Fredericksburg Patch is Up!

Check out my patch.com articles:

Fishing the Frozen Rappahannock http://fredericksburg.patch.com/articles/fishing-the-frozen-rappahannock

Haircuts and Horses http://fredericksburg.patch.com/articles/haircuts-and-horses

Preface to Moon Madness

Before releasing a blog on Moon Madness I felt it necessary to explain my reason for writing. I left the Unification Church and Rev. Moon nearly 13-years-ago, shortly after my release from a Brazilian mental institution; and though I’ve maintained contact with a few church friends who periodically enlighten me as to church affairs, my interest in the organization has waned. And though I’ve moved on in life, stories from my past life have lingered like an ornery ghost in a haunted castle, and I had pretty much resolved to carry the unpolished gems to the grave. That was until I met the girl next door, Megan, a lovely lady who has become my lover, editor and muse. It was she who urged me to break out the pen and get busy. So I took her advice and began talking to some old church friends as well as sniffing around the internet. What I discovered is that not much in the church has changed: same problems, different players. Corruption, mass marriages, abuse, tong wars, takeovers, internecine warfare continue ad nauseam. Boring! Boring! Boring!

Frankly, digging up dirt on the church or bombing away on issues like brainwashing or world domination does not inspire. Besides, in my 27 years of traversing the Moon landscape I never came in contact with a brainwashed convert; stupid yes, crazy yes, delusional yes, greedy yes, but brainwashed? I don’t think so. And the idea of a grand Messianic conspiracy is even more laughable; for neither the Reverend, nor his lackey lieutenants, possesses the wherewithal to conceive, let alone pull off, such machinations.

No, Rev. Moon, like most self-proclaimed Messiahs, is a pompous, self serving, megalomaniac who uses charisma and fear to fuel his dwindling, yet lucrative, empire. But like houses built on sand, the empire has been gradually eroding for years, and will soon be just another footnote religious history. At 90, Rev. Moon, exhausted and consumed with his own funeral (Messiahs must have glorious exits), is now passing the faulty structure to his kids (he has 13 legitimate ones), who appear to have inherited his unquenchable thirst for power. I suppose the smell of Kimchee never strays too far from the soup pot.

So if you’re thirsty for startling revelations on Moon’s crumbling castle, best find another watering hole (there’s always Google). The Unification Church has been slowly slipping into a pauper’s grave for years, and I have no interest in hurling the last handful of dirt.

After all, who knows, had I not joined the church I might have died of a drug overdose; or, worse, been elected to congress. Ergo, I do believe that penning these zany tales will hopefully provide closure for me and possibly offer a few rays of light—and giggles—for the reader. When appropriate, of course, I will hurl in morsels of commentary; however, most of the madness stands on its own.

As I advance in years, my brain cells have atrophied; hence some pertinent, or, in many cases, impertinent, facts have floated into the stratosphere, nary to be heard from again. So if a reader finds fault, please inform me through email—or mental telepathy—and I shall do my best to offer corrections. Interestingly, after posting the Moon Madness advertisement one church friend emailed and suggested I rename the blog Marc Madness. This shall be taken under serious consideration. Another member thought I should go easy on the Americans, since they are the perceived victims—the good guys if you will. Years ago I would have agreed, but after much rumination I find it inaccurate to fulminate against the Koreans and Japanese, while giving a free pass to the honkies; for I no longer perceive the church in terms of black and white, good and evil, good guys and bad guys; what I do see, however, is a dumpster filled to the brim with dumb and dumber.

And how dumb was I? I threw a big wager on Moon; he looked good out of the gate, started to fade a bit at the half mile pole, and like a horse running on three legs faltered badly in the stretch. It cost me dearly, 27 years of my life, but it was me who placed the bet. Such is life. Win a few, lose a few. Anyway, I’m just happy I finally saw the light, jumped from the sinking ship (into frigid waters I might add) and swam away with half of my brain still in tact. Enjoy!

The Final Days

I am sitting with several buddies at my girlfriend’s house smoking some weed when suddenly a stranger strolls in unannounced. “Hey, what’s happening? I hear there a party going on,” said the man. “Anybody want to get high? I got some good shit.” His long, wispy mane is pulled to a ponytail and his thin goatee and haunting eyes give him an evil texture. With both hands he gingerly cups a small sandwich bag full of glistening, white powder; and as if he’s on a mission, he walks straight to me and dangles the bag in front of my nose. “Have some kid, it’s some great PCP.” Normally, I wouldn’t indulge, (pot and LSD are my drugs of choice) but I’m feeling depressed and could use a stronger kick; so I shove my nose in the bag and inhale deeply. The effect is immediate. My head nearly explodes, the room quadruples in size, faces distort, paranoia seizes me, and suddenly everything goes black. I’ve left my body but I can still hear faint voices, muffled and distorted whispers from afar.

Visuals are a problem; it feels like huge barbells are sitting on my eyelids. When I finally do pry them open I find myself firmly strapped to a large, wooden electric chair situated in the center of a dank basement. The smell of water damage is all pervasive, and muted light emanates from a small window that’s covered with a tattered cloth curtain. Besides the steady drip of water, the only other sound is that of heavy breathing. It sounds very near but my eyes are still blurred, and I catch no movement. Seconds, maybe minutes, later my eyes clear. Directly, no more than ten feet away, stands a dark, shadowy figure leaning against the wall. A coal black hood fits loosely over his head, and I immediately recognize him: He’s my executioner. Small portholes in his hood expose yellow, rotting teeth, a huge angular nose and lifeless, blue eyes. He utters nary a word, but his icy stare speaks volumes. The stench of death hovers about him like thick fog. He clings tenaciously to a silver handle protruding from the wall—the switch. I scream out, “Please don’t kill me.” No response.

The steady drip, drip, drip of the tiny falling droplets echoes off the walls—once a small voice, it has grown into a thundering roar. DRIP, DRIP, DRIP. Fear consumes me!

Suddenly, with a one swift motion, the executioner yanks the lever down, freeing the electricity. So strong was the initial jolt, I’m slammed back into the chair; then comes the burning and charring and unbearable pain. I grope for air. I desperately claw at the chair handles.

This ineffable terror continues for several minutes, and finally I cry out in desperation, “Please God just get this over with, kill me.” At that moment a tiny twinkling light appears near the window, like Tinker Bell but not in a human form. Surely this is a sign of hope, I think. But I’m growing weak, and I can feel myself slipping into death’s abyss. “Oh my god,” I utter in a feeble voice. Then a curious thing happens. The light nearly doubles in size and the electric current diminishes a tad. Encouraged, I repeat: “Oh my god,” this time with a little more zeal. The brilliant light now expands to size of a softball, and the electric shock lessons considerably. Ah, ha, I think, this is my ticket to freedom. So I close my eyes, garner all my strength, and scream, “Oh My God.”

When I open my eyes the vision has passed. I’m lying on a small bed, swimming in a pool of sweat and piss. A handful of friends who are holding me down now slowly release their death grips. Abject terror is painted on their faces. “Are you ok?” asks one buddy.

I can’t speak. I slowly rise to my feet and stagger out the front door. It would be my final drug induced gathering with my high school friends as three days later I would be swept into the land of milk and honey—Moonville.

Horse or God?

Being an avid fan of horse racing for most of my life, I’ve had the privilege to watch, and bet on, some of horseracing’s giants: Secretariat, Affirmed, Seattle Slew and Cigar come to mind. Yet in all those years I’ve never seen the likes of the sport’s brightest new star, Zenyatta. Just the mention of her name sends my heart a fluttering. Her record speaks for itself: nineteen races and nineteen victories, nary a blemish, she’s demolished on all those she’s faced, both male and female. And now for the grand finale, the ne plus ultra, she will be putting her unblemished streak on the line against a tough group of males in the Breeders Cup Classic at Church Hill Downs on Saturday. If Zenyatta wins she will be the only thoroughbred in history to notch 20 straight wins. Does it get any better? I’m salivating! Every night I thank the Almighty for the privilege of being alive during this unprecedented moment in history.

Yet why such a dearth of publicity? Why the silence of the pen? Don’t the scribes realize Zenyatta is the kind of equine force that could single-handedly resurrect the sport of kings to its previous days of glory? But the pundits, those nasty cynics, like a swarm of angry bees, are determined to slight the mighty mare. They say she’s a pampered, spoiled queen who has spent too many hours soaking up rays on the California coast. They whine about her facing inferior competition. Some have even inferred she may not be the greatest racehorse ever. I say Bah Humbug to all the naysayers. Wake up! Get a life! Have they not witnessed her superiority? Her splendor? Have they not seen her make her one big move, accelerating like a locomotive, swooping past the competition and flashing past the finish line with a blur. All one can say is Zenyatta, Zenyatta, Zenyatta!

So why bury the accolades? Feed the starving masses. We need more information on this goddess. Thank heavens for the Daily Racing Form, for it was they who offered up a few precious gems: In the afternoons, Zenyatta is walked both in the shed row and in an outdoor walking ring that encircles a patch of grass about the size of a tennis court. That grass is an afternoon snack for Zenyatta.

Zenyatta’s trainer John Shirreffs added, “She’ll graze and walk down to the other end and graze and then drag you down to the other end again.”

Now this is truly amazing stuff; but I crave more. I’m like a voracious vampire in search of more blood. Feed me! Sure I’m delighted to know she encircles a patch of grass the size of a tennis court, but Zenyatta fans scream for more. For example, what about her sleeping patterns? What time does she go to bed? Does she get a snack before nighty night? Does she get cold in the evenings and require a blanket? Does she experience nightmares prior to race day? Does she wake in the middle of the night craving ice cream? How yellow is her pee? And, most importantly, who runs for her latte in the morning?

Possibly I'm obsessed, but we’re not discussing a two bit nag entering the glue factory; we’re talking about God’s gift to horse racing, Zenyatta! Perhaps only 60 Minutes said it best: thoroughbreds are supposed to be high strung and hot blooded, but there's something Zen about Zenyatta. She loves kids and welcomes strangers, particularly when they come bearing gifts.

When she hits the track though, there is a personality change you can barely believe. She becomes obsessed, it seems, with showing the boys that she is faster and tougher than any one of them. She drives people into fits of frenzy.

Unbelievable! You’ve got to love it, there’s something Zen in Zenyatta. Wow! Heavy stuff indeed! Maybe a Zen Master visits her stall regularly for some transcendental meditation sessions. Who know, she might even be doing a little yoga on the side. Why, hell, she could be the Second Coming of Christ. And the fact she loves kids, welcomes strangers, and drives people into fits of frenzy figures right into the Messianic mode. Yes, there’s an ineffable aura surrounding the horse, and somehow I just don’t think the media gets it. Perhaps, though, only TVG came close when on their 243 airing of Zenyatta’s last workout, one commentator lamented the fact that this would be Zenyatta’s final workout: “This is so sad, it nearly brings tear to my eyes,” said a guy they call Wolfy. No truer words were ever spoken. Possibly only the death of President Kennedy evoked such emotion in me.

Alas, these days folks are desperate for a hero, a prodigious personality—horse, human or dog—who can deliver them from their daily drudge. And I’m convinced Zenyatta is the one. Hence, I can’t wait for the Breeders Cup Finale, when, for the last time, Zenyatta calmly loads into the starting gate, glares at the male gladiators, and proceeds to run the pedestrian imposters into the ground. Yes, I will be there, sporting my Zenyatta tee-shirt, my Zenyatta ball cap and my Zenyatta boxer shorts; and when the great mare circles the field and blows them all away, I’ll will raise my Zenyatta beer mug and scream: “Zenyatta, Zenyatta, Zenyatta!

Drunken Poker

They say rules are meant to be broken. Well, maybe. But in my case, especially when playing video poker (or any other kind of poker), I should stick to my number one commandment: thou shall not play cash games while under the influence. Never!

The last time I violated this sacred commandment—several months back—I succeeded in pissing away my entire bankroll in a single session.

Tonight will be different. It’s a lazy Friday, and I’ve consumed only one vodka martini (dirty of course). I’m not inebriated, though a bit buzzed; so I say to myself, “a few hands of no limit poker in a cheap cash game can’t hurt.”

So I break out the computer and head to Poker Stars for a little action. The first few hours are exhilarating; I play like killer whale, gobbling every fish at the table. Every major pot is mine. My head swells to the size of a large helium balloon. In fact, so utterly delightful are my reads and timing that thoughts of grandeur rush to my alcohol-infused brain. You know the kind.

You and Doyle Brunson heads up at the final table of the World Series of Poker--hand-to-hand combat. For days you’ve played brilliant poker and are now in a position to join the immortals. Your diamond flush draws against Doyle’s trip aces. Beads of sweat, like tiny little rivers, pour down your face. You can barely stand, and your knees feel like mush.

Finally the great moment arrives. The machine-like dealer slowly pats the table and turns the final card. It’s a diamond, and you‘ve hit the flush! The fans roar their approval as you collapse face down on the table, groping a pile of hundred dollar bills piled as high as Mt. Everest. Doyle graciously pats you on the back and like a noble warrior utters, “you played great kid.”

That’s right, Doyle. Now like I was saying, I’m killin’ em,’ experiencing the card rush of a lifetime. I’m hotter than fresh tar on pavement. I’ve nearly double my bankroll. We’re not talking millions here. I play cash games at Poker Stars with 10 and 25 cent blinds, and my entire bankroll starting the session is a paltry $140. But I nearly double that in less than two hours. I figure I’ll celebrate with another martini, so I hit the “sit out next hand” button and reward myself. Maybe I drank it too fast as I realize a bit of a buzz is now become a great big buzz, and this voice in my head says, “get out while the gettins’ good.” Judicious advice, but do I listen? Hell no. I’m on a roll. I’ve been eating cheap poker burgers for months, and now the poker gods are feeding up fillet mignon.

However, being of conservative nature, I say to myself, “three more hands, and that’s it.” And wouldn’t you know it, the very first hand I find myself starring at is pocket rockets. That’s right, a pair of those seductively, sexy aces. A gorgeous—and scary—sight indeed. Because as any poker player will tell you, those seemly invincible twin towers, when misplayed, become fiery infernos without an escape route.

At this point I’m the chip leader with over $150. The second largest stack, a dude from Ontario, has $110, and the other four players were in the $10-$20 range. I’m the dealer, and the Canadian, in first position, comes in with a $1.00 raise. This is very good news, indeed. Actually I’m licking my chops. There is one taker, and rather than raise I decide to just smooth call, trying to set a trap. The flop came A (clubs)-5 (diamonds)-9 (hearts), finer than a gorgeous rainbow following a spring shower. Now I have trip (three) aces, and the chance for a straight or flush is fading. The Canuck checks, then the second position raise $2; once again I call, figuring my aces to be gold. The Canadian also calls. The next card dealt is a 5 (spades). More good news, since the possibility of a straight or flush ramming me broadside is history, and not only have I got a boat, a full house with aces over fives, and there’s a small school of unassuming minnows coming along.

The river (the final card dealt) produces an impotent 2 (diamonds). Mr. Ontario, who until now had been swift in his betting routine, pauses, and pauses, and pauses. Normally, I would read this as trouble, surmising he was sitting on a monster hand and was trying to figure out how many pesos he could extract. But what did it matter? I had the nuts (in poker jargon, an unbeatable hand) or so I thought. Then finally, with just two clicks remaining on the timer, he leads out with a hefty $5 bet. The other guy immediately folds; and then my greedy little mind revs into overdrive. My only thought is how much money I can suck from the crazy Canadian.

I figure at best he’s holding an ace with a five, giving him a full house with fives over aces, which still pales next to my Aces full of fives. So I re-raise to $10, praying for a call; but to my utter delight, he pushes the all in button. “This is too good to be true!” I scream out loud. There is only one hand that can beat me, and surely, not even God himself would allow such a fate. So, of course, I do what any rational poker player would do, I call his bet.

Sure enough, he’s sitting on pocket fives, meaning his four fives crush my full house. “Four fives!” I scream at the top of my lungs, “Impossible!” I lean over and beat my head on my laptop. My poor cat, who has been patiently sitting by my side, senses my abject disgust and bolts into hiding.

Now I’m not one to belabor bad poker beats, or even bad life beats; and I hate hearing idiots whine about bad luck. But this really hurt. So like a pinball machine that’s been hit by a sledgehammer my brain soars into tilt. Do I lick my wounds and quit? Hell no! Keep shufflin’ those cards. Four hours and six martinis later I find myself playing for the few remaining morsels in my beleaguered account. A couple of Great Whites figure me out, and I’m reduced to a bleeding minnow diving for cover. But there is no cover. I lose it all. Oh well.

I gave up poker that night - for good. But 2 days, 4 hours and 37 minutes later I shoved more money into my account. Oh well.

taken for a ride

“Life’s a rollercoaster ride, lots of ups and downs, and then it’s over”—Marc Lee

I have never been a fan of theme parks. Droolers, long lines, cheap thrills and extreme gouges all paint a morbid picture. Oh, yes, did I mention looooonnnnnnngggggggg liiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnneeeeeeeesssssssss?

In the good old days, say twenty years ago, I obliged my kids once a year with a sojourn to King’s Dominion. Back then the game plan was simple: sneak in a flask of Jack, partake in a few obligatory rides, buy a large coke, turn the kids over to my wife; then plop down at an outdoor table, sip my spiked drink, smoke a good cigar and check out the scenery. Perfect!

But, tragically, times changed. Security is now tighter than a mosquito’s ass, and even sneaking in a mini could prove problematic. Damn those terrorists!

Anyway, my new girlfriend, Megan (a mere 34 years my junior), loves theme parks; and months ago mentioned her mother had given her two passes to King’s Dominion. “That’s groovy babe, we’ll have to go sometimes,” said I, praying the topic would fade like a fart in the wind. No such luck. The stench lingered. I intimated, diplomatically of course, that King’s Dominion was not my forte; but I’ve come to learn the hard way what Megan wants, Megan gets.

So last Friday, prey tell, began the Halloween Haunt—Howl-O-Fest night at King’s Dominion. I forgot to mention that in addition to her theme park addiction (she’s currently in therapy to treat the disorder), Halloween also happens to be her favorite holiday. Good grief, double jeopardy!

So when she mentioned the spook fest and described the weather forecast as perfect, mid-seventies and no humidity, I knew I was doomed. Anyway, the date was set in stone. We would be accompanied by one of her best friends, Michael, and his younger brother Devin, both lovers of theme parks and Halloween.

Before leaving, Megan sensed bit of anxiety in my demeanor and hurled a blood curdling caveat: “If you’re going to whine, just stay home.” I assured her I would not whine, and being an upstanding gentleman and a man of honor, I promised to avoid anything, word or deed, which could even be construed as negative. Total bullshit, of course. But I knew if I didn’t keep my zesty, razor-sharp tongue in tow, it could be next Halloween before she’d reopen the stairway to heaven. A spooky thought indeed!

She was correct concerning the weather: a gorgeous, clear and cool day awaited. We picked up Michael and Devin and arrived at the King’s Dominion around 4 pm. The half-full parking lot offered hope. Perhaps the masses had stayed home. After all, times are tough.

The plan was to start slow and then gradually pick it up. Our first ride was the kiddie rollercoaster. Short line, short thrill. Then it was on to the Backlot Stunt Coaster, where according to the literature, you become a “Hollywood stunt driver behind the wheel of your own tricked-out stunt car.” Whoopee! It took 27 minutes in line for 1 minute thrill. A step forward indeed, but to regurgitate a Jim Carrey line from Liar Liar: “I’ve had better.”

The next ride, The Crypt, piqued my interest. It is described “an adventure filled with fire water and a few flips.” Michael said he would pass, mentioning something about “equilibrium” problems. Devin followed suit. So Megan and I, the fearless rollercoaster warriors we are, jumped in line. A mere 17 minutes later we sat staring ahead, locked and loaded.

Once everyone was tucked in, the massive, mechanical device rose slowly. Impending doom took hold. A brief hesitation at the top left just enough time for me to ask myself: “What the fuck am I doing up here?” But it was too late. A rapid decent flipped us head over heals flailing through steam, flames and water geysers. Thank god for an empty stomach! It was great! There was only one problem, however; to keep you legs sufficiently separated the seats are designed with a hump in the middle; so every flip created a painful ball bashing. Ouchy!

But, hey, suck it up! We’re on a fucking mission, and the Baby Jesus is watching!

So it was on to the much-hyped Volcano, billed as the “only coaster in the world to shoot you straight out of a raging volcano.” Oh boy, I thought, the ride of the day! I figured who in their right mind would stand in hour-long line for a sucky ride? But I soon discovered the length of the line doesn’t necessarily translate into the quality of the ride. Anyway, we shot out of the mountain at an incredible speed, but before I’d blinked twice the 40 second ride ended. Lame! They should rename the ride Premature Ejaculation.

We’d had enough. Nearly three hours had elapsed and Megan and I were famished. We hit a concession stand and ordered fries with cheese and a small drink. Price: $13.50. You heard it correct fans: thirteen fucking dollars and fifty fucking cents. GOUGE CITY!!! Oh how they stick it up your ass! Anyway, the fries rocked, and both of us felt somewhat revitalized.

The evening gave way to goblins, witches, vampires, smoke, a sorry version of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue and hordes of park goers that Michael aptly described as the “Walmart” crowd. So it was on to the haunted houses. Megan and friends were pros, but I’d never done haunted houses with live spooks. The first stop, Medieval Macabre, was dark, cavernous and creepy—every twist and turn was greeted by a monster screaming in your face. Megan clung desperately! I couldn’t breathe. But by and by the shtick grew tiresome. It was too rapid fire. I emerged with a headache. The Slaughter House, however, proved a step up in class. Improved lighting accentuated the blood and gore, and longer intervals between terror taunts heightened anticipation. Moreover, a chorus of blood curdling screams from our predominately female contingent added flavor.

Camp Killauee, our last stop, proved a disaster. The line was scariest thing I’d seen all day, and it wasn’t until an hour and fifteen minutes later that we finally entered the scare zone. “This better be good,” I mumbled to Megan. It wasn’t! Several paces into the camp we were greeted by a skinny, camp counselor with long, grey hair (a piss poor Beetlejuice imitation). Megan’s attempted conversation fell flat, as the dunderhead counselor proved very slow at the switch. Anyway, we plodded through the no thrills, no frills, camp which concluded with a chainsaw killer chasing us out. If only he’d hacked me to pieces—anything to put me out of my misery!

The camp killed all momentum, and it was getting late. It was time to go. Before leaving Megan and I treated ourselves to a funnel cake—a small, pizza-shaped, fried cake smothered in chocolate and powdered sugar. Yummy!

I slept most of the ride home assuming I would need lots of energy; for surely my good behavior would be rewarded in bed. Wishful thinking! After dropping off the boys and driving back to the house, Megan offered up hug and informed me she would be spending the night at home.

Oh well. As the great Sam Clemmons wrote: “No good deed will go unpunished.” And so it goes.

P.S. Actually, I had a pretty good time. I forgot to describe the ride where Megan sat in my lap and I nearly got a boner. Also, Michael kept us in stitches; he’s hilarious; and I can’t wait for his much heralded Halloween bash!

slackers slack no more at tru luv

Thursday nights at Tru Luv rocked. For me it was guy’s night out. Cheap martinis (dirty of course), a live retro band, and zany, enthusiastic partiers all contributed to the good times. And all of this took place in Freddytown. Unfuckingbelievable!

But, sadly, the good times have come to a screeching halt all because the regular Thursday night band, the Slackers, have officially called it quits. It’s a crying shame because the fledgling trio was just hitting stride; groupies lustfully lingered and recording contracts lay in wait. Yes, I am prone to exaggeration, but I actually liked the group.

Bummer, I say!

Formerly known as the Sautéed Onions, the acoustic trio consisted of Jarle Brors (guitar/vocals), Bongo G (percussion) and Tom Arbisi (guitar/vocals). Let me not overstate, the band wasn’t headed for arenas any time soon, but they had developed an original sound—a rarity in Fredericksburg, which is overridden with stale, polluted guitar/vocalist acts.

Regulars at Tru Luvs for nearly a year in one form or another, it was only recently that the band tightened and improved dramatically. Much of the forward progress could be attributed to the permanent addition of Bongo G (he only sat in before), a hilarious personality whose Latino roots resurrected many of the band’s stale covers. Often, and this was a real hit, the Bongo man passed out percussion instruments (tambourines, maracas, rattles, etc.) and encouraged fans to beat along. It was hilarious—and fun! Confidence, the infectious disease it is, soared. Booze flowed like water; thundering applause filled the room following each song; and, in short, Thursday nights were rapidly becoming a happening scene.

But like the song says, “…it’s all over now!” Last night I showed up for my Thursday night fix only to find Tom sitting alone droning out tired covers, mainly Beatles stuff. No Jarle, no Bongo G. Ugh! My first reaction was to make a rapid u-turn, head to the bathroom and vomit, then make a dash for the door before anyone recognized me. But I was dying for a dirty martini and some food, so I decided to hang for the first set.

It was brutal. I’ve heard better Karaoke. Tom is an average vocalist at best, but he needs serious accompaniment when he sings, which, frankly, is not always on pitch. He’s not much to look at either. He’s devoured way too many banana splits; his head alone must go a buck fifty and he sweats like a friggin’ pig. Not a pretty sight, fans.

Oh well, I devoured a delectable French Dip sandwich (the roast beef a perfect medium rare) and fries, and skedaddled. Adios amigos! My ears ached from both the music and some obnoxious, chatty woman who advised me not to write this article because “universal karma” was working itself out. Lame!!! I thought to myself I do hope “universal karma” works itself out and this bumble brain gets hit with a major bolt of lightening as soon as she steps out the door.

Just before leaving, two other musicians, an electric guitar player and a percussionist, entered stage left. I can only suppose Tom hired them. I listened to one song and left, for the music had deteriorated, and I was fearful the karma lady might pop out another doozy.

And what precipitated this untimely breakup? Money! According to sources Tom’s stubby fingers were coated with glue. As the self-proclaimed leader of the band, Tom handled the kitty. “Tom could be fairly generous with the food and drink, but the majority of the cash wound up in his wallet,” said a source close to the fracas. “It was far from being an even three way split.”

Wouldn’t you know it? Man’s age old nemesis once again reaches out and claims another hapless victim. I suppose it was just a matter of time because Tom and Jarle have feuded for years; and this dispute was just the straw that broke the camel’s dick. So it goes in the wild and wooly world of rock n’ roll!

But wait! There is good news! Sources say Jarle and Bongo G are rehearsing and will be playing Tru Luv October 8^th. Yay!!! Until then I’ll have to find a new venue for guy’s night out, or, perhaps, just stay home and drink with the cat; he loves booze (Bailey’s on the rocks) and holds down a pretty good conversation when he’s lit. If I could just teach him to suck my wee wee I’d never leave home.