I didn’t play tonight, but I went to listen to a band audition for Francisco’s bar, the Park Bench. They were pretty good.

Later I went and sat in with the boys over at the Buckhead Saloon because they were far too drunk to play themselves. Woody called me up to sing a song as soon as I walked in, but not before I was accosted by a gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to either a bucket of drunken flesh or Billy Ray Cyrus, depending on your perspective.

He had a shaven head except for a long thicket of hair growing out of the back of his melon. I can’t imagine what would make someone want to cut their hair that way, unless they really want a shaved head but like the convenience of long hair in case they get in a bar fight and someone needs to grab them by it.

Also, as you might imagine, he appeared to be an idiot.

Tonight was my Mardi Gras gig at Atkin’s Park Tavern in Smyrna, GA. Everything went great. Francisco and I played with Sean McIntyre on bass, who is fantastic.

At one point I said over the mic “Laissez les bon temps roullez!” which is, of course, french for “Let the good times roll”.

Sean then asked over the mic, “What does that mean, ‘Sorry I smell like piss’?”.

I laughed until I cried.

No one showed us their boobs, but we had a good gig anyhow.

I was recording the whole gig, so here’s the audio of the whole thing. You can hear me noodling on the drums, then us talking, then me laughing for a long time until the next song starts. Ha ha!

Smell like piss

Tonight’s gig was fairly normal. There were no midgets, but there was one short girl who claimed her name was Elf. She and her friends were dancing it up in front of the stage.

At one point Francisco said, “You guys are into freaky shit, like wife swapping, aren’t you?”

One of the girls shouted back “We’re into ELF swapping!” and they all cheered. They began to chant it over and over again. “Elf swapping! Elf swapping! Elf swapping!”

You can’t make this shit up, folks.

Last night was a long gig.

I showed up at 7pm and hastily set my drums up to play with Pete Whitfield, whose show was already in progress. There were already a bunch of people milling around because there was a party known as Oyster Fest going on at the other end of Buckhead from us (a block away).

I got all my shit set up, sat down to play, and prompty cracked myself a good one right on the left ringfinger with a drum stick. Ouch. I thought it was broken, but it turns out an appendage can hurt a hell of a lot and not be broken. Who knew?

At about 7:45, Pete finished and Francisco Vidal took the stage. I’m Francisco’s drummer, he just asked me to show up a little early and play a few songs with Pete to get the crowd worked up.

Sometime around 8:30 or so, the midget showed up.

I didn’t want to stare, because I try to be a polite person, but it’s rare that a midget is in the front row when I am trying to mind my own business playing music. She was with someone that Francisco knew whose name was “Ox”. Ox was probably 6’2″ and built like a linebacker. They made quite a pair.

I had no idea what a pair they made, however, until later in the night when they started MAKING OUT. Yes. Making out. In the front row. I tried not to stare. Francisco didn’t bother trying not to stare. It was the single greatest moment in rock and roll history, as far as I know.

A few songs later, Ox left, and I thought the Willy Wonka makeout fest was over, but I was happily mistaken. The midget started making out with some other guy! You go, girl!

Seriously, it’s great that she isn’t self conscious about her small stature, a fact which she drove home even further when she started making out with A THIRD GUY RIGHT IN THE FRONT ROW. I’ve never been so happy in all my life.

Finally, she smooched for probably 45 minutes with a fat guy in a Jagermeister hat, and I almost shit myself with pure joy. You just can’t buy that kind of entertainment, people.

So, wee slutty lady, wherever you are, I’d just like to thank you for making an eight-hour gig far more bearable by making out in the front row with lots of dudes. You’re the best!

So, yeah.

I hate when people who run blogs go on and on about how busy they’ve been and thereby how they just COULDN’t post. I think those people should be poked in the nostril with something sharp. So, I won’t do it.

What I will do instead is tell you what I’ve been up to. Basically, I’m playing a lot of gigs. It’s good fun. I’m having a hell of a great time hanging out with my wierd-assed friends and playing music for a living.

Tonight I played at the Emory Village location of the Park Bench, which is a restaurant owned in part by my friend, boss, and landlord, Francisco Vidal. I played with my friend Sam Thacker, who is a strapping young buck. It was my gig, but I get bored playing by myself so I invited my boy Sam to come play with me and keep me company. He’s good people.

Well, in this business it’s best to grab as many people as you can, and since the windows behind the stage were open, we shouted at everyone who went by and tried to get them to come in. One group who did was comprised of three young girls.

Now, let me say here that old Sam is a favorite of the ladies. Wherever we go, girls tell him what a great voice he has, even though I tend to do most of the singing when we are togehter. Now ain’t that some shit?

Anyway, we played a few songs for the girls and then took a break. I went over to thank them for coming in and ask them if there was anything else we could play for them.

“Well…” one of them said, glancing at Sam, “How old is he?”

“21″ I said.

“Is he, i mean, uh.. well, is he single?” she asked.

“Yeah he is, far as I know.” I told her. I could tell she was WAY young, but I decided to play it up and make Sammy squirm.

I called him over and introduced him to her, and then quickly fucked off to watch him try to be nice and yet not receptive to their underage advances. Serves him right for being such a fucking pretty boy, I think. She ended up writing her number on a matchbook and handing it to him on the sly. Haha, discomfort for him equals funny for me!

He tried to slip that matchbook into my jacket pocket later on for my girlfriend to find when I got home, but I’m too fast for his young ass. I pitched it into the parking lot.

Karma bit me in the ass later when he knocked my SoBe over and spilled it all out.

Somewhere out there, people are sleeping peacefully and looking forward to going to Home Depot on the weekend so they can fix their homes up, and my boy Sam and I are laughing and playing music and dodging underage girls.

It’s a fine life if you can lead it, people.