« To Hold My Tongue Speaks of Quiet Reservations… |Main| Labor Day Weekend »

August 29, 2007

Lacey’s Party

Birthdays have always filled me with a strange sort of melancholy, which is why I haven’t celebrated one since 1990. Lacey, on the other hand, loves the attention. We invited everybody we knew, except for my various arch-nemeses (why I should have more than one at this stage in my life bums me out, but them’s the breaks), to gather at one of our favorite clubs—a pseudo-dive bar called Cabo Cantina, on Sunset near Sweetzer. We’ve always enjoyed the atmosphere provided by their kick-ass jukebox, plastic-flap doors, and nachos.

Lacey met up with Margo and me at our apartment, and we drove into Hollywood. Mikey and Riffs were already at the bar, but Carl was nowhere to be found. Lacey shrugged and said, “It might be awkward.”

“What?”

“Before the tour, he tried to get me liquored up and, well—you know…”

I nodded. I knew.

“No amount of alcohol would make me fuck that—hey, Carl!”

Carl shoved his way through the small but irritating crowd and joined us at our table in the back. He gave Lacey his patented happy-birthday kiss and tried to cop a feel. She pushed his hand away. Carl sighed and sat down on the other end of the round table.

For awhile, it was just us. We chatted for awhile, telling Lacey about hilarious practice-session exploits and, while we tried to keep “shop talk” to a minimum, I still tried to gauge what her overall PR strategy was for the band. As far as I can tell, she has none, other than to remain the “hot spokesmodel” for the band. It’s worked so far…

Around 9:30, Abysmal’s number-one fan, Colby Witherspoon, showed up with his supposed girlfriend, Dana, and our friend Gambol Gutenberg. Dana looks nothing at all like her picture, but maybe L.A. has transformed her, like so many others, into a gutter-tramp walking Hollywood Boulevard. Things seemed unnaturally tense between Colby and Lacey right off the bat. I caught her shooting daggers at him the moment he stepped through the entrance flap.

“Hey, Lacey,” I said about half an hour after Colby showed, to try and cheer her suddenly dismal state. “Sorry about the blog stuff yesterday.”

Lacey started to sob. “Why’d you have to bring that up?” She got up and ran to the restroom.

Margo elbowed me in the gut, hard.

“What?!” I snapped.

“It’s her birthday!” Margo whisper-shouted.

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m trying to cheer her up.”

“Well, bra-fucking-vo,” Margo groaned.

“Why you gotta be like—”

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Margo roared, her eyes fixed on the entrance.

There stood my once beloved, Robin Kelley, and her roommate and possibly lesbian lover Sharon Rexsmith.

“Robin…” I breathed. She looked tremendous. The I saw her, she looked like hell. Apparently Seattle life is treating her well.

Margo smacked at my boner, causing me to howl in pain. I turned toward her, and she gave me an Explain this RIGHT NOW sort of look, so I said, “I invited Sharon. I don’t know why Robin—”

“Stop lying!” Margo screamed, getting to her feet.

“But—”

“Okay, you’re being honest—but devious, you son of a bitch. You only invited that Hardchord moron because you knew she’d bring Robin.”

“Even if that were true—”

Margo let out the universal feminine grunt of total frustration, then stormed in the direction of the can.

“Well, you look great, Robin,” I said, standing to greet her.

“Maybe I should go,” Robin said somberly.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “She’s just a little jealous. She’ll get over it when she realizes I’m totally past you—are these real?” I squeezed one of her breasts, causing her to flinch and pull away from me.

“Jesus, Girth.”

“They just seem a lot…bigger. It’s probably just because you’re eating again.” I cast a glance at Sharon. “In more ways than one.”

“Fuck you,” Sharon spat.

“I almost did,” I said. “And I’m not saying no.”

Sharon looked ready to melt. I pulled a chair and let her sit down, then did the same with Robin.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” Sharon asked.

“Weeping in the can,” I said.

“Boy, if I had a nickel every time I heard that,” Colby said. He started to laugh, but it tapered off awkwardly when nobody joined in.

Suddenly, Dana smacked one of his hands, hidden under the table. She whispered in a surprisingly masculine voice, “I told you, it’s extra if you wanna play with Li’l Dana.”

Colby grinned guiltily. Riffs laughed for no apparent reason.

“I think we need some quesadillas,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

After two hours of awkward small talk, flat drinks, and delicious Mexican food, I realized neither Lacey nor Margo had returned from the bathroom. I excused myself and approached the ladies’ room with caution—this would not have been the first time somebody accused me of something unseemly involving a women’s restroom. I knocked on the door and received no response. I knocked again and gently pushed it open with my fist—I saw nobody, save for a single closed stall door. Protruding underneath it were my wife’s feet and calves. I fought the temptation to leap to the floor and begin licking them and instead threw open the door—

—and found Margo on her knees, exploring Lacey’s tenderest area, using her tongue just like a probe. It took me over a minute to assess the situation and come to a clear decision about which course to take: shout for Riffs to run over with his camera, confront Margo about the situation, or just stand and watch for awhile. I opted for the third, and when Lacey finally noticed me 10 minutes later, Margo turned around. She took a drag off the cigarette that dangled between her fingers and ask me what I wanted.

“I thought you told me you quit,” I said softly.

Margo’s eyes widened. She tossed the cigarette on the concrete floor and stubbed it out with a pound of her fist.

“Not that,” I said.

Margo shrugged. “Come on—it’s her birthday.”

I shrugged and tried to convince them to let me stay and watch. They refused, so I went back to my seat and pretended to not know where either of them were.

After fifteen minutes listening to Gambol tell Hollywood stories that only seemed to involved Ted Wass, Greg Evigan, and Brice Beckham, Mikey thankfully interrupted by announcing, “This party’s starting to suck!” He slid the remaining quesadillas into his oversized man-purse (he calls it a “satchel”), grabbed Riffs by the arm, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

Just after they left, Karen Hofstadt and Carlos Ueberschaer showed up. They’re an item now, apparently, which has led to Carlos freezing me out a bit. She’s still bitter that I stole all that money or something, and now he is, too. Which sucks, because he used to be real cool.

After asking about Lacey and chit-chatting politely, Karen brought out the big guns: “You owe me money, motherfucker.”

“For what?”

“I can’t unload the goddamn Paint Shaker to save my life, and it’s your fault.”

“Huh?”

“Every band in Hollywood knows Kelleystein’s reputation and the disasters that have come pretty much everyone—”

“But—”

“—yeah, except the Conquistadors, who were smart enough to get out early. Now look, I heard about the money. You buy the fucking Paint Shaker, we call it even. Okay?”

“How much?”

“Eight hundred and thirty thousand dollars,” Karen said without blinking.

“I’ll give you 22.”

“Deal.” She extended a leathery hand, which I shook.

“Send the papers to Feinstein,” I said.

“Speaking of which, where is the legal world’s answer to oily discharge?”

“Very clever,” I muttered. “I invited him. I dunno, we saw Lem Zisk a few days ago. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Jesus, that’s a blast from the past,” Karen said in a musing tone of voice.

As I pulled out my cell phone and navigated the complex menus so I could call up Feinstein, I saw Riffs and Mikey heading back inside—with two less than welcome faces. Two ex-bandmates flanked my current bandmates. There clomped Tommy Janofsky, short and fat as he had grown since abandoning the band, and with him—Rutherford “Jam” Malone, enormously muscular and oiled up in a mesh half-shirt and chaps.

I glared at the two of them as the phone rang. “You’re with Feinstein,” he announced in a semi-coherent slur.

“Herc, where you been?”

“Heeeeeeyyyyy, freak-show!” Feinstein slurred. “I been out with your money and your friend Mr. Zisk and some special lady friends. I ain’t slept in 96 hours and—”

“How come you’re not at the party?”

A long pause, followed by: “That’s tonight?!”

“Yeah.”

“Shiiiiit.”

“Yeah, and Karen’s here.”

“That bitch—”

Karen could hear the conversation on his end thanks to my shoddy phone. She huffed audibly.

“She has some papers that she’ll sign. We’ll send them to your office on—”

“You might send them to the harbor master.”

“You’re not going to get disbarred, are you?”

“Not this week. See you in 20.”

We hung up. Riffs and Mikey seemed reluctant to approach with Jam and Tommy, so I made it easy for them. “You’ve got some fucking nerve!” I snarled. “What gives you two motherfuckers the right to even be seen in the same city as me, much less the—”

“Shut your fuckin’ cock-gobbler,” Tommy retorted. “We’re here for Lacey. I’ve got some…well, I have a personal reason I gotta be here, so fuck off.”

“Me too,” said Jam. “In that, I also have personal reasons. Different from Tommy, mind you—”

“Fuck you both!”

“Where is she?”

“In the can with Margo.”

“If I had a nickel every time I heard that,” Jam chuckled. I let it pass on account of his pressed-ham forearms and head-sized biceps.

“You two need to leave,” I said. “Now. This is our watering hole.”

Jam sat down next to me gently and said, “Something you have to realize, Girth, is that you are not the center of the universe. You’re barely even the center of the Southern California heavy metal scene. You’re…what is he, Tommy?”

“A homo?”

“That’s right—washed up. Wait—Tommy!”

Tommy smiled sheepishly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked. “Did you honestly—this is scripted? Is this some kind of weird intervention or something?”

“For what? Eating?” Karen sniped.

“You goddamn harpy!”

“Watch it!” Carlos Ueberschaer said, penetrating my soul with his beady eyes.

“Fine,” I said. “Fine. Say your piece. Everyone, take a seat. Spill it.”

“Come on, Girth,” Mikey whined.

“No, no. You all obviously have agendas. Out with it. I want to know where I stand with my—I barely even know you fuckers anymore. What are you?”

“Acquaintances,” Karen said absently.

“Enemies,” Tommy growled, taking a seat. The other three surrounded him.

“So what’s new?” I asked.

Everyone started to yammer at the same time, yelling things about owing them money or taking them for granted or being completely self-absorbed and I swear I heard something about a talentless wife.

And then, amid the cacophony, my arch-nemesis Owen Autumn stormed through the entrance flap. “You son-of-a-motherfuck!” he screeched.

I leaped from my chair. Everyone in our immediate vicinity was silenced. My acquaintances and enemies turned slowly to face Owen Autumn in all his thickset glory.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, sitting back down, “what’s your deal?”

“What’s my deal?” he snarled. “The love of my life is lying in a hospital bed three blocks from here and you’re partying it up? Yeah, I read your blog. I know you’re not going to ‘waste your time’ curing my love of cancer, you fucking pussy!”

“Why don’t you do it yourself? I’ll lend you the book.”

Just when I thought this party couldn’t seem more like Trapped in the Closet, Lacey and Margo emerged from the bathroom. Both looked disheveled and dehydrated, all puffy and red-faced and messy-haired. Sharon caught on right away and nudged Robin. They crossed the room and, with the noise of the bar, the music, and the sports blaring on television, I couldn’t hear a word they said—just a lot of animated and erotic hand gestures, following by all four women walking toward the entrance flap, arm in arm.

As I watched, I didn’t realize Owen Autumn was still talking. I wasn’t listening at all, but I assume he said something along the lines of, “Girth, I can’t cure her cancer because I’m just not sure the fetus of another fat, sweaty albino will vanquish the corrupted cells like a baby McDürchstein, whose enormous man-rod alone can cure sexually transmitted diseases and impregnate Biblically barren women.”

I couldn’t blame the poor sap so, thinking about Margo not even trying to hide her flagrant lesbianic cheating (she doesn’t consider it cheating since nothing human is inserted in her, aside from tongues, fingers, and fists), I shook one of his clammy hands and said, “Owen Autumn, I will sex your woman up until her cancer is gone.”

“You motherfucker!” he roared, lunging at me so suddenly that I couldn’t move out of the way. We slammed into another group’s table, smearing delicious quesadillas and painful wood against my hairy back.

I shoved him off of me and, as he regained his composure, I leaped to my feet and got into a fighting stance. Just then, I noticed the West Hollywood Police towing my hearse. I had forgotten to feed the meter, and with no fewer than 87 unpaid parking tickets in the City of West Hollywood, it was time to teach me a lesson, I guess.

“My car!” I shrieked, ignoring Owen Autumn as I ran out into the cool night just in time to see the tow truck roll down the hill on Sweetzer.

I balled my fists and raised them up to the cosmos, yelling, “FUUUUUUUCK!” at the top of my lungs.

“Hey,” a girl who couldn’t have been more than 20, with typically huge fake breasts and typically scrawny chicken arms said as she passed me on the sidewalk. She stopped and pointed and asked, “Aren’t you Girth McDürchstein?”

“Yeah,” I said, suavely arching my eyebrows.

“Shit!” she smiled. “Could I—do you sign autographs?”

“Absolutely,” I said, noting her distinct lack of paper. I pulled out my ever-present Sharpie and yanked the collar of her shirt down to reveal her brassiere. She didn’t seem to mind.

As I signed, she giggled and said, “Christ, none of the girls are going to believe I got your autograph. We’ve just—we’re so into this whole L.A. kitsch thing.”

“L.A…kitsch?”

“Yeah, you know—it’s like all these fat losers who used to be sorta famous, or related to somebody famous—like that guy!” She pointed into Cabo at Gambol. “Who’s always in pictures with Blossom’s dad for whatever reason. Morons like that who are just leeching off the fame cycle like—”

I balled my fists up and shook them in the air, screaming, “Whore!”

“Yeah, like whores,” she said, smiling a sunny smile. “Well, look, it was real cool to meet you. Are you still in—what do you do again?”

“I am a legendary rock star.”

At that she laughed out loud, shaking her head and continuing up the sidewalk. I considered following her, forcing her into a nearby alley, and murdering her, but that didn’t go so well last time, so I let it go.

I stood there, on the corner of Sweetzer and Sunset, for a long time after she’d disappeared around the corner, just staring.

After awhile, I felt myself drift back into Cabo Cantina. Everyone was laughing and having a great time—even the girls had come back from wherever they had gone off to. Their good cheer left as soon as I sat down.

“How’s the car?” Margo asked.

“Who gives a shit?” I snapped.

“Let the good times roll,” Tommy breathed.

“You guys…” I said softly. “Am I really a washed-up loser?”

Every mouth at the table opened in unison, but I cut them off: “Keep in mind that if I’m washed up and you guys are my hangers-on—I don’t even want to know what that’d make you.”

“Fuck, Girth,” Jam said. “We’re not hangers on. Most of us don’t even talk to you anymore—”

“Unless we want money,” Karen piped in.

“Point being,” Jam continued, sounding offended by the interruption, “we’ve moved on with our lives. When will you?”

I looked around the table, horrified to find general agreement in the eyes of each person—including my current bandmates and, perhaps most horrifying, Margo.

“What am I supposed to do?” I stammered. “Grow up? I tried adulthood. It didn’t take.”

“I can vouch for that,” Robin grinned.

“Me too,” said Carl.

“Who gives a shit?” Mikey asked. “Keep doin’ what yer doin’, or don’t. Ya might find it hard ta believe, but nobody except maybe Margo gives a shit. We’re here for you no matta what—”

“Except me,” Tommy groaned.

“And me,” said Jam.

“I’m with them,” Owen Autumn said happily.

“Whatever,” Mikey said. “The ones of us who like ya are here. We’ll do whateva until we decide we don’t wanna. But I think I can speak for everyone when I say, we ain’t sittin’ around thinkin’ about what you do unless you’re doin’ it around us, and even then we don’t usually care. If we did, we’d a left years ago.”

“But…you did leave,” I reminded them.

“Because you fired us!” Mikey shouted.

“Oh yeah.”

The music made a sudden segue about halfway through AC/DC’s “Have a Drink on Me” to “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” by Van Halen. The lights dimmed—and Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein lurched through the door with Lem Zisk. Their faces red and greasy, eyes bloodshot, carrying a suitcase undoubtedly filled with cash and cocaine, they jumped on the bar and attempted to dance. What we saw was little more than arrhythmic, lawyerly gyrating—but they did it with a smile.

It occurred to me. “This is Lacey’s night,” I said aloud. “Let’s all put on sports bras and grab each others’ asses on the dance floor!”

And we did—for one brief night, everyone putting aside their grievances to celebrate. Even I stopped thinking about myself long enough to have fun with Lacey and the gang.

Late in the evening, when we had run through the early (worthy) Van Halen canon and had to switch over to Journey, I took Margo in my arms and we slow-danced to “Lights.” We said nothing with our mouths, but everything in the eyes—all the transgressions of the past few days were forgiven on both sides.

I haven’t felt so in love with Margo since our wedding day almost two years ago.

Then Colby ruined it. He asked to switch dance partners during “Who’s Crying Now,” which was all well and good until I wrapped my arms around Dana. And felt the lack of hips. And the bulge in the crotch. And saw the Adam’s apple and hint of five o’clock shadow.

Fuckin’ Colby.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 29, 2007 5:09 AM
Permalink |  Cancer Crisis!  | Digg It