents these days, is that firstly, they'd basically ignore the fact that their child committed a crime, no matter how young. Sure, they'd pay the fine or whatever, but they'd gloss-over that part.
They'd make excuses for the kid, call them "Misunderstood" or whatever, take them to the doc and have them diagnosed with whatever the latest ADD-type malady is, only for kids, and prescribe the "appropriate" meds, at an early age, starting the long spiral of MEDICATION. The kid would grow up to think that shit's okay, and who knows what might happen in later life. If you play you gotta pay, and it's good to learn that early.
What my parents did was drive right back to the deli, march my little happy ass in and make me apologize to the family. I was too young to know what a douchebag was, but I felt like one. I was really sorry, and I felt so bad on the way home that I turned myself in. People will make any excuse when they get caught, but I knew it was wrong...I just wanted to know what it felt like.
I'm glad it happened when it did, and I'm glad my folks made me own-up to it. I didn't exactly turn to a life of crime. My friends may call me an asshole, but I doubt any of them would call me a thief. Okay, morality lesson over...on to the story.
Back when I played in the X-Cops, one place we played a lot was called the A-1 Cafe. It was a "medium" club...not a dive and not too posh, and it was in a medium part of town...not the safest but not the worst. It was a big place with a big stage, and we always had fun playing there. We played Wednesday through Saturday that week.
We had good crowds because we were a good band. The other local musicians, on their days off, would come to see us "Like ants to a picnic," as one local critic noted. Another really hot band, the Cast, would sit-in with us and vice-versa. We made a decent amount of money that week...or that is to say we should have.
At the time, the owner was a little arrogant prick. He was short...about five-foot-nothing, and I'll just say that he was a narcissistic little Fairy, and leave it at that. Normally what happened of course was that the band got paid at the end of the night, but Dude came up with some reason he couldn't pay us right away. There are millions of horror stories about bands being ripped-off by club owners, but we weren't really worried. We'd played there before with no problems, and we'd be there the rest of the week anyway. That band was never about making money anyway. It was about playing music.
Thursday night he didn't pay us either. We were concerned, but again we let it slide. After he didn't pay us Friday night though, we may have gotten a bit agitated, but we figured he'd make good on Saturday night. We played a kickass show Saturday night. We loaded-out, and then went into Dude's office. It was time to settle things.
He started out with some sob story about why he couldn't pay us, and we were incredulous. Again, we weren't about making money, and we discussed that first thing on Day 1 when we started the band, but not only had we made Dude a lot of money, it had cost us money to do the gig- fuel, food, sticks and strings and such, plus bar tabs, which we'd paid and generously tipped on. We were down a buck each at least, and here was this fuck telling us he couldn't pay us a penny for playing at his club all week.
I had some drinks that night, so some of the details are a little fuzzy, but I clearly remember standing in his office. By default or whatever I was speaking for the band. He was being an arrogant little fuck at first, and it pissed us off. It flashed through my head that legally there wasn't much we could do, short of hiring a lawyer and going to small claims court, which of course wasn't worth it, so the only thing we could do was to try to shake him down, or at least get a legit reason why he couldn't pay us.
After telling a bunch of bullshit stories and me shooting them down, he finally came clean. He said that he was a coke-dealer, which we knew, and that he owed money to someone, and that they "hurt people" if they didn't pay their bills. I reminded him that that wasn't our problem, although we paid for it. Luckily for him we weren't violent, but we were pissed. Finally he came up with another option...he offered us some coke. He opened a file cabinet to reveal a big bag of blow...I'd guess 4 or 5 ounces at least.
I hate to say, but two of us would've taken that deal probably, and from a dollar-value standpoint it would've worked out equally, but I hated that shit, and Doug did too, so they wisely stood with us. I told him to go fuck himself. I was mad. I hadn't ever been around that much blow, and I was ready to get out of there, but I wasn't quite through dealing with the little weasel. He also told us that he'd used the money we'd made that week to pay bands from previous weeks, whom he'd pulled the same shit on.
It was like a pyramid scheme, and we were on the bottom, and never saw a penny. If there's one good thing that could be said about the little fuck, it's that he at least paid some of the bands some of the money he owed them, but it was only to try to save his reputation, and still be able to book bands. If a club owner can't pay the bands, word gets around very quickly. We were getting sick of his bullshit, and it was obvious we weren't going to see any money.
I was nervous being around that much Dummy Dust, and we'd hit a dead-end. He was being a little asshole, because that's really all he had left to do. Finally I said "So your final answer is that you can't pay us, correct?" "That's right" he said. Then I did something that was very much out of character for me, but seemed appropriate at the time. "Okay, man" I said. "Then I'm afraid I'm going to take your gumball machine."
For the record, I'm old-school, but I still like to see at least a touch of hair down there, as opposed to totally-shaved, and I prefer the look of...say, a botanical garden, rather than an overgrown shrub in front of a haunted house or whatever, but to each their own.
Seeing any hair at all down yonder took me back to the days before the vast majority of women started shaving, and trying to look prepubescent. This sister's lettin' it all hang out. It reminded me of a genre of jokes that has gone the way of the dinosaur,,,referring to the female part that once had a little hair growing on it.
Jokes about "Fur Pie" and my favorite, "Bearded Clam" and the like no longer apply. No one would know what you were talking about. "Bearded Clam" was once a perfect, if crude, description. This is obviously not a vintage photo, so apparently she's one of those "natural" women. I mean...it's not a deal-breaker at all, and as long as I'm being crude, I doubt I'd kick her out of bed for eating crackers. That joke's almost extinct too.
I guess if it were back in the day, before everybody shaved, and I had to make a joke about this photo, I'd say that there are two kinds of clams in the ocean. Ha-ha, right? That would be the regular clam (Clammus vulgaris), and the Bearded Clam (Clammus vulvaris). It's not funny any more though. Drag.
It hit me right away, but I rewound the vid just to make sure I heard it right. "On a nap." That's classic. Obviously it means "fooling around," or as we sometimes say here, "Getting some 'strange,'" but it's so elegant and almost charming, and 100% British. Those mad Brits...they're amusing. Got me good, mate.
From what I've seen and heard, AI speech has greatly improved, from the robotic voice of Stephen Hawking and Speak and Spell, to almost human-sounding. Where it still lacks is vocal inflection- it thinks certain words and syllables should be accented (rasied in pitch) where they shouldn't be, but other than that you'd think it was a real person. Not quite yet, AI.
There's still some mistakes when it tries to translate speech to text, for Closed Captioning, and some of them are hilarious. I suggest watching a few YouTube videos with CC on, and see what AI thinks they're saying. It's really funny. Like text-to-speech, it's still getting better. Sometimes I think that AI has a sense of humor, but so far, until the Singularity that is, it seems to be accidental. Still it's funny.
One of the latest (and unsolicited) "perks" from AI is that my photos are being automatically tagged. I'd just as soon AI kept its virtual paws out of my personal shit, but we saw this coming for years and did nothing, so here we are. Without me asking, AI went and organized my photos into different files, and I noticed that it had created a new one titled "Happy Days." I doubt I'd make a file by that name, but whatever.
The image that AI chose to highlight the folder was a titillating portion of a photo of an attractive young woman. As you can probably tell, in the lower, unseen portion of the photo, her breasts are exposed. I'm not big into porn, but I do love the female form. I'm a "breast man," and I've collected about half a dozen photos of women with what I consider to be amazing breasts. AI decided to put this fine sister, with her shirt unbuttoned, into the Happy Days file. Good one, AI.
So why did AI do that? Does AI know enough to know that I love tits? I shouldn't be surprised. Or was it just random...a coincidence that happened to be hilarious? Sure, AI knows that I've looked at photos of naked women, but if it knows that I specifically love tits...well, I'll be danged. Guilty as charged, though. Accidental or not, AI gave me a good laugh. If it was on purpose, how did it know? Elephino. Happy Days to you.
These are images from a video where a doctor, one Dr. Lisa to be exact, is reacting to questions about the Bug, and the thing most people are rolling up their sleeves to get. This is textbook bullshit "debunking."
One weekend we played in Florida, in Panama City I think. Playing at the beach was every band's dream. You got to play music, hang at the beach with your friends, eat a fried Captain's Platter, drink stupid amounts of beer, possibly meet some talent, and whatever else you did at the beach. And oh yeah...you also got paid to do it.
The Kappa Sigs (our favorite frat to play for all over the place) had rented the same motel for like two decades, and since we were their main guys they got us for the weekend. I remember that the gigs were really fun and went great. Even with all the temptations I never touched a drop of alcohol before or on the gig, but the extra energy from the ocean or whatever, plus the Kappa Sigs and just being in Florida gave the night an extra kick. But it was what happened after the gig that was funny.
The only drag was that it rained for two days straight, which is unusual for Florida. Many days in the Summer it'll open up a gullywasher in the afternoon, but an hour later the Sun comes out and dries everything off and it's back to normal. It rained Friday and Saturday without a break. It was a drag.
Usually HUAWS (Hurry-up-and-Wait Syndrome), where you're all sitting around waiting to play the gig, and have to entertain yourselves so you don't resort to alcohol or drugs to ease the boredom and take the edge off, isn't a problem in Florida, with the beach and all, but we were sitting there looking at the ocean through a blurry window and steady rain. We couldn't even go play Goofy Golf. We did go to a kickass video arcade, and the Gulfarium, which was a blast actually, but that was about it.
I love the beach in the daytime, and a little more even at night, and to not be able to go either time was bad. About every third room at the motel was a party. The Kappa Sigs were bored too, but they'd have partied rain or shine. We hung out with them some but I couldn't really party with them even though they tried to get us to, but puffage...there was a good bit of that. Status quo. "Smoke the big one" as we used to say.
Sunday morning was a different story. We woke up early to a bright sunny day. We all got together for breakfast and to Count du Monet or whatever, and to say Adios until next week. We were so busy during the year that we literally had to make ourselves take a week off July 4th and Christmas, although if someone offered us stupidly-good money do do a Christmas party or whatever we could usually be bought.
That was our week off, and we were all going separate ways after the gig, so instead of all riding together back to town in the van like normal, we took several vehicles (pronounced "Vee-HICK-els" around here). O' and Mrs. O' were staying in Fla for a few days, Greg was off to somewhere cooler out West or up North I think and Doug, Matt and I rode back to town in the van.
After we said our goodbyes, Matt thought we were going to head right back home, but Doug and I had other plans, since the Sun had finally come out. We were the beach-bums of the group and there was no way we weren't going to hit the beach for a while. There's no damn way I'd go to Florida and sit through 48 hours of rain and then pass-up the prettiest day you could ask for. Even the smell of salt-air, that starts maybe 25 miles short of the ocean, when you're driving from here to the beach, was drowned-out by the rain, and I had to get a snootful of it.
I had to look out over the horizon and contemplate the meaning of life. I had to see some seashells in their natural habitat, swim in the ocean, watch out for jellyfish and Jaws, and see some bikinis. Plus we hadn't gotten a wisp of color and we'd been at the beach all weekend. When people go to the beach they usually like to have a little color to show for it. Not so Matt. He was fair-skinned and he hated the Sun. Well...maybe not personally, but he hated getting sunburned, which for him took about five minutes.
He threw a bit of a hissy but he was outvoted. We only planned to stay two or maybe three hours tops, but at first even three minutes was too much for him. Fortunately the Kappa Sigs were still going strong and they'd set up a huge tent on the beach. I was glad he could have a place to hang out for a while while we hit the sand. They had an open bar, and his eyes lit-up when he saw it. Doug and I chose bottled water and Matt selected a strawberry daiquiri, in one of those big red frat-boy cups, that was at least a double. We knew he'd be safe and somewhat content, so we headed off down the beach.
We walked at least a mile in one direction, when we started to wonder if Matt was okay. We figured he was but we decided to go back and check on him and then go in the other direction. We were gone about an hour, and when we got back to the tent, we needn't have worried. He was doing just fine, and then some. He was on his third double or triple daquiri, and grinning from ear-to-ear. I can still picture his face.
He'd gone back and gotten his guitar and he was the life of the party. We had to laugh because the transformation over a short hour (with help from half a bottle of rum), from pissy, disgruntled percussionist to singer-songwriter hero was amazing. He was super-talented, and he could hold a crowd. It only added to the goodwill between Bud Greene and the Kappa Sigs, and for them it was a big thrill for the band to hang out with them, and hang he did. We ended up staying over twice as long as Doug and I had planned, which was fine.
To his absolute credit Matt finally got sober, as did I, but back then he was in his heyday. We all were, and don't get me wrong...I could get just as cooked as Matt, and more than once, but luckily I didn't take it to quite the same level. Years later it would lead to some serious physical problems, and he did the 12-step deal and quit. We were all really happy to hear that. That day however he was starting to get really loaded, although most people wouldn't have known.
He was playing and singing-up a storm, and not falling down, but we knew that look in his eyes, which were starting to get slightly-crossed already. The grin was still there. Everybody was having a blast, and it was really cool to see. The only thing that concerned us at all was that we knew he wasn't done with the daquiris yet, but we figured he could pass out in the van if needed.
We had a custom van that was about 2' longer than a regular cargo van. It was white, and the good ol' boys we bought it from had dubbed it the "Extra-Strength Tylenol." I still love that. It was perfect for four or five clowns to ride around in, and there was a comfortable sofa in the wayback for just such emergencies, and it even had glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, to lull you to sleep, or inspire a tune...or when Steph joined us on the road.
We went a couple of miles in the other direction and were gone close to two hours. When we got back they'd moved the party to the motel pool. Over half the people had left for home but there was still a good many there. They still had the placed booked for the night, so why not. Matt was blottoed. He was in another world, but still able to more-or-less function, and he was still entertaining the crowd even without his guitar, which he'd wisely put up.
Matt's humor was a bit...indescribable at times but he was a true and gifted comedian. He was so fucking funny on the road, and he'd have us laughing so hard, and completely unable to stop, at 3am or so in the morning, that we literally got banned from a couple of motels.
The Best Western in Oxford, MS once banned us for one year, to the day, but it turned out to be fantastic because we switched to the Holiday Inn, which was right off the town square where we played, and since it was a small town they'd heard of us ahead of time, and they didn't want us bothering the normal clientele, so they put us up in the penthouse suite that was normally reserved for corporate execs or whatever. It was all-glass and we had a 360-degree view of the town, and we could raise hell without bothering anyone. Not to mention, as baked as we'd get at the club, the short, 1.2-mile drive to the Best Western could've ended in disaster if we'd ever have gotten pulled-over.
Anyway it was incredible to see him piss-drunk yet still able to entertain a crowd just by rambling on about crazy shit. He was plenty weebly-wobbly and talking loudly and "slurredly" and could barely stand up, but he was maintaining. He could turn into a true clown at the drop of a hat. I'd have paid to see him do standup. The Kappa Sigs had gotten a bonus concert, and now they were getting a comedy routine, as only Matt could do it...when he was wasted like that. He was giving a running commentary about his thoughts on life, the weekend, how much he loved the Kappa Sigs and the "Kappa Siglettes," and just bullshit in general, and he was hilarious.
Matt was a happy-drunk, as we all were, for the most part. If you're in a band that travels, and drinks, that's huge. He was certainly happy-drunk that day. He was fried, and was being a bit colorful. He was sitting down and still holding court. By then he'd switched to beer, which I guess was a good thing. He probably should've had a sippy-cup but he had another big red frat-boy cup. As we watched it slowly started to tilt further and further. Finally he spilled a few sips directly onto his crotch, but he didn't notice.
He went on talking shit about something as the cup tilted even more. We watched as he poured beer on his balls at least two or three more times before he finally felt it. Of course we weren't going to say anything. We were laughing right along with everybody else, only a little harder. It was a classic "drunk" move. Finally he realized that his crotch was wet. He put his hand down there, which he did a lot anyway, like it was no big deal. He didn't care. In fact he stood up and made a big deal of patting his crotch with a confused look on his face, as if his goober was missing. It was too much.
Then he yelled "Where's my dick? I can't find my dick! MAAAAAANNNNN...THE KAPPA SIGMAS STOLE MY DICK, MAN!" We almost fell over laughing, and I'm laughing right now. Everybody died laughing. Matt stood there grinning, with his hand on his crotch. In the middle of laughing my ass off I noticed a guy in the crowd who didn't belong. He had his kid with him, and he was probably in second grade I'd say. He must have heard the laughter and come over from another motel. They'd booked every room. I realized to my great delight that he'd been filming Matt with his video camera, and he'd definitely gotten the dick part.
At that moment I could see the future...and I knew it'd be one of the most incredible Matt-moments to ever happen and that it'd go down in history. I was literally going to try to buy the tape straight out of his camera, or at least beg him to make me a copy and pay him whatever he wanted, but I looked away for maybe three seconds and when I looked back they'd disappeared. I looked for him for a while but it's like he vanished. That was a shame. It would've been like, Drinks at the beach...Free. Acoustic concert and standup routine...Free. Having a video of Matt yelling "MAAAAAANNNNN...THE KAPPA SIGMAS STOLE MY DICK, MAN!"...Priceless. Alas.
That was the hook of the story, but it's not over. Matt had just put on one of the greatest impromptu performances of his life, and it would've been hard to top, so after cutting-up for about six hours straight he finally took a break. A bunch of people had gathered in a room to smoke, so we accepted their invite to join them. We sat on the floor as bowl after bowl was passed around. The last thing Matt needed to do was smoke pot, but he did anyway.
He got oddly quiet for a minute, but not for very long, and he pretty much crossed a line that would make Ozzy proud. WE knew he wasn't serious, or at least we hoped not, and he still managed to surprise us, but certainly none of the other people knew him, except to know that he was shitfaced, and especially among the girls there were a few nervous glances, and understandably so.
He found a big can of Zippo lighter fluid. He picked it up and opened it. He stood up and looked around the room with an oddly-serious look on his face. Even we weren't sure what he was going to do. To our amazement he walked around the room, squirting lighter fluid everywhere, like he was going to set the room on fire. He didn't get it near any people, although there were some open flames and hotrocks, that were quickly extinguished, but he covered the curtains, walls, dressers and anywhere there wasn't anyone sitting. We knew he wasn't actually going to light it, and certainly wouldn't have let him had he truly blown a fuse, but some people were eyeing the door.
He calmly sat back down and started laughing again, and then to our further amazement he squirted lighter fluid into his beer...quite a bit to be exact. We thought he was kidding again but to our yet-further amazement he took a huge swig and swallowed it down. By the grace of God and for the good of his innards it didn't stay down very long, and all of the sudden his cheeks ballooned-out and he had to run into the bathroom to erf. Unfortunately someone had tied his shoelaces together, and he didn't quite make it. He was about two feet shy of the target.
The term "technicolor yawn" was never more appropriate. At first we thought he was throwing up blood, but we realized it was just the red food coloring in the daquari mix. I don't know who tied his shoelaces together but that's not what you do to people. He could've fallen and cracked his head open, easily. As it was he tripped a bit short of the toilet, and puked all over the floor. We managed to get him and the bathroom cleaned up and decided to bid farewell to the Kappa Sigs until next time. I'd say they got their money's worth out of that gig. We helped him into the van. He was plastered.
He got onto the sofa but he was still sitting up, and bless his heart he still had the same grin on his face that he'd been wearing since around noon. Doug and I sat there wondering what to do. Part of the plan before we'd even left town was to get a really good seafood meal at the nicest place we could find. We looked back at Matt and then each other. I'll never forget looking back and seeing Matt. He was sitting up on the sofa with his hands folded in his lap, like he was waiting for a business meeting or something, only he still had that grin on his face and he was fuck-all hammered.
The look on his face was cartoonish, and I was halfway expecting to see little birdies doing figure-eights above him and his eyes rolling around in his head, accompanied by rapid glissandos on a slide-whistle as a soundtrack. I looked at Doug, and in what is his favorite funny moment, definitely funny but also a little pitiful, I said "Man, we can't go anywhere nice." Visions of a beautiful seafood platter were turning into poofy-battered, gelatinous mystery fish on a Styrofoam plate, with sides that came out of a #10 can from dry storage. We were dejected, but then a miracle happened...Matt finally passed out.
We'd been driving around looking for a shitty place that served obliterated drunks, and the drive lulled him to sleep. Hallelujah. Captain's Platter here we come. Actually we decided to do a place that also had a buffet. As it was we'd be leaving after dark, when we figured we'd already be home. We weren't in any hurry but we didn't know how long Matt would be asleep, and we wanted to enjoy a nice quiet meal without having to keep an eye on him.
We found a really nice place we'd heard about. We pulled in, parked and got out as quietly as we could. So far so good...Matt was still snoozing. They had an older gentleman as the Maitre D. He was crisply-groomed and crisply-dressed in a tux, and he was a bit uppity for good measure, but that only made the story funnier. He greeted us at the door. "Two, sir?" "Yes please." "Very good. This way, gentlemen." He led us down a long hallway into the dining area. It was unusually-long but obviously walled-off a large kitchen. We were anxious to get a table.
He showed us to a table and asked it if would be satisfactory and we said it'd be lovely, but just as we were about to sit down we heard a commotion at the door. "Oh, SHIT!" I'm sure we both thought. It could only mean one thing...incredibly Matt had come-to again, and sure enough here he came, stumbling through the front door. He couldn't stand up under his own power so he was having to hold onto the wall for dear life and kind of push himself along. He had the same maniacal grin on his face, only now he looked a lot more like Jack Nicholson in the Shining, because of how he was moving. We couldn't see how he'd possibly come-to with all that alcohol in his system, but he did.
"Oh, dear," said Jeeves, "is he with you?" "Umm...sort of" I said. It was all I could think of to say. Poor Jeeves never said another word, but he showed us to a bigger table with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. I was a bit surprised that we didn't immediately get kicked-out, but I guess if they booted every drunk tourist that came in they'd have lost a third of their business, or maybe not. Jeeves had his hands full seating everyone, and little time for shitfaced percussionists, but he remained civil.
In less than half an hour, Matt had gone from totally smashed to out-cold to semi-awake. He was literally as drunk as a human could be, and still be conscious. We didn't try to sit down and then have to get Matt right back up, so we walked him over to the buffet. He had a maniacal grin on his face. His head was leaning slightly, and he wasn't exactly standing up straight. Instead of loading my plate like normal, I had to set the plate down, load it with one hand and hold onto Matt with the other. Hey, we were brothers, wasted or not.
The place was huge, and packed to the gills for Sunday dinner. There were easily 300 people or more, and Matt soon became the center of attention. Bless his heart he wasn't really being obnoxious, being semi-aware that this was a family crowd, and not our usual crowd of rowdy frat boys and girls and such, but it was clear that he was as fried as a Captain's Platter. We were leaning into him from either side, trying to keep him as vertical as possible. I figured there was a 50-50 chance that he'd take a tumble, and probably take out a few other diners with him, but by the grace of God he didn't.
He couldn't really focus completely on the food, so he was asking questions, and then making jokes about each dish. "That's Shrimp Scampi, Matt," and he'd say something like, "Yeah, that's what most women call my di...oops." Matt was a TRUE comedian. He couldn't help it, and he was soon in the spotlight again. He was laughing and loading his plate willy-nilly, and piled high. He ended up eating three huge plates, and we had to escort him to and from the buffet for each refill.
For me the crowning moment is still fresh in my mind. They had these huge, heavy glass sneeze-guards that were about ten feet long, hanging from long chains. He was trying to focus on something, and he leaned-in closer and closer, until gravity finally won. There was a loud BONG as his head made contact with the glass. Glass is very resonant and it was a beautiful sound. The sneeze-guard went swinging to and fro, and for ten feet on either side of the buffet, people moved out of the way in a wave. It was classic.
We made it through the rest of the meal, and Matt's three huge plates of mixed-seafood, without further incident. The meal was excellent. Being in the restaurant biz myself, I left Jeevesie and the staff a nice tip. I remember thinking right then that I really wanted the band to make it big for two reasons...to be able to buy one of those big sneeze-guards for our percussion arsenal, and to hire Jeeves as our road manager. That would've been awesome.
EPILOG: The story could be over there, but it wasn't just yet. We managed to load Matt into the "Extra-Strength Tylenol" van. He stumbled back to the sofa in the wayback, and we were sure he'd crash for the ride home, but it wasn't so. Incredibly he was sitting up, laughing and joking. We were enjoying it by then, being out of the public eye. Like most of us, Matt could tie one on, but he was really, really drunk.
We had to get fuel so we pulled into a combination gas station/KFC. Doug and I came back to the van to find Matt gone. Amazingly he came walking very carefully back to the van, a 12-pack in one hand and a five-piece chicken meal, complete with fixins, in the other. On top of God knows how many times the legal-limit he already was, he was ready to drink more...and eat more. That was Matt. By the time we crossed the state line he'd finished the chicken and half the beer. I get queasy thinking about the hangover he had to have had the next day.
The moral of the story is that I'd hate to have been his toilet the next morning. No, I'm kidding...there isn't a moral to this story. It's just a story...a Matt story, and it's just one of many. They broke a big-ass mold when they made Matt. He was an original, a true comedian, and a good friend. RIP old friend.
Interestingly, they say that in many cities, especially ones where the cops don't make an arrest without an actual victim, the Peds fear these guys more than the police. If they get popped by the cops, their friends and family find out, but it usually doesn't go too much further.
If these guys catch them, they're exposed to tens and hundreds of thousands of views on YouTube, Faceboo...I mean Meta, Twitter and wherever else they can blast it, and the whole town finds out. That's gotta suck. Even if they do get arrested, unless they have bad photos on their phones or something, they rarely serve much time. People still routinely serve more time for weed than for preying on our kids.
For instance, if I said that an ex was a vile, pathetic, demonic sack of shit...that she was a slut, a whore, a felony-level thief, a compulsive and really bad liar, a cheat, a godless bitch, a robot, a delusional moron and even an animal abuser (fucking piece of shit), she'd get off on the attention. That's how fucked-up narcissists are. And BTW, never once in my life have I used such language about a woman I dated. I never even called someone a bitch, not to her face that is, until I met my ex. I said it because it's true.
Actually, she might take a bit of offense to the "moron" part, and she was hypersensitive to being called stupid, but that's because she is. Maybe I should say "dumbass." Anyway, there you have it. If someone said things like that about me, I think I'd be wanting to get the fuck out of the spotlight, but not a narcissist. They eat it up and come back for more. "Can I have another?" How fucked-up do you have to be to actually enjoy horrible shit that's being said about you? You only have to be a narcissist. Beware!
Long story short, she was offered a gig as Prima Ballerina at the NY Ballet Company, no audition, at an age of two years younger than anyone else in their history. It was literally the opportunity of a lifetime for her, but incredibly she decided to stay here in town and remain with the Alabama Ballet, just to be with my sorry ass. Of course I couldn't let that happen, and so reluctantly, very reluctantly, I broke-up with her.
I knew she wouldn't take it well, and she didn't, but I hoped one day she'd understand. I told her why, but it still broke her heart. I felt like the biggest asshole who ever lived, plus I really loved her, but what could I do? I couldn't stand in the way of something like that, and thank God she went to NY.
