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Saturday, July 31, 2004

Caper and Careen my little Machine

By the time the horses had connected their laptop to Mr. Mouse’s modem and set up their fax machine, most of the audience had left, with the exception of Nosferatu, who just couldn’t get enough of the Monty Python Holy Ail that Mr. Mouse served up ice cold. The University of Vermont Equestrian team had all fallen asleep on the floor of the cave, while Groves, Chuck and I endured the pain produced whenever our photographs were trampled by the trains, which made their way over distant tracks, completely unaware that they were being used by three dirty dogs named Thrum-Cap, Coil, and Admantine to foil what was to be the very first Evil Wiener gig.

“Eureka!!!” Said Burgoo King Jr, the thoroughbred horse who was in the midst of masterminding a plan to relieve us from the agonizing burden produced whenever a train ran over our pictures.

“Arcata!!!” said Dust Commander III, who had just I.M.ed his cousin in Whitehorse.

“Do we have contact?” Asked Burgoo King Jr.

“We have contact.” said Dust Commander III

“Commence with Operation Tele-Dudley in X minus 3,2,1.....

Just then, the fax machine leapt into the air, did a somersault, and landed on the floor. In a squeaky, robotic, voice the fax machine screamed “Cowabunga”, then proceeded to shake its lower backside-what essentially amounted to its booty. Salmon colored sparks began to fly from the top of the machine as it shook, wiggled, shuffled and spun. A brume of chartreuse smoke shot from a slot in the spinning machine. It enveloped the entire room and smelled like two mangos making love. When the fog had cleared a Canadian Mounty in full regalia stood before us. This process repeated itself 8 more times.

Horse Sense

It was no use trying to continue. Every time I started to strum my guitar, my astragalocalcaneum would jolt, and I would fall down. Chuck howled as the crystal structure of his minerals constricted. Groves caterwauled as only a catfish can. We all looked bemoaningly at the balloons filled with watermelon seeds that we had prepared for our grand finale- knowing that this grand finale would never come. I cried like a ladylux ergonomically designed soft touch dual spray faucet with fingertip controls.

The audience stared at us as we contorted under the burden of the trains that were running over our photographs, which had been tied to the tracks by Adamantine, Thrum-Cap, and Coil-the three brutish rock club owners who would/will stop at nothing to undermine the career of Evil Wiener.

Mr. Mouse, the owner of the cave in which we played, turned to the Indian Flying Fox who had delivered the news of Thrum-Cap, Coil, and Adamantine’s latest dastardly deed.

“Is there nothing we can do to help bring an end to this tragedy?” asked Mr. Mouse.

“Probably not in time for them to finish their gig” said the Indian Flying Fox.

“Dogone it.” said a Peahen who was sitting at the bar, “I really wanted to get my Rock on”.

“Oh well. I guess we’d better head back to Vermont” said the captain of the University of Vermont Equestrian Team.

Just then, one of the equestrian team’s horses piped up; “Wait a second. I think I know how we can help.”

We all looked at the horse, and then to the Captain of the Equestrian team, who said; “Burgoo King Jr. here is one of our best horses, if he says he can help, then we should hear him out.”

Burgoo King Jr. didn’t wait for any response, but instead turned to another horse and said; “Dust Commander III, is your cousin still up in Whitehorse?”

“Yup” said Dust Commander III.

“And Kauai Queen, do you have your laptop on you?” said Burgoo King Jr.

“Yup” said Kauai Queen, pulling a G-4 power book out of her saddlebag.

“Mr. Mouse. What kind of internet connection do you have?” asked Burgoo King Jr.

“DSL Light” responded Mr. Mouse.

The horses all whinnied in disapproval.

“Hey, Man. I live in a cave!!! Whattaya expect?” said Mr. Mouse.

“Don’t fret lil’ pal” said Burgoo King Jr. “We’ll make due. Do you have faxing capabilities?”

Mr. Mouse shook his head from side to side in a sheepish manner.

“No worries, Lucky Dancer, are you packin’?” Another horse, whose mane had been trimmed in a manner that resembled a mohawk, winked as he whipped out a very sophisticated looking fax machine.

We all looked at each other, wondering what the horses had up their saddle bags.

Friday, July 30, 2004

Ma Po Popliteal

By the time Captain Lepus had made his way to the bar- a self propelled bicycle, a generation gap, and another mouse had ambled into the Cave. By the time we were ready to play, the place was full of all kinds of folks;

Nosferatu was chatting with Maureen McCormick. The Thompson twins were playing rock, paper, scissors against the University of Vermont Equestrian Team, whose horses were drinking Blue Sky All Natural Soda and flirting with a group of peahens. Fred and George Wesley were playing pinball. Benji was making eyes at Stitch.

Even with all the commotion in the room, I noticed the funnel cake with green eyes that I’d last seen next to the mystical rock quarry from which I got my guitar. She was standing in the back making a marionette do an East Coast Swing dance.

Three of my teeth fell out, which is a sure sign that I’m nervous. But I used silly putty to stick them back in place and said;

“Hi everybody, we’re Evil Wiener”

We launched into our set, and Chuck’s drums sounded like a gigantic cotton candy machine with cool pictures of kangaroos playing soccer on it. Groves’ bass controlled the weather, and even though it was nearly eleven pm, he made the sun shine in the Cave. We were seriously skating over the frozen sea of effulgence, and everyone there knew it. Then, suddenly, the bass stopped and the sun ceased to shine.

“Ouch” Said Groves.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s my trigeminal nerve foramen, it hurts like crazy, and AAAAAAAAAAGH!!! Now my Suspensorium-V. Heeeeeeeeelp!!!!!

Just as I was wondering what to do, I felt an aciculate pain in my xiphoid process, and another in my patella.

I hollered out and then realized that Chuck, too , had joined Groves and myself in this most agonizing endeavor.

Just then an Indian Flying Fox swooped into the cave, landed on the bar and said;

“Thrum-cap, Coil, and Adamantine have taken the Evil Wiener pictures and tied them to the railroad tracks. So now, whenever a train comes along, Chuck, Groves, or Billy are going to be in for some serious discomfort”

The crowd let out a mutual gasp, as my popliteal vein throbbed mercilessly under the weight of a distant train.

Foil the Foilers

Groves, Chuck, Mr. Mouse, and yours truly, Billy Sugarfix- put up 5,845,396 photographs to advertise our show at Mr. Mouse’s cave. When we got done we were tireder than narcoleptic box turtles.

We went to the cave, where Groves, the six foot plus bass playing catfish took a nice nap in the giant aquarium that used to house Mr. Mouse’s pet electric eel.

Chuck, the meteorite who fell to earth to play drums in Evil Wiener (our power-pop alternative indy post punk marathon of a band), and I filled balloons with water melon seeds to prepare for the show. We had filled up 4,857,685 balloons when three men wearing black cloaks, stove pipe hats, and sporting handle bar mustaches entered the bar. They approached the bar, confronted Mr. Mouse and said;

“You must pay the rent” The voices revealed to us that these three men were none other than Thrum-Cap, Coil, and Adamantine.

“No fuzz off my peaches” said Mr. Mouse as he handed them a Cream Colored Bali Hai Duvet lavished with lace. He paused for a moment then produced a copy of the lease, which stated that Mr. Mouse was obligated to provide one (1) Cream Colored Bali Hai Duvet lavished with lace per month in order to inhabit the premises.

The three dastardly villains winced, but then Adamantine reached into his cloak and produced the 5,845,396 photos we had posted to advertise our show.

“Ha Ha Take This!!” Said Adamantine.

“No one will come to your show. They have no way of knowing about it” Said Thrum-Cap.

“I got my hair cut by a grasshopper and boy are my arms tired” Said Coil.

We all looked at each other in desperation. What could we say? Finally we’d gotten a gig, and this trio of callous caitiffs had bollixed our chances of getting an audience.

I was just about to say “Gee-Whiz” and burst into tears when I heard a buzzing, swishing, spinning sound coming from outside. We all ran out of the Cave where we were stunned by the sight of a rocket that looked just like a giant carrot. As it was landing, a voice boomed from some speakers in the ship saying;

“Ladies and Gentlemen, does and hares, do not be alarmed. The flying carrot that you see before you is none other than the revered Beta-Kerotene, as piloted by the fabulous Captain Lepus...”

The doors to the rocket ship then swung open and eighty three different colors of smoke shot out of it until finally there appeared a silver clad rabbit with goggles and a cell phone.

I didn’t mean to eve’s drop, but I heard him speaking into the phone and saying;

“Peter, baby, my main man, whattaya mean where am I? I’m at the Evil Wiener show. Isn’t everybody?”

Mr. Mouse, Chuck, Groves, and myself all looked at each other in disbelief. Thrum-cap, Coil, and Adamantine were not happy. Not at all.

The sleek rabbit from outer space hopped up to me and said;

“Mr. Sugarfix, I presume”

“Why, yes sir” I replied.

“Captain Lepus, intergalactic star hopper, at your service”

“But...but... how’d you know about the show? Thrum-cap, Coil, and Adamantine took down all of our photo advertisements.”

“Billy, baby, I read your blog on the internet.” said Captain Lepus.

I knew that this thing was worth doing.

Saturday, July 03, 2004

The Noble Rodent's Vision

“Bo Jo(u)” said Chuck, as he rolled up to the curb.

“Hail” said Groves, as he took a long slog from a bottle of quarry water.

“Acknowledgments all around” I said “I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Mr. Mouse.”

Mr. Mouse jumped up onto the sidewalk and did four backflips. He then spun around, dropped to the ground, did the worm for eighteen and a half minutes, turned a sommersault, came out of it and spun on his head, walked on his hands for another eighteen and a half minutes, turned invisible, reappeared on the other side of the street, bounced back across on his tail, and said;

“Mr. Mouse is my sobriquet
I live downtown in a bona fide cave”

“Wowsers” said Groves.

“How did you know to stop at exactly eighteen and a half minutes?” asked Chuck.

“Chuck, baby, this isn’t about me. This is about Evil Wiener, my cave, big party. I got more connections than the internet. I’m seein’ stars. Three of ‘em. Whattaya say fellas? Are you in?”

Chuck and Groves looked at eachother, then at me.

“Does this mean...” said Groves.

“...That we have a gig” said Chuck.

“It sure as Christian Dior Extase Sunglasses with Lilac Lenses does” I said.

“That’s the mettle” said Mr. Mouse “So, let’s get right on this. Think advertising, getting the word out, shmoozing, networking. I can see billboards and skywriting in the future, but for now, let’s take a grass roots approach to things.”

Mr. Mouse reached up and pulled a poloroid camera out from behind my ear. It was wierd. I didn’t feel a thing! He snapped a picture of us, and while we were waiting for it to develop he reached up again, and this time pulled a sharpie brand magic marker from behind one of Groves’ whiskers.

“Mondo-cool” said Groves.

“Grape-fruit like” said Chuck (Chuck really likes Grapefruit)

Mr. Mouse wrote; “Come See Evil Wiener at the Cave” on the picture and hung it on a kiosk.

The four of us then walked from kiosk to kiosk, and at each one Mr. Mouse would take another picture, write on it, and then hang it up to advertise our big show.

Several times I noticed men in black capes, top-hats, and handle bar moustaches looming in the shadows around the kiosks, but I didn’t think anything of it.

Heart Like an Eel

Before we had gone too far down the street, Chuck said;

“I’m hungry”

Groves said;

“I sure would like to jump into a pond or something”.

“Say” said Chuck “Why don’t we look around for a place where we could eat, and maybe get a hotel room with a big bathtub for Groves”

“Gee” I said “I don’t think we have enough money for that.”

“Darn” said Chuck.

“Shucks” said Groves.

I gave Chuck and Groves the last bit of dough that I had and told them to go and at least get a snack somewhere. I then sat on the curb and felt lower than the toilet in the basement of hell.

“You look sad” said a squeaky voice. I turned around and saw a mouse.

“I am sad” I replied.

“That’s ok.” said the mouse “So am I”

He came and sat on the curb next to me and said;

“Why are you sad?”

“I am sad because our Rock and Roll band can’t get any gigs because no one likes my singing. How about you?”

“I am sad because my pet died”

“What kind of a pet was it?” I asked.

“It was a giant electric eel. What is the name of your band?”

“Evil Wiener”

“Evil Wiener? Say, aren’t you the guys who trashed Thrum-Cap and Coil’s? And then drank all of the lemonade at Admantine’s Rock and Roll Lemonade Stand?”


“YEEEEHAW!!!” said the mouse “Those jerks have had it coming for years. I wouldn’t feel bad about what they think. They wouldn’t know real Rock and Roll if it moved into their socks and played cards with their toes. To me, good music isn’t about good singing. It’s more about swimming in rock quarries, talking catfish, meteorites, and magical events that turn normal everyday creatures and objects into musicians. That’s where I’m comin’ from.”

The mouse paused for a moment and then said;

“Saaaaaaaay. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you guys come play at my place? I live in a cave that’s right down town. Having a rock band to party with might make me less lonesome for my recently departed pet, the giant electric eel.”

I felt like a multicolored balloon with a hologram inside it. It was finally happening!!! A gig for Evil Wiener!!!! Then, I had an idea of my own.

“Why, yes, Mr. Mouse. We’d love to play your Cave. But first, let me ask you. Can you pay us a thousand bucks each? JUST KIDDING. JUST KIDDING. What I really wanted to ask, is, what kind of aquarium did you have for your eel?

“A large freshwater aquarium” said Mr. Mouse.

“Would it be big enough for, say, a six foot three catfish wearing sweat pants and a tuxedo jacket?” I asked.

“I should say so” replied Mr. Mouse.

The future looked brighter than a solar panel on the Palace of Apollo.