Back In The Day

About six or so years ago, I had a jeweler boyfriend who also had a blues band as a little hobby. He memorized every single guitar lick of every single Stevie Ray Vaughan song, and then got a drummer and a bass player and commenced to have band drama.

I swear, I've only been, uh, intimate with two musicians (OK, well that was a big fat lie), but I got intimate enough to see the inner workings of band management, i.e. the stupidest behavior on the planet. (Well, maybe there is behavior that is more stupid, like George W And The Amazing Fundie Gay Hatin' band, currently hogging the White House stage, drowning out continuous booing with their own brand of Neocon Klezmer Electronica. They do seem to have trouble with all the rotten fruit and raw eggs being thrown in their direction, but they continue to play, undaunted, and Karl Rove continues to dance, badly, to their one hit wonder, We're SO Going To Jail If These Guys Have Anything To Do With It.)

But, I digress. I was discussing band drama. I'm talking about the shit that you hear if you're the band leader's bitch, at 2 AM, after the Guy Who Wants to be Famous comes home smelling like somebody dumped a fifth of Jack Daniels on his head followed by an entire trash can full of cigarette butts.

• Musician: (Takes off clothes and drops them on the floor at his feet. Grabs junk and rearranges. Smells fingers.) That fucking Ralph. I'm gonna stop inviting him to sit in. He's always steppin' on me!
• Musician's Bitch: (Thinking: oh, wah wah!) I'm sorry to hear that, honey. Why don't you have a talk with ol' Ralph? Tell him to stop steppin' on you...or whatever.
• Musician: And Joyce! Man! Did I tell you that she closes her eyes while she's drumming and doesn't realize that she slows down? (Lets go of penis only long enough to raise hands in apparent frustration.)
• Musician's Bitch: No! You're kidding! That must make you and Rick nuts! (singing to self: who the fuck cares, who the fuck cares, who the fuck ca-a-a-a-ares!)
• Musician: (dropping into bed smelling like a dead, wet, dog) Oh, well fuck. I mean, I don't even bother talking to Rick about it. He's still pissed off that Joyce isn't fucking him anymore and now that I told him he could do the sound setup, his bass is all you can hear! He's such an attention hound.
• Musician's Bitch: Well, maybe he's trying to keep Joyce in the pocket?
• Musician: Oh, you don't know anything. In the pocket. Piffh! There's no such thing as "in the fucking pocket." You're either on your way into the pocket, or on your way out of it.
• Musician's Bitch: I'll write that down in case Regis Philbin asks me the next time I'm on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.
• Musician: (Goes off to the kitchen in a huff. Makes himself a mayonnaise sandwich. Sleeps on couch. Never lets go of penis the entire night.)

So, even though your mother never knew the colorful details of life with a musician, she somehow knew, intuitively. That's why she told you not to go out with one. You can call her now, and tell her she was right.

Meanwhile, one of the benefits of being the musician's bitch, is that you can go with them to gigs and everything! And unload equipment and then stand around while the band members bitch about the guy who isn't there, until he shows up, late as fucking usual, man. Then you get to sit at different places in the bar and say, "Sounds good from here!" as you start chugging boxed Chablis to stave off the boredom. Then, you get to listen to the band complain about "the room" and watch the single members hustle the cocktail waitresses for free drinks. You kid yourself that your boyfriend never does that when you're not around. Finally, the music starts. And while your man is playing Cold Shot, the drunk who's been sitting at the end of the bar for the last three days decides to come over and ask you to dance. You demur. He says, "What? Are you fucking gay or something?" Well, yes, actually. Now I am.

Meanwhile, even though you know alllll the background bullshit of the band, and even though you've heard all these songs played badly dozens of times, that Chablis kicks in and your ass starts moving and you just wiggle your way to the dance floor and start bumping and grinding and humping an imaginary man, right smack dab in front of your boyfriend. Because, he seems to like that. As does his bass player. And the drummer.

On one such exalted occasion, when the band played for a cowboy wedding at a Mexican restaurant, I was doin' my thang in front of the stage. A very cute drunk girl does a lock n' load from her eyes to mine, and uses that imaginary string to propel herself forward, until we're tits to tits and she's trying to get into my humping rhythm as best as she can. She is worlds and planets and herds of buffalo better than the guys that usually try and dance with me, so I let her do her thing. She finally gets the groove, and we have a nice little time dancing through to the end of the song.

As I stop to catch my breath and position myself in front of the portable swamp cooler (this was Arizona in August), she steps back and stares at me with that head to toe and then back up to the head kind of assessment. She sways a little, and cracks a little smile. Her eyes go off focus and then wander back at me.

"Well then, " she says, "I'll bet you were hot.......back in the day."

I wonder if she'd be interested in a mayonnaise sandwich later.