The phone rings.
“Hello?” I slur through a haze of alcohol. “Let me turn down the music. GUYS! Turn it down!” Tupac’s “California Love” quiets to about 100 decibels. “What’s up?”
“jason!” It’s Jayson, calling from his bunker in the woods (Called To Eleven North, which is odd because it is South of To Eleven South since my move to the CLE.) “Tomorrow’s a holiday or something!”
“What, like Veteran’s Day?”
“That, too! But it’s 11-11-11. We need to get something posted for that! You’re our only hope!”
This holiday is news to me, but we don’t use calenders here in the CLE. We just show up to things when we get there. “Huh,” I say as I drink from my jewel-encrusted Chalice. “Don’t fret on this. I’m Obi Won Kenobi up in this bitch. CLICK!” I head out to the living room and tell the DJ to keep a lookout for trouble and to keep the music down. Then, I pull back the head on my bust of Freddy Mercury, push the red button, and jump down the shaft in my closet to reach The Cave. As I’m sliding down the pole, I realize that the Freudian imagery of this whole scene is wrong and decide that I need to hang some red curtains around the closet door before I do this again, but that’s neither here nor there.
In the cave, I consult J.A.Y.N.O.V.A., the To Eleven Super-Computer. “J., I need a blog post, like right now. What cha got?”
The lights blink and flash before the computer spits out a slip of paper. “RESOURCES UNAVAILABLE. TOO MUCH DATA. BUSY WEEK.”
I try to remember what happened this week, but when life is one huge party, it all blurs together. “What the hell you talkin’ bout?” I ask.
Another slip of paper. “MICHAEL JACKSON’S DOCTOR CONVICTED OF INVOLUNTARY MANSLAUGHTER.”
I think I heard about that. “Yeah. I wasn’t in the courtroom, so I ain’t tryin’ to second-guess the jury an’ shit, but like…here’s the thing. That was a surgical anesthetic, right? So it was illegal to have just for personal use. And the doctor’s defense was ‘He asked me for it, so I gave it to him.’ So this dude will probably not see any prison time, or if he does, it will be very little. A pot dealer will often get a year or two in prison, while a man who basically kills someone with drugs that are illegally administered gets a slap on the wrist because he has ‘M.D.’ in front of his name? Bullshit. What else happened?”
Another paper. “HEAVY D PASSED AWAY AT AGE 44.”
This sucks. I’ll admit, I wasn’t Heavy D Super-fan #1, but I appreciated that he was able to be popular in the early nineties without going negative. And dude was only 10 years older than me. That freaks me out a little. I’d say “let’s have a moment of silence,” but instead, lets have four-minutes, twenty-seven seconds of watching a video. “J.A.Y.N.O.V.A., cue the video!”
“Ok…did anything else happen?”
J.A.Y.N.O.V.A. spits out another slip of paper. “GLEN DANZIG ACTS LIKE A BABY.”
Ah, yes. Here, we have Glen Danzig claiming to be sick, so he needs a bigger stage, the weather to be higher than 28 degrees (it was going to be in the 50s), lots of vitamins, a wind tarp, and then he still resisted going on stage because he had “a Deathbug” and would die. He also refused medical treatment because he has to fight everything naturally.
OK, here’s the thing about Glen. The dude does not understand medicine. He claims that all modern Medicine is a crock, and that if you had Cancer, you should take vitamins to cure it, not chemo. He claims that if you get chemo, you’ll be dead in a week.
Here’s another thing: My mother had cancer. She had chemo, and not only did she not really get sick from the chemo, but he cancer was destroyed. Danzig had a cold, and it shut his shit down. So, Point Medicine.
My favorite quote from the promoter of the show that got screwed is this one: “He totally looks and seems fine. No coughing, no paleness, no vomiting – just some balding and a gut, from what I can tell.”
So yeah. Glen Danzig’s a joke.
About this time, I hear some crashing upstairs. It’s the fire marshal. He’s trying to shut us down. I climb back up the fireman’s pole, realizing that I really need to put stairs up in here, and run out to the dance floor to talk The Man down. After I get rid of him by flashing the hand signs of various secret societies and bribing him, the party continues, and it is bangin’! Bottles of Cristal, fly honeys, the DJ…that’s how we’re livin’ at To Eleven South.
Which is why I am just rolling out of bed now with nothing good to write for the blog.
So, happy 11-11-11, everyone.