Kumbuya bitches! Prof Box here again to share with you an account of the greatest show I ever played. Although the city of Austin did not share those same sentiments about the show, I am almost certain all over you wonderfully ignorant shit heads will. Enjoy
“I quit.”, I said to my boss.
“Okay”, she said.
“That’s it? It’s really gonna be that easy?”, I say. I was a bit stunned at the degree of simplicity this took. Four years here and they didn’t even put up a fight!
“Go right ahead Kevin, I practically stopped writing you on the schedule weeks ago.”, she tells me, while not once dropping a hint of emotion from the wry smile on here face. I fuckin knew she was a drone in disguise!
“Alright…but I’m really leaving and I’m not coming back!”, trying to mask any regret in my voice with complete and total triumph.
And I wasn’t coming back. I was sick of living the life of a soul-less working stiff. I wanted to chase all those dreams I had when I was a kid. Actually, it was more like when I was a long-haired, drugie teenager. (When I was a kid, I wanted to be an ice cream man. Shut up!) I was finally gonna live out my rock and roll fantasy.
I was gonna play like Clapton. I was gonna sing like Mercury. I was gonna strut like Mick, and I was gonna move mountains like Jimi. I was gonna ride in limos, and trash hotel rooms, and do lines of blow off really expensive fake tities. I was gonna be what Paul Simon always wanted to be, but was never badass enough to pull off. I was gonna be a fucking superstar that would make the rock gods proud to call their son. But first I needed a gig.
Three hours later, I find my self in Austin on 6th Street. If I was to get my start anywhere, it was gonna have to be in this landfill of characters. The air reeked of culture and day old vomit. After being there only eight minutes, I witnessed a man buy a newspaper and a bag of meth all from the same vendor. The man looked suspiciously similar to this.
Somethings rehab just cannot fix. Like this face for example.
Oh yeah, these people needed a heavy dose of pizzazz in their diets. And I knew just how to give it too them. I took my guitar case and the $35 I had in my sock and walked down to the first fairly rockin place I could find. I walked in and talked to the man behind the counter.
“What’ll it be sir?”, he asks me while cleaning out some empty mugs.
“Bourbon straight. Three fingers worth.”, I tell him using my grizzled Vietnam vet voice. This aughta make a good impression.
“Got something stuck in your throat, son?”, he asked as he poured my whiskey in a glass.
“Oh…uhh ehem no. Just a bit parched from the road.”, I say. Damn you really can’t fool these bartender types.
“Good, cuz for a second you started to sound a bit like my old platoon sergeant from back in Nam. And I know no snot nosed punk, would dare try to imitate a great war hero like that man!”, he says back to me. He then proceeded to pull out a 13″ inch Army knife and stuck it right next to my glass on the bar. A smidgen of piss drips out down my leg.
“Of course not friend. I would never disrespect the dead like that.”, I tell him. At least not anymore.
“I didn’t think so. Now what brings you in a place like this, at this hour? It’s a bit earlier than when my usual crowd piles in here.”, he asks. Like he’s never seen a stranger with a guitar come in and order a drink at 3 in the afternoon!
“Well you see there…Fred…I was hoping that you would consider letting me play a few tunes on that there stage you got over there.”, I tell him. I start caressing my guitar case at this point. She had my back.
There was a long pause. Followed by hysterical laughter between Fred and his cook, Gus. I considered grabbing the knife and ending both of them right then and there, but I remembered the piss on my shoe and thought best to just sit there and stare at my glass.
“You wanna play a show in this bar? Son…do you have any idea how many bands have been booed clean outta town off that stage? And you wanna play a solo act up there? Boy you need more than just a double shot of courage…you need a damn prayer!”, he tells me, still laughing in between words. No one said this would be easy, Boxy.
“Yeah that’s right, I wanna play a show. No scratch that…I wanna play the best fuckin show, you and your patrons have ever seen!“, I say to him. I down the rest of my drink down and slam the glass down on the bar. Fred just stood there with his mouth wide open. I left him speechless.
“So…do you have that cojones necessary to allow the greatest rockstar this city has never seen and your girlfriend has never been fucked by, to play your bar tonight in front of a hot Austin crowd or what?”, I asked. With that much swagger, how could he not let me play?
“Get the fuck out of my bar, and never EVER come back!”, he says to me after he astutely cocked and pointed a 20 gauge pump-action shot-gun at me. You gotta love the Austin friendlies.
After I left, I decided there was only one other place I could go to truly flex my rock boner to these Austin folks (Or Aussies as I like to call them.) And that place was UT Longhorns Stadium. I grab a bus over there, and walk right in. It’s amazing how little security messes with you when you’re wearing a burnt orange shirt. After a few looks at the stadium schematics, I finally find my way to the field.
The stadium was completely full. There must have 80,000 people there waiting to chant my name. It was amazing. It was perfect. It was too good to be true. To bad, it really was too good to be true. I got to about the twenty yard line with my guitar, when it was discovered that I had intruded upon the first game of the season. Luckily, I had been taken down by police and not a lineman. That might have been quite and ouchie!
I learned exactly three things that day. The first, was HEB will always take you back. The second, was Austin police are just as similar in shitiness as Dallas police. And the third was, never let talentless bartenders crush your dreams.
Fin
