Ice, Ice, Baby. (part one)

It was retardedly hot in the Seahorse, but the beer was cheap, real cheap. Bad combination. Soon I was out for a slice to cool down and sober up. I have a new theory, going downtown with girls you know scares the new girls away and new girls are WAAAY better than the girls you know, at least that's what the cheap beer was telling me.

The first band blew. The guy sounded nothing like Ozzy. James, Mike and I just waited for them to get off the stage. The next cover band started up, they kick ass as usual, lots of blood sprayed at the audience, axes chopping into cabbage patch kids, he fries himself in the electric chair, he hangs himself, runs around on top of the tables with a cordless mic, throws fake money and most importantly he sounds and looks exactly like Alice Cooper.

So I walk up to get a better view. Someone has brought a tall clear block of ice and has it on their table.

"Wow!"

I stare fixated for a moment at this monumental piece of coolness in this skanking hot bar. I look at it's custodian. She looks friendly.

"Can I touch it?"

"Sure."

"Coo-wool! It's awesome! I love it. Where did you get it?" I recognize this prop from the story our friend at Stage Nine, James, told us the night before, but, it seemed like the right thing to say.

"He just found in the street, and we brought it with us, it seemed like the right thing to do."

A cloud of fake American billion dollar bills erupt from the periphery and flutter through my field of vision. They must be playing 'billion dollar babies' cool prop, but I hardly notice, I'm enchanted by this clear cold monster on the table, this piece of heaven in the dank, dark, debaucherous hell, I've paid to climb down into. She begins to stick the money to the little piece of icy happiness. Automatically I follow her lead.

"Don't cover the top."

"Ok"

"Cool."

"Fun!"

Wow. She's fun too. We stare at our masterwork, periodically touching it, adjusting the fake money, whatever to keep touching the only thing in the world holding back the wet oppressive heat.

"It's our baby!" I scream.

She smiles and looks at me in a way I've seen many times before, but on different faces, always on different faces. Maybe everyone gets this look, or maybe just me, maybe you'll recognize it. It's a moment where the looker, loses self-consciousness, looks me in the eye and evaluates me, actually sees the individual me for the first time. Part of this moment is disbelief. I know! It is the moment where the normal societal doubt is defeated, where I'm accepted as naturally harmless or honestly friendly or something, It's the subtextual/ hidden agenda scan, I think it comes up negative. But always in the reaction hides a little difference from one face to the next. This time it's a bit of happiness and warmth in the corner of her eyes and in the ends of a subtle smile. wow she's cute.

Some guy swoops in, scoops up the block of ice and carries it through the crowd over his head. Hands reach out for a precious blessing of the almighty cold. It's now a sacred thing.

"My Baby! Someone stolen my baby!" I wave my arms exaggeratedly and laugh.

He carries it to our own Alice Cooper who without missing a beat or lyric, licks it, rubs it all over his body and finally humps it on the long oak table for a few minutes, to the jubilant cries of the crowd.

"Your a terrible mother! How can you let him do that to our baby!" I point and scream, and laugh and point.

(to be continued.)

Today's Song of the Day is "Crazy Train" by Ozzy Osborne of his 1981 Album "Blizzard Of Ozz."

Crazy Fact: Guitarist Randy Rhoads was killed in a bizzarre plane accident in 1982, when his plane crashed into Ozzy's Tour bus.

njoy