Wednesday is happy fiction day...Enjoy!

No, that's not a typo...with the exception of the many fumbles, this Super Bowl sucked.

Any of the big football fans out there want to explain to my why there was no mud? It was fucking pouring out! Which leads me to my first gripe...

This is 2007...I would think that they would have the technology to wipe the rain drops from the camera lens...even if it is a guy with a paper towel. Half of the time it was like watching the game with a bad case of conjunctivitis...(look it up...)

Cirque du soleil...Prince? Is this really what the average football fan is into? If so, you guys are a bunch if fucking wussies! Yeah, part wimp, part pussy! Prince did rock on the guitar here and there, but the Aunt Jemima Do Rag??? Come on! Now, I realize that come Super Blow time that there are plenty of people watching who haven't watched another game all year and I'm assuming that the NFL is catering to these people. If I were a hard core NFL fan I'd be writing letters to the Commissioner today...you got ripped off!

My favorite part of the every Super Bowl is always the commercials...even they sucked! The best ones were from Sierra Mist, but they always have funny commercials so that wasn't anything new. I always look forward to the GoDaddy.com commercials, but they sucked...boring! And don't even get me started on the whole K-Fed commercial...all that hype for Zzzzzzzzz! If you flip burgers or fry fries for a living and you were offended by that commercial, then you clearly have other issues.

And the food! The snacks sucked this year...Oh, wait...that was my fault!

This just helps to cement my reasoning as to why I can't get back to that warm cozy feeling I once shared with the NFL...Did Janet Jackson really hurt you guys that much? Loosen your bra straps and let's put some thought into the Super Bowl for next year!

I'll be back tomorrow with the 3rd and final part of the Road Trip series...

Good Day to You, Sir!

I said, Good Day!

Soooooooooo...when we last left our heroes they were on their way to a show and getting their jollies asking passing motorists to flash their boobs.



When we pulled into the parking lot of the bar the band immediately went inside to speak to the Manager. Let this be a lesson kids...get your money, or at least half of it BEFORE you unload your equipment. The rest of us hung out at the back door. Most of us were half loaded.

Soon the back door opened up and Tyler gave us the go ahead to unload and set up. Since I was with the band that night it was my job to set up the drums. Tyler was unhappy that I was already drinking. The last time that happened I left half of his equipment at the bar when we left.

First we built up the drum riser out of a few sheets of plywood and some milk crates. Then we put down a carpet. On this carpet we had marked out exactly where each piece of his kit went. It was like painting by numbers. Even a drunk version of me could do this!

Soon all of the equipment was up, the lights were in place, and the sound guy had his shit together.

It was time for sound check...

I can not play drums to save my life. I'm can not for the life of me get my arms and legs to work together to create a beautiful rhythm...even when I tried to imagine myself having sex with the drums I could not get them to work together. It just wasn't meant to be. Instead, I tortured the Sound Guy by playing one drum at a time while he checked the levels. It was sad at best...

Most of the time during the actual show, my job was to keep all of the girl friends and their friends to one side of the bar, while keeping horny groupies to the other side. It was like herding albino pigs in a blinding snow storm. All I saw was a sea of short skirts, thigh highs, spandex, and hair. The only sure fire way to tell them apart was by their lips...no, the lips on their faces, silly rabbit!

Girls friends and their entourage generally had their make-up set to Medium on the Fuck Scale. They wanted to be attractive, but not enough to attract too much attention. They also would be drinking cute little fruity drinks through tiny straws...sometimes their drinks even contained those little umbrellas.

Groupies had their Fuck Scale on 11. The lipstick was fire engine red and of a super long wearing glossy sheen kind! They needed that shit to last all night long and then into the dressing room. ((nudge nudge wink wink)) The hair was puffed high, the little clothes they did have on were tight and revealing, and they had that certain come hither look in their eyes...some would call it the "Come Fuck Me" look...but who am I to judge. They drank draft beer in plastic cups and saved their money to buy the band shots while they were on stage.

Since we were three hours from home girlfriends would not be at this show. I was free to roam the crowd...or so I thought.

Instead, when it came time for the show I was shackled to the rear of the drum riser. In one hand I had a drum key for any on-the-fly tuning issues and my other hand was on a forest of crappy splintered drum sticks.

Tyler was a stickler when it came to his sticks. He understood the rock factor of throwing sticks to the crowd, but at the same time these sticks cost money. So, the pile I had consisted of the old beat up practice sticks or sticks he had previously used in other shows and broken. When the time came he would signal me and I'd hand him some sticks. He'd pull them from my hand leaving a trail of splinters as he threw them to some beautiful girl in the crowd.

After the show, I'd tear down, load the van, then hit the dressing room. It was written in their contract that they got 4 cases of beer in addition to payment for the show. With a mountain of beer and a sea of women it was only natural that we all get acquainted in a physical manner. I'd grab a beer and drink from the sea. When it came down to it, groupies didn't care if you were in the band, only that you were with the band. It was attraction by association.

This particular night some girl invited the band back to her house for an after party. I think half of the bar ended up there as well. As we walked in she said only one thing to us, "If you go into the back room make sure that you don't let my two chinchillas out of their cages."

You can see where this is going, right?

All night long it is just eating at Tyler. "Why can't we open the cages and play with the chinchillas?" One by one he had asked all of us this question. It was killing him to find an answer. So much so that he put off getting laid to solve the riddle of the chinchillas.

"Dude, she didn't say we couldn't play with them. She just said not to let them out."

"Well, let's go play with them."

With that Tyler and I walked into the back room.

The light was off. When we turned it on there were two large metal wire cages each containing it's own fuzzy little chinchilla. We wander over to the cages and stuck our fingers in. Each chinchilla come up and sniffed us. We begin to pet the little guys through the wire cage. They were friendly and are loved the attention. We joked about getting 5 or 6 of our own for the apartment.

"They seem so friendly." I say.

"They ARE friendly dude! Huh, you fuzzy little fuzzy wuzzies!" (He said that to the chinchillas...not to me)

"I wonder why we can't let them out? Are they like little Mogwais? Will they multiply if they get wet? Will they turn evil if we feed them or give them beer?"

"Dude, I say we take them out and play with them. What can it hurt?"

Famous last words if any ever existed...

Together we each unlock a cage and reach in to grab a chinchilla...and away they run. They must have been using secret code because in unison they both darted out one of the side doors and scampered to some other part of the house.

When all loads had been shot and the beer was gone we all decided to head out. We thanked our hosts for a lovely time...and wished her luck at finding her chinchillas as we dodged the flying beer bottles headed in our general direction.

As a side note...the girl came to the show the next night and said that they found both of them in the attic. So back off...we just wanted to pet the cute little fuzzy animals...OK, George.

It might not surprise you to learn that we were often sick back in the days of living in that apartment. I don't mean sick as in we did nasty things with bald hamsters (well, we did that too...). I mean we were ill, under the weather, in need of TLC, chicken soup, toast, and ginger ale kind of sick.

We lived in a walking, breathing, eating cesspool of filth. From the rotting chicken bones planted in the pot of the plastic ficus, to the festering mound of dirty dished stacked to the ceiling in the kitchen sink. Every crack and crevasse was a den of mold and fungus. Only the truly brave, extremely drunk, or just plain stupid walked around barefoot.

The two most common ailments were Athlete's Foot (not so much a sickness as it is a fucking pain in the...feet I guess...) and this weird throat condition. Anyone in the medical field feel free to shout out your diagnosis at any point...

It would start with a tickle in your throat that would build up to a cough. When you felt the tightness in the back of your mouth is when you had it real good. With your mouth open wide and a flashlight illuminating your oral cave, if you looked to either side of the pink punching bag in your mouth you could see the white nodes of...infection that had taken up residence on your tonsils.

With a long pointy device, such as a straw or a chop stick whittle down to a shank (a la prison style), you could pry these infectious nodules out. They were just solid enough to come out in one crescent shaped hunk, but could be easily squished between your fingers...but you didn't want to do that because they smelled like rotting cheese wrapped in the underwear of a fat man running a marathon after eating a weeks worth of tacos and chili. We'd extract one of these, smash it between our finger and thumb then chase one of the others around the apartment trying to get them to get a whiff of it...or we'd wipe it on someones pillowcase just in front of their nose. Nothing like spreading the infectious glob of shit into the bedroom.

If you didn't pluck them out the exposed portion would get a little crusty, turn a light green and scratch the inside of your throat until you wanted to claw your eyes out.

Sometimes you wouldn't get a chance to pluck them out. You might be out one night and feel the itch in your throat and the tight feeling in the back of your mouth. You'd know what it was, but didn't dare try to operate in the bathroom of a bar. It's filthy in there! There was a chance that while you were chatting up some hottie one of the chunks would get launched from your mouth. Where it landed was simply a matter of fate. You hoped it sailed harmlessly unnoticed onto her sweater. Your feared it would plop into her drink or worse!

One time Tyler got it bad enough that he suggested that we go to the doctor. None of us had health insurance, so no one could afford to go. Tyler suggested that one of us go, but the others chip in on the bill. We all had the same symptoms, so we'd share whatever meds the doctor prescribed. Sounds like a smart plan to me...

Since Tyler is the most concerned as well as the one with the worst symptoms he was the one to see the doctor. The Greg Meister and I waited in the...waiting room.

What happened next was a classic "Long Haired Dude" scene that was played out time and time again.

We're sitting there minding our own business. Some soap opera is on the only TV in the waiting room, so we're thumbing through some 2 year old Sports Illustrated magazines. When all of a sudden a "Note from God" lands in my magazine! How special! God is writing ME! and he has used a very nice tri-fold pamphlet to do so!

I look up to see fucking Self Righteous Ronald standing in front of us. "How's your soul, Gentlemen?" He says to The Greg Meister and I. We just look at each other and laugh. We've been in this situation too many times in the past. Someone sees our long hair and rocker clothes and assumes that our souls need some saving...and that they are the one to do it.

We let him babble on for a while before the Greg Meister decides enough is enough. Not only is the Greg Meister a great vocalist, but he is a Master Bater as well...errrrr...make that a Master Debater...or what ever the fuck you call it when you can put more than 3 sentences together to form an educated idea that refutes another's argument. The mother fucker could hold his own in a verbal argument.

So, in the waiting room the Greg Meister has begun his verbal assault of Self Righteous Ronald. The poor kid never knew what hit him.

On the ride home Tyler gets a laugh out of our encounter with the douche bag in the waiting room.

The doctor prescribed Tyler some medicine. I'm assuming now that it was some kind of antibiotic, but all I remember is that it was like $85. After the $50 office visit that was about $80 more than we could afford.

That night I remember Tyler chasing us around with his stink finger...

In a recent post when thoughts of making $500 a week filled my head I was overcome by the luxurious items that I could have purchased with my potential fame and fortune. One of the items mentioned was soft toilet paper.

Just had low on the economic scale are you when soft toilet paper sounds like a 4x4 square of cottony heaven?

At the time, I brought home roughly $100 to $125 a week form working at the Gas Station. After my slice of the rent money I was still in the clear for at least $350 a month! At the time and in those conditions, this was a lot of money, but my addiction to the pizza at the local pizza shop made severe cuts in my take home cash. SEVERE!

On a side note, one of the great things about my job at the Gas Station: As long as there was enough money in the till we could cash our pay checks at the station! Ahh, the benefits!

In the long run we were a team and we all did our part with stocking the apartment with the staples of life.

My friends would get some great pizza leftovers when they'd return at 6am from playing out with their band. Sometimes it would just be crust, but the thought was there.

When the band played out, The Greg Meister and Tyler would raid the storage closets and bathrooms of the place they were playing. Tyler had one drum case that would go to the show empty and come home filled with good soft toilet paper (This was a HUGE step up from the rough stuff that Mike would "borrow" from his job at Burger King) , cleaning supplies (not that we really used them), hand soap, and, if we were lucky and they played at a bar that served food, we'd get napkins, condiments, and maybe some canned food.

Aside from the sandpaper-ish toilet paper that Mike was getting from Burger King, he would sometimes snag napkins and condiments. If we were really lucky he'd get his hands on some super "Buy One Get One Free" coupons that we would photocopy and use for the next year.

One time it got SO bad that we applied for and received Food Stamps. We'd go down once a month and talk to our Agent. He'd then dish out our monthly ration of stamps. We'd split them up and go on a grocery buying bonanza! When Mike moved out the Food Stamp people caught wind of this (because he CALLED them) and they summonsed us to their office. To them we were now a new case and were assigned a new Agent. She was, plain and simple, a bitch.

I called her The Catfish...once to her face when she pissed me off. She had these three or four long (I mean LONG as in 2 or more inches long) hairs that came out and curled under her chin. I had a theory that these hairs must in some way be connected to her brain. If she pulled them out or cut them off she would die. I mean, why else would a woman keep such growth on her face? This was not making any of us horny at all.

She yelled at me for selling my dead car for parts...to Tyler...for $50. $50! I told her that since we were considered a Group that I personally might have made an additional $50, but Tyler was down $50, so as a group it all evened out. I was apparently wrong...and I called her a catfish.

She made our life a living hell (As she should have! We were able bodied 18 year old men/boys that were simply too lazy to work! She should have kicked us in the balls and had us braid he catfish tentacles for money!). It was when she made us show proof that we were looking for jobs that we decided that enough was enough and we quit the food stamp business.

Mike was a good guy, but him turning us into the food stamp people was not cool. BUT Karma is a bitch and it came back to bite him. See, he had fallen on BK property and gashed open his chin. Who the fuck falls on their chin anyway? Mike managed this somehow. Months after he left the BK Lawyers began calling and leaving messages saying that BK wanted to pay all medical bills as well as reward him with a settlement. Once Tyler picked up the phone and spoke with the Lawyer. BK Law Boy said they were willing to give Mike $5000! We figured that we'd be able to get a cut if we told Mike, but we couldn't find his correct phone number and nothing ever came of it. Sucks for him.

So my message today is that it's the little things in life like soft poop rags that can bring a smile to your face and also stop your crack from chaffing.

Like this? Hate it? Let me know!

Every young rocker that is true to the profession lives on a diet of groupies and porn.

The groupies provide him with the staples in life such as food, toilet paper, cleaning service, and occasionally money and clothes...and, of course, sex!

Porn gives the rocker in question a much needed rest from the adoring fans and the pressure of the spotlight. It provides him with some quiet time to reflect on the meaning of full frontal nudity and to decide just what it is that he wants from a nice tittie rack. It lets him get a firm grasp on not only himself (pun intended), but also his plan to have a threesome with the girls who live downstairs. Finally, it gives him a release (again...pun intended...roll with me here people...) of the stress that is the result of not eating a balanced diet and living in a pig sty.

The only thing that is better than porn would be making porn! Everyone talks about it, but few dare to make it a reality! Every drummer worth his weight in drum sticks brags about how he'd "Wreck that chick. She wouldn't know what hit her!" Every guitar player boasts of his big cucumber-ish fuck stick. It's rare that one takes these dreams and has the opportunity to put it all on the line and make it a reality.

It was I who had that chance. The chance to make my jack hammer the star of his very own movie home improvement show...whatever that means.

I was still employed at the gas station. I had been transferred to a better station with friendly people on a high traffic road. The people who pulled off of the nearby main highway generally wanted me to "fill 'er up!", get directions to the local mall, or to stink up the bathroom with a travel log taht they'd been brewing for the last 15 Exits.

One day this guy drove in and wanted me to full up his tank. He got out of his car and came around to the back so that he could shoot the shit with me as I pumped the gas.

"You in a band?" He asked. Due to my long bright white blond hair this was a question that I was asked several times a day.

"Not right now. I'm kind of in between bands." This was the same conversation that I've had a million times. I could have said that I was a goat farmer and the guy would have nodded his head and then paid for the gas when I was done. I lived in the world of awkward small talk.

"Cool. Do you write music? I'm always looking for a new sound for my movies."

This struck me as odd that in the middle of central NY someone was in the movie business, but being young and naive (or stupid and gullible...) I just had to ask, "You're in the movie business?"

"You could say that. Ever heard of Ginger Lynn? or Savannah? or Ron Jeremy? Yeah, you could say that I've worked with them all in one way or another."

I not only recognized these names, but idolized these people! "You make porn?" I said in a definite star struck tone. I watched their movies and dreamed of sharing intimate times with these people...well, not Ron Jeremy, but the hot women for sure!

"I've got a small upstart company and we make about a movie a week. We've got some distribution to major outlets. We're gonna take off any minute now."

I was in the presence of what I thought was the heir to the porn throne...and it only got better.

"So, in between bands and pumping gas. You making ends meet? Got enough cash to go out and get wild?

"Ya know, can you ever really have enough?" I laughed. "I'm doing OK. Could be better."

"Ever think about becoming an actor? I'm always looking for new talent. I could set you up real nice."

My thoughts drifted to delusions of grandeur. I could see me having sex with beautiful women...and getting paid for it. I'd get my friends contracts to write the music. We be an unstoppable fuck-tacular machine of sex and rock n roll! We'd be famous the world over!

"Me? An actor?"

"You should come down and check it out. For new talent I'm paying $500 per movie. Like I said, we're shooting almost a movie a week."

I quickly did the math in my head. $500 a week was almost 5 times what I was currently making! I'd be able to afford the soft toilet paper. I'd be able to buy McDonalds AND a pizza in the same day! ...and that was just for starters! I got the address of his studio and said I'd meet him Saturday for a test shoot. He didn't pay for the first shoot as he considered it an audition/on-the-job training. You can see the writing on the wall, right? Not me. Not then. All I could see was mountains and mountains of silicone breasties and landing strip pussy!

I didn't tell my roommates of this deal. I wanted to check it out first and then get them in on the action later. Also, in the back of my mind were thoughts of failure...what if I couldn't get it up on cue? What if I couldn't deliver a powerful money shot? My first film could be my last. If that happened, I didn't want to bother getting my friends involved. In the background I was preparing for a good show. I abstained from any sexual activity all week long! I wanted the hammer to be ready to pound. I wanted the screw driver to be ready to screw. I wanted the garden hose...you get the idea...I was ready to go!

Saturday finally came. I told my roommates that I was going to the mall. Looking back, no one knew what I was doing or where I was going. I didn't even know the guy's name! This guy could have killed me and no one would have been the wiser! I hopped in my car and headed out to the film studio.

The first indication that something was odd was the fact that the "studio" was a house. He did say that they were an upstart company. I thought that maybe this was his office. Maybe we'd shoot a quick audition scene in his living room and then the real movies would be at the studio.

I went to the door and knocked. The dude opened the door and we shook hands. "Come on down to the studio. We're just getting ready to begin filming. You can watch the first couple of scenes to get an idea of how we do it. Then, uh, you can get in the action. Let's go."

I followed him to the back of the house and down a creepy wobbly stair case into the basement.

This was one of those old basements with almost rock-like walls and a dirt floor. It was dark and damp. One small section of the basement had been finished to look like a bedroom. There was a bed, a small night stand, and a single lamp. The dirt floor here had been covered with an old stained piece of rug. One of the walls had a window painted on it. I guess to give the impression that there might be a working window in this bedroom from hell.

The only working lights in the entire basement were two halogen torch lights and the small spot light on the huge VHS video camera mounted an a tripod that was ducttaped together.

"This is where we make the magic!" He said.

"Yeah, the magic." I muttered. What I was really thinking is, 'Yeah, this is the dirt floor where my body will someday be discovered.'

Just then there was a loud, metal on metal squeaking sound and a bright light from behind me. I looked back expecting to see Freddy Kruger grinding his metal clawed hands as sparks shot in all directions.

Instead, it was the outside entrance to the basement opening up. It was one of those old metal flapped doors that opened upwards. There were three silhouette figures walking down the stairs in my direction. "There's my stars now!" Creepy dude proclaimed as the door shut. After my eyes readjusted I was able to see the three people in better detail.

"Rock, this is Jenny Cream, El Lizbian, and Scotti Lightning." What the fuck kind of porn name is Scotti Lightning? I thought.

"Hey." I said as I watched the cast of creatures enter the bedroom set.

Scotti Lightning was the typical wanna-be rock dude. He had on a pair of "leather" pants, a black sleeve-less T-shirt, and sunglasses.

El Lizbian had the biggest hair, as well as the biggest ass, I had ever seen. I've always enjoyed meaty women, but this girl was proportioned all wrong. She was 85% ass and 100% stench. When she had walked by me I felt like I was 8 years old again and sitting in a bingo hall with my Mom. The room would be almost completely filled with smoke. If you laid down on the floor there was a two foot pocket of fresh air to enjoy. You left there smelling as if you had just smoked two packs...which, unless you were laying on the floor, you kind of did. This girl was a walking ash tray. As she entered the set she took one last puff of her cigarette and put it out on the dirt floor.

Jenny Cream was cute if you liked girls with 6 teeth and one eye brow. She was do-able if she kept her mouth closed, but then what was the purpose really?

"Let's do this." Creepy Porn Guy said to his 'actors'. "Now Jenny," He instructed. "In this scene you and Liz are having a sleep over. You are telling each other scary stories when you hear a rustling outside. You jump into each others arms for protection. When nothing happens you still find yourselves holding each other...and liking it! You start to go at it and don't hear when the intruder enters the room. Scotti will come in and join in on the action. We'll kind of ad lib it from there. Ready? Roll it!"

With that the video camera came to life, the two female actors sat on the bed, and I bolted as fast as I could for the stair case up and out! I jumped into my car and never looked back.

Thankfully I never saw this guy again, but despite this horrendous encounter my dream of the porn life still burns strong.