I had just finished playing, one night a few years ago, when a woman of approximately 45 approached me. And by “approached” I mean walked up until her nose was about a quarter of an inch from mine. She stared at me unsteadily for a few beats before slurring, “Yer cute. Ima buy you a drink.”
“That’s ok,” I gasped around the overpowering stench of tequila, hairspray, and cheap perfume. “I have to get up early tomorrow and I really shouldn’t drink anymore.”
“Ima buy you something,” She insisted. “And yer gonna drink it. So you might as well tell me what you like.”
I got the feeling that this wasn't a battle I could win. So I gave her my order and tried to give her the slip.
I somehow managed to wedge myself into a booth with the rest of my band mates, throw a hat on and crouch down. It was no use. It was as if she could smell fear. There was only about 2 inches of free space on the bench next to me, which I figured would prevent me from being accosted by a woman roughly the same age as my mom. Oh how wrong I was.
“I’m back!” she crowed happily, parking herself in my lap. She had with her what appeared to be a pint glass of Southern Comfort. Not to mention a face like a baseball mitt. She locked eyes with me and I squirmed uncomfortably as she handed me a piece of paper with her phone number. I quickly made an excuse about having to go to the bathroom. I was making exaggerated eye-motions to my friends hoping they’d take the hint and help me sneak out the back. They stared back at my obliviously. Perfect.
The second I had gotten up from the table, she leaned towards the drummer and announced, “Your friend’s hot. I'm going to take him back to my apartment for some hot and dirty sex.”
What the hell are you supposed to say to that?
After exhausting every possible escape route and excuse, I returned. On my way back to the table I felt eyes burning into my head. I glanced over and saw a dude wearing a leather jacket. The guy was in his late forties and weighed about 260 pounds. His beard, jacket and demeanor all screamed “Don’t fuck with me.” I suddenly realized that this night was about to go from bad to worse.
“Well guys,” I announced. “I gotta head home.”
“So soon?” purred the burn-out from the Johnson administration. “How about I drop my old man off and come pick you up?”
“Your old man?” I asked weakly.
She nodded in the direction of the leather jacket. I glanced over at what I expected to be the source of my imminent demise, and she used my moment of preoccupation to launch herself into my arms.
The man in the leather jacket stood up.
I stopped struggling, realizing that he might get the impression that I was trying to get a feel of 50 year old breasts, and instead raised both hands in the air. It was the universal sign for “See where my hands are? HELP!”
He pried her off me and started yelling at her. For the 800th time that night I looked over at my friends and made eye-contact. This time they got. Five seconds later, a scene from Dukes of Hazard exploded in the parking lot. I flung my self and my guitar through an open window and screamed, “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE!" A few yards behind us, Mr. Leather Jacket was pounding pavement shaking his fist. A few yards behind her, Mrs. Old Enough to Be My Mother was yelling after me to call her. At least, I think that’s what she was yelling. About halfway through, she leaned against a car and was violently ill. It was the first time all night that I shared her feelings exactly.
And that, my friends, is the story of the only real groupie I’ve ever encountered. Sometimes I wonder, “What if that’s the only kind of female fan I ever attract?” And then I have a horrible vision of playing a show for 50,000 screaming, topless 50 year-olds.
I guess what I’m saying is, being a Rock God ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Keep rockin’, bitches! See you next week!
3 comments:
hee - just wanted to say I enjoyed reading your blog
That's not quite how I remember it. At least she didn't press up next to you with her hand three inches from your junk. With her "old man" sitting right next to her. We talked with her and her old man before we went on, in fact he slid over on the bench to give us a place to sit. They dug us while we were on, and she came up in the middle of the set to come and put sunglasses on me, that she made me keep. Sadly, they got lost about a year ago somewhere in Rhode Island. Anyway, she was drunk from the start and yeah she went downhill fast. I remember she said something about working on a highway road crew, and smoking copious amounts of pot while engaging in topless drum circles.
I would have gotten you out of there, but I found it extremely entertaining, not to mention great fodder for stories. I never figured she'd make a move on you in the parking lot. But then again, how could I not see it coming.
Still, I think that was definately our best night at Rhodes.
OMG this made me laugh.
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