Me n' Eldon at Prostate Puffy's

The idea for this blog came when Carolyn and I were perusing the schedule for the upcoming "Summer Music in the Park," series in the newspaper. We love going down to Vancouver's Esther Short Park on Thursday nights with friends and sampling the food vendors while we groove on music ranging from R and B and disco to hard rock to light classical. We couldn't help but notice there were a couple of cover bands included into the schedule including 'Stone in Love' a Journey tribute band, (Meh, since I wasn't crazy about the original group) and 'Petty Fever' who I'm hoping will do a good job recreating rock and roll's most magnetic mumbler, Tom Petty. Anyway, we started talking about what it might be like to spend your life playing in tribute bands and I invoked my imaginary friend to weave this tale. 

  "A new low, man, even for me. I’ve hit rock and roll bottom and I’m still falling,” my silver ponytailed fellow bar fly wailed.

Every grizzled head in Prostate Puffy’s Baby Boomer Saloon snapped around to find out what the ruckus was. I lowered my head and licked the salt off the rim of my third “house special” margarita—made with the finest no-name tequila Puffy could buy for cheap on his thrice yearly field trips to Juarez. Finally the other members of m-m-my generation who’d chosen this night and this bar to self-medicate returned to the women’s beach volleyball match on the twelve-foot-wide HD screen at the far end of the room.

“I mean, a musician’s gotta take whatever comes along to survive, right?” Eldon “Bottom Feeder.” Porterhouse drained his stubby-sized bottle of Blitz and signaled Puffy for another. He’s not called that, by the way because of his taste in seafood or marginal moral character. In musician’s parlance, the “bottom” is the bass line of a song. Eldon thrum thrum’s the low notes with the best of them.

Puffy dipped his hand into the cooler for Eldon’s beer. Note her that P.P refuses to knuckle-under to the craft beer craze. No Tutti-Frutti IPA or Avocado Ale at the Baby Boomer Saloon. Blitz and Olympia only. In stubbies. Which, considering it’s been decades since the companies have offered these brews, makes you wonder if Puffy, in a prescient moment, bought up a ****pot of it back in the 70’s foreseeing this moment in time.

It felt like the right time to commiserate. “Hey, a gig’s a gig, right? You’re a bass player. Somebody wants to pay you to play bass. Sounds like a no-brainer to me.”

He pushed his lips in and out as he reached to snag the replacement bottle Puffy opened and slid down the bar. Eldon’s voice fell to a mumble. “Another tribute band. Why me? Why always me?”

A little history here. I met Eldon in San Francisco in 1975 when he played bass with a hot psychedelic trio called “The Fig Pluckers.” When that band imploded after the lead guitarist and songwriter decided to cut his hair and sell life insurance and the drummer left for sexual reassignment surgery in Sweden, Eldon began nearly five decades of touring with groups that got paid to sound like bands that had hit the charts. Even if their fame was fleeting.

“Hey, it couldn’t be as bad when you played with the 1911 Chewy Fruit Corporation.” I tried to provide some perspective.

He glugged beer. “The 1910 Fruitgum Company’s fans were crazed,” he acknowledged. “One night we played ‘Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I’ve Got Love in My Tummy’ 27 times in a row before they’d let us leave the arena.”

I marveled. “An arena? I didn’t know you played any arenas.”

He shook head, the silver ponytail bobbing from side-to-side. “Actually it was a skating rink. But a guy’s got to have a fantasy life, right?”

“Right,” I agreed. “So, what was the worst tribute band you ever played in?”

“The next one,” he growled. “If I decide to take the job.” He drank. “Who am I kidding? I’ve gotta pay my rent.”

“Was it the Grass Roots sound-alike band?” I asked.

“The Fescue Four? Naw, that was an okay tour. Hey we even opened for the Stones.”

“The Rolling Stones? Wow, I didn’t know that you’d—”

A collective gasp rose up from the crowd watching the beach volleyball. I saw a tall Amazonian yank up the top of her bikini and fist bump her partner as their opponents waved helplessly at the ball that skidded across the sand past them.  

“Not the Rolling Stones. The Stolen Stones. Their tribute band at the time.”

“Oh.” I deflated.

“They weren’t bad. You know how somebody described Mick Jagger as a rooster on acid?”

“Right.”

“The Stolen Stones’ lead singer reminded people of a walrus on Quaaludes.”

I knew it would take at least two more ‘Ritas to erase that image from my mind. “So what was the weirdest cover band you played in?”

He thought about it. “Probably the “Ho-Ho’s.”

“As in who you callin’ Ho, Ho? What band were you—?

“The Go Gos. Ho Ho, Go, Go. Get it?”

“Almost. But they were an all-girl band. And you—

“Looked pretty damn fine in a mini-skirt. Or so they tell me.”

“You played ‘We Got the Beat’ in drag?”

“From Maine to California, Dude. The money was pretty good.”

I eyeballed Eldon and tried to imagine. “So how did that band break up?”

“Band manager said my beard had to go.” Eldon ran his fingers through his chin whiskers. “Hey, musically I may be a Ho, but I do have my pride.”

“Okay that was strange but which tribute band is the stuff of your nightmares?”

“So really, which was the worst of all of the bands you played with?”

Eldon drained half his and mumbled. “Kind of a toss-up.” 

“Between” . . . I goaded.

“The Starchies.” He smiled at the memory. “Remember the TV cartoon show The Archies?”   

“Vaguely. Wasn’t their hit called ‘Sugar, Sugar’?”

“That memory flogger just earned you another drink.” He signaled Puffy and pointed at my empty glass. “There never was a real group called The Archies. Somebody wrote the song for the TV show and they threw some studio guys together to record it. When it hit number one, they decided they needed to send a band out to tour behind it. Then, another genius in A and R figured out they could make more money with a dozen bands calling themselves The Archies, playing simultaneously.”

“And at the same time?”

“Give the man the Jughead hat.” He grinned and drank.

“And The Starchies?”

“We formed up about two years later. We wore clothes and styled our hair like the cartoon characters.”

“Which one were you.”

“Veronica. Smart ass. Anyway, the tour lasted for two months before the lead vocalist got a part in the Albuquerque production of ‘Hair’.”

Puffy put another salty-rimmed drink in front of me. I sipped it, made a face and thanked Eldon.

“And then . . .” He closed his eyes as he remembered, “There was the Phallic Pop-Guns.”

I tried to picture Eldon’s fingers flying across the bass during the Pop Gun’s version of the Sex Pistols ‘Anarchy in the U.K.’ or ‘God Save the Queen’.

Eldon reached for a cigarette, put it in his mouth, then remembered the no smoking in public places laws. “Dammit.” He snorted before putting the smoke back in the pack. “They had Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten.”

“And you had—?”

“Vic Shiftless and Ronny Juttin. Actually it was a good gig for a while. The music was easy to play and all we had to do was flop our heads, snarl a lot and jump up and down to the beat.”

“How’d that one end?”

“I had to quit. Vomiting on demand was messing up my health.”

We drank in silence for a while. “So, are you going to take the job? The next tribute band?”

“Dunno?” Eldon was glum. “I may have to. I got nothing else going. And besides, they sent me a T-shirt.” He reached down for the case that held his bass, snapped it open, and reached in to retrieve a shirt.

A cheer erupted from the beach volleyball fans. I looked up to see two of the bikini-stuffed athletes flailing away at each other with a referee trying to separate them. One of them cold-cocked him and he hit the sand like a wet pelican that forgot how to fly.

When my attention returned to Eldon, he held up a plum-colored double extra large t-shirt that read _______________. 

“Oh dear God no.” I said. “They’re really going to go out and tour as _______________?”

Eldon pulled out the bass and played a couple of licks from _______________’s quasi-hit record. “Fraid so. Time for me to go out and make a living as a cover band Ho.”

Now comes the reader participation portion of your reading experience. What did the caption on Eldon’s T-shirt read? What tacky piece of art accompanied it? And which abysmal band was he being paid to cover? Have fun with this and insert your creativity in a comment.

 

 

Name That Ailment

Carolyn J. Rose

Recently I told a friend I had occasionally smelled smoke where there was none, and had looked up possible causes on the Internet. Being a medical professional, he reacted much as he would have if I’d said, “Here, hold this angry rattlesnake. Just grab it by the tail. It will be fine.”

I can’t blame him. He’s probably treated plenty of frightened people certain they have horrible diseases because of what popped up after they typed in their symptoms and set a search engine to work. He may have treated hypochondriacs for whom the Internet is a gold mine of information about ailments, diagnoses, and treatments of all types. No malady seems too obscure not to be written about somewhere by someone.

Which is, of course, both good and bad. Good, because there’s a ton of information and it’s easy to access. Bad, because it’s up to you to filter what you find. And that job isn’t a cakewalk—especially for those of us who gleaned our medical knowledge mostly from TV shows and conversations with friends and relatives.

After a minor freak-out over what I discovered smelling smoke could mean, I decided to rule out the big stuff. After all, I was about to go on a three-week vacation. How could I enjoy myself if I had a major-disease ax hanging over my head? I told myself the smoke was either my imagination or the result of a low-level sinus infection that would clear up soon. Several weeks later I noticed increasing pain in my jaw which turned out to be an abscess beneath a molar. After a course of antibiotics, the infection cleared up and the smell of smoke disappeared.

Last week I noticed flashing lights at the corner of my left eye. As soon as I could, I fired up a search engine. Ruling out the big stuff and anecdotal scare stories, I went with the aging process causing “gel” inside my eye to shrink and peel away from the retina.

 Still, recalling my friend’s recoil, I hustled to my eye doctor. When she confirmed “my” diagnosis and told me it would almost certainly heal itself, I felt the I-knew-that brand of smugness coupled with now-I-have-to-pay-for-what-I-already knew irritation.

 

 Then I set my feelings aside. After all, I could have been wrong.

Two Days on the Left Coast

Carolyn J. Rose

When I get an opportunity to go to the coast, I take it. No matter what the weather might be like, there will still be waves to watch, fried clams to eat, and agates to hunt.

So, even though the forecast calls for clouds and chilly temperatures, we pack up and head out with our friends Michael and Mia Lundergan. Thinking about what lies ahead makes the Portland traffic almost tolerable, and soon we’re at one of our usual stops—Mo’s. There are other choices for chowder on the Oregon coast, many other choices, and we can argue their merits all day long. But Mike’s father knew Mo, back when she first opened, and stopping off there is a tradition.

Bellies full, we comb a beach or two, getting our fill of fresh air and sunshine that defies the forecast before landing at a casino. Luck is with three of us. Not BIG luck, but enough luck to allow us each a small profit—profit we’ll spend at least three times the next day. Found money seems to burn a hole in a pocket faster than the cash you work for.

When the sun pops up again in the east, we head south, stopping at Goodwill and almost buying a mechanical talking turkey before laughing off the impulse. After combing a few beaches, we make it to Newport and find, to our delight, that Georgie’s has the artichoke-lime soup two of us have been known to dream about since our first encounter with it years ago. And—bonus!—we also spot a few whales blowing close in.

Stuffed once again, we head south for the Devil’s Churn, several more beaches, and a little shopping. By now wind is whipping the waves and each stop involves slapping on hats and zipping jackets. We find several genuine agates and a number of rocks we carry back to the car because we tell each other they’re interesting or unique or unusual. You’d almost think we’re out to raise their self-esteem.

We end the day eating another wonderful meal at Tidal Raves in Depoe Bay. The tide is coming in, but it isn’t full enough to send water spraying high in the air through blow holes. We watch for a time, then head back to our motel to take in the sunset. Here's an edited version of the sun being extinguished in the Pacific. Forgive the annoying logo of the free (ahem) software Mike used to cut it from it's original length. 

The next morning, souls renewed, we head home to mundane chores, less spectacular views, and meals that are more sensible for people who should be watching their calories and cholesterol.

Things you hate to admit

By Michael Nettleton 


If you’re a lifelong hacker on the golf course, as I am, it’s time for an honesty check. 

When Jordan Spieth, mounting another superhuman effort to lead the Master’s tournament by five strokes with only nine holes to play, stepped up to the eleventh tee, no bookie on the face of the earth would have taken an even money bet he wouldn’t cruise to his second win in a row at Augusta. And then on number ten an errant tee shot and a bogie. Okay, okay, so pobody’s nerfect. And a missed save on number eleven and the lead is cut to three. Still, the kid’s a machine, he’ll right the ship. Probably make two or three birdies on the way back to the clubhouse. And then. . . 

 Number twelve, a picturesque and relatively short par three over a stream.

Splash

Splash again

Into the sand, out of the sand. Two putts. Mark a quadruple bogey seven on the score card and put him three shots back on the leader board to a British kid who sounds like he just stepped out of the cast of the road show version of Oliver. Superman became Clark Kent before our very eyes. 

To his credit, Spieth made a valiant run to stage a comeback and handled the post tournament dog and pony show with a modicum of grace.  Tough to do when your world has blown up in your face.  At 22, a class act, that kid. I personally, would have snapped every club in my bag over my knee. 

Here’s where the honesty check comes in. Wasn’t there a part of you, a small green monster of envy and spite who was jumping up in the air and shouting “Yesssssss!” when Spieth melted down?

Because, for all of us who’ve been there (repeatedly for us weekenders) there’s reassurance in knowing that even the best in the world—people who’ve been playing since infancy, taken hundreds of hours of lessons and have an innate athletic ability we can only dream about—can go gunnysack just like we do. 

So, for those of us who’ve taken four shots to get out of a sand trap followed by four putts, thrown a gutter ball when our team needed five pins to win against our arch rivals, let a pop fly drop in front of us on the softball field, said exactly the wrong thing to that guy or girl we wanted to impress or forgotten our lines at a crucial moment during the big community theater production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, we can feel Jordan’s pain. And we thank him for helping us feel a little less terminally inept than nature has made us.