(no subject)
Its double-post Wednesday folks...and if you act now I'll throw in this handy gopher carcass that I accidentally swerved to hit on the way to work. Hurry...supplies are running out.
So I'm standing on stage with the Nelsons. NO, not the long-haired 80's Nelson twins. Willie Nelson and Nelson Mandela. And we're racing through a ripping rendition of Bruce's "Darkness on the Edge of Town." I'd been having a little trouble with monitor feedback so I decided to put one of those big puffy sweatbands (a.k.a. the Loverboy Sweat Stopper...EVERYBODIES WORKIN' FOR THE WEEKEND!!!) and pull it down over my ears. Fashion-sense withstanding, that seemed to work pretty well.
Just about that time I look over and Willie is throwing me sign language. At first I thought he was just flipping me off in some hillbilly hand-jive fashion. Then I realize that he's pointing to his shoes, which in better times were hand-crafted leather moccasins. But now they were nothing but a ball of flames. Seems that in his failed attempt to light a big fatty, he accidentally dropped the match onto his tonto slippers. The stain in the leather, proving to be highly flammable and not as environmentally safe as one would expect from an american-indian product, went off like Michael Jackson's gerry curl at a low-level fireworks display.
Mandela, a well know Thunderbird Malt Liquor aficionado, notices Willies burning piggies and is suddenly torn. Douse the burning honky's feet with his favorite budget-gourmet alcoholic beverage or Bogart the bottle for himself. Well by this time, Willie is jumping up and down and screaming and hollering. The teenage hippies in the front row of the concert all catch wind and start to mimic him. This, in-turn, leads the venue medical staff to bum rush the front of the stage thinking that the teenagers have just OD'd on some sort of magic mushrooms or peyote or jello pudding pop. The crowd thinks the medical staff is harassing the flailing hippy love children and start a riot all their own.
Nelson, the Mandela, not the Willie, rushes over to the burning country balladeer and pours his Thunderbird directly onto Willie's fireball feet. Now its a well-known fact that Thunderbird has a high alcohol content...but not high enough to burn. Tell that to the Thunderbird (and Willie's feet!). As soon as the alcohol makes contact with the toe flames, a fiery blue ball rockets out from Willie's shoes. Willie begins to scream and cry and flap his skinny arms. All i could think was "First the IRS and now this!!!"
The crowd, thinking this is a staged routine, erupts into cheers and hoots. And that's when it happened. First off, what are the odds of a black man being at a Willie Nelson "Save My Broke Ass" Benefit Concert. The odds of that are phenomenal enough. But even further unbelievable is the sheer and utter accidental timing that fell into place.
Have you ever been in a conversation in a loud room and you're talking loud enough for your partner to hear but not loud enough (you think) for the rest of the room to hear. And then all the sudden the room goes dead and you're screaming out something like "and the itch was so bad I had to go to the doctors to get a shot......*crickets chirp*" Its happened to me...quit laughing.
At that very instant...just as the crowd was at a heightened level of frenzy from the pyrotechnics and Willie's near break-dancing routine, our african american concert goer opened his mouth in a moment that I actually thought was funny and yelled "We gonna have ourselves a bar b que!!!" But right as the words rose on his lips the crowd went silent. It was the scariest goddamned thing i'd ever heard.
And for a moment everything stopped.
Willie stopped screaming
Nelson stopped drinkin'
The mushroom eatin' hemp-wearin' dilated pupiled love children all fell on the ground thanks to the tranquilizers administered by the now-trampled venue medical staff.
And i'm standing there with my puffy loverboy sweat-band on my head and i'm looking at the smoldering moccasins and the spilt Thunderbird and I'm thinking "this is the last time I'm playing a Bruce Springsteen song on stage with Willie and Nelson. Next time it will be Van Morrison."
Then my alarm went off.
So I'm standing on stage with the Nelsons. NO, not the long-haired 80's Nelson twins. Willie Nelson and Nelson Mandela. And we're racing through a ripping rendition of Bruce's "Darkness on the Edge of Town." I'd been having a little trouble with monitor feedback so I decided to put one of those big puffy sweatbands (a.k.a. the Loverboy Sweat Stopper...EVERYBODIES WORKIN' FOR THE WEEKEND!!!) and pull it down over my ears. Fashion-sense withstanding, that seemed to work pretty well.
Just about that time I look over and Willie is throwing me sign language. At first I thought he was just flipping me off in some hillbilly hand-jive fashion. Then I realize that he's pointing to his shoes, which in better times were hand-crafted leather moccasins. But now they were nothing but a ball of flames. Seems that in his failed attempt to light a big fatty, he accidentally dropped the match onto his tonto slippers. The stain in the leather, proving to be highly flammable and not as environmentally safe as one would expect from an american-indian product, went off like Michael Jackson's gerry curl at a low-level fireworks display.
Mandela, a well know Thunderbird Malt Liquor aficionado, notices Willies burning piggies and is suddenly torn. Douse the burning honky's feet with his favorite budget-gourmet alcoholic beverage or Bogart the bottle for himself. Well by this time, Willie is jumping up and down and screaming and hollering. The teenage hippies in the front row of the concert all catch wind and start to mimic him. This, in-turn, leads the venue medical staff to bum rush the front of the stage thinking that the teenagers have just OD'd on some sort of magic mushrooms or peyote or jello pudding pop. The crowd thinks the medical staff is harassing the flailing hippy love children and start a riot all their own.
Nelson, the Mandela, not the Willie, rushes over to the burning country balladeer and pours his Thunderbird directly onto Willie's fireball feet. Now its a well-known fact that Thunderbird has a high alcohol content...but not high enough to burn. Tell that to the Thunderbird (and Willie's feet!). As soon as the alcohol makes contact with the toe flames, a fiery blue ball rockets out from Willie's shoes. Willie begins to scream and cry and flap his skinny arms. All i could think was "First the IRS and now this!!!"
The crowd, thinking this is a staged routine, erupts into cheers and hoots. And that's when it happened. First off, what are the odds of a black man being at a Willie Nelson "Save My Broke Ass" Benefit Concert. The odds of that are phenomenal enough. But even further unbelievable is the sheer and utter accidental timing that fell into place.
Have you ever been in a conversation in a loud room and you're talking loud enough for your partner to hear but not loud enough (you think) for the rest of the room to hear. And then all the sudden the room goes dead and you're screaming out something like "and the itch was so bad I had to go to the doctors to get a shot......*crickets chirp*" Its happened to me...quit laughing.
At that very instant...just as the crowd was at a heightened level of frenzy from the pyrotechnics and Willie's near break-dancing routine, our african american concert goer opened his mouth in a moment that I actually thought was funny and yelled "We gonna have ourselves a bar b que!!!" But right as the words rose on his lips the crowd went silent. It was the scariest goddamned thing i'd ever heard.
And for a moment everything stopped.
Willie stopped screaming
Nelson stopped drinkin'
The mushroom eatin' hemp-wearin' dilated pupiled love children all fell on the ground thanks to the tranquilizers administered by the now-trampled venue medical staff.
And i'm standing there with my puffy loverboy sweat-band on my head and i'm looking at the smoldering moccasins and the spilt Thunderbird and I'm thinking "this is the last time I'm playing a Bruce Springsteen song on stage with Willie and Nelson. Next time it will be Van Morrison."
Then my alarm went off.