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My ex-battle-axe had deposited on me two little boys to monitor for the evening; I was living next door to my friends Mike & Debbie Colacion, so naturally I took the kids to their place to see what was happening that Tuesday night.
Mike started showing me pictures of bald & angry teenagers he had taken back in 1981 – or so. I was engrossed staring @ the time capsules. Then all of a sudden Debbie shouted, “There it is again! – GET IT,” @ which point she ran & cornered a giant rat; picked it up by the tail & said, “You little rascal!”
I wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on, then Mike showed me a flyer for some event that was happening that night, I volunteered to look up the location of said gig, on my laptop, which of course I couldn’t get to work.
Finally we end up @ the event – kids in tow. I sit @ a table & a 7&7, magically, appears in front of me – like if I was Robert DeNiro. I take a pull on the drink & as I set the glass back on the table – guess who is sitting in front of me?
Al –fucking- Flipside! He looked good too, just as I remember him looking the last time I saw him, except his Julius Cesar crown of hair appeared to be a little darker – as if he’d recently died it.
“How the hell are you doing?”
“Oh I’m fine” – in his casual – nonchalant – monotone voice.
“Why don’t you ever step out?”
“Oh I feel silly seeing bands now that I don’t have a voice”
“FUCK – don’t worry about that, I’m always out; shit I even take pictures that no one will ever see”
“I know”
Then a buncha racket starts pouring out of the room adjacent to ours. We both gravitate to the noise - just like old times. Inside a relatively small room 30’ x 40’ w/ a 15’ high ceiling a bunch of spectators were pushed to the sides, the ornate chandelier that hung from the lid’s center was releasing a low foggy light as a group of Victorianesque couples – holding hands - entered the room. They were all done up in period garb – the men in white powdered wigs & tight white pants as the women were squeezed into dresses that exaggerated their hour glass physics – all I could do was stare @ the balloon smugglers.
Then, Al, dressed in his usual faded Levis & black t-shirt comes in from the same entrance carrying a massive cardboard back-drop. He then proceeds to unfold it; my eyes were still adjusting to the limited light in the room as I tried to make out exactly what the fuck was the image; it looked like some crazy Pettibon drawing.
Then outta nowhere a curtain parted & the Sex Pistols took the stage! It was the old dilapidated reunion version.
I hop onna conveniently & strategically placed scaffolding & start throwing chicken bones @ the band, they ignored my protests & played on, but the audience became annoyed & started throwing larger & more disgusting objects @ ME (which was perfect in timing as I was down to my last to my last chicken bone!)
Then the old men on stage break into a PiL song! That really got me worked up as my continual barrage of garbage was now coupled w/, “Booo Booo, you guys SUCK! Pack it up & take it home Grand-pa!”
The band, having heard my disapproval retreated from the stage – tails between their legs.
Next thing I know, I awake in a motel room that looked as though the Pigs had done a thorough search thru. Everything was upturned & the room was littered w/ kids toys – such as Legos, which reminded me about those two little assholes I was responsible for.
Whoops, my bad.
Immediately I went into a panic & started pacing the upturned room back & forth desperately trying to remember what the fuck happened last night.
I felt like a blind man trying to piece together a puzzle that was, cruelly enough, missing pieces. All of a sudden I caught myself jumping up & down onna bed – which w/ time turned into a giant blue trampoline – shouting, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”
After exhaustion set in I stopped & thought to myself – last night was simply too crazy:
Why would Al come outta his self imposed exile?
It musta been a dream, I reason!
Then I think to myself, I bet if I force myself to open my eyes, I will awake to another one of my crazy-ass nightmares. I, then, concentrate like a fucking Chess Master to open my – already – opened eyes.
Then: KABLAAM! I awake in the back of my van, thankfully, only reeking of piss & whisky.
Supreme Bean Coffee - Eugene Oregon –9/22/09 - 9:51 AM