Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Don't Know What You've Got ('Til It's Gone) Dept.
Tonight, my 80's metal cover band, The Velvet Curtain, rocked so hard that I am tender in the midsection. And I suspect that the standing-room-only crowd at an undisclosed celebrity-owned location on Hollywood's infamous Sunset Strip will be in need of immediate medical attention following the third-degree rocking they received this evening. I can't be sure, because I was buried neck deep in jailbait groupies with a fetish for music being made when they were drooling to Barney tapes, nearly suffocating in a cloud of Aquanet. But I heard that ambulances had to take away at least three fans that fainted dead away during our rendition of Cinderella's "Shake Me," and two others had to be treated for hysterical nymphomania after my solo acoustic version of Extreme's "More Than Words." All of the above is to be expected, or at the very least, encouraged at the average Curtain gig. And this was a decidedly above-average offering.
Despite the overall rocking fucking success of the entire evening, the show did not proceed entirely without incident. My flamethrowing, spiked karaoke-enabled codpiece malfunctioned during the ear-shredding guitar solo of Winger's "Seventeen," the show's finale. The runaway crotch inferno quickly engulfed the left arm of our bass player, sloughing off the epidermal layer of his skin and severely blistering the layer below, the name of which escapes me in the wake of this unfortunate incident. I finished the solo, and managed a three-way with a nameless female fan and an above-the-title actress in a cramped janitorial closet before joining my bandmate in UCLA Hospital's burn ward.
You will all be glad to know that they saved the arm, but he'll be wearing long-sleeve turtleneck shirts to all future gigs. And everywhere else for that matter. In the meantime, the bandages give him a very goth-mummy vibe, something The Curtain's been heretofore lacking.
I think the look really works for him.