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Tuesday, June 17, 2003

 

The Sequel's Never As Good...Reloaded



Another Monday night spent sitting in my favorite booth at the world-famous Viper Room -- you know, one of those booths where the booze arrives in buckets, free, because I am terribly important around Hollywood. Metal Shop, Los Angeles' second-most-popular 80's heavy metal tribute band, rocks away on the stage, as Niko, the drummer from the Velvet Curtain, my 80's heavy metal tribute band, claws his eyes out in rehab. This week he thinks he's a badger that can survive only on turkey jerky and 40-oz bottles of Old E.

Last week, Keanu's new band played the Viper Room. They've never had the pleasure of warming a room for The Curtain, but we're in talks to make it happen.

I'm dragging on a Rolling Rock and making eyes at a brunette I would be able to identify as Eliza Dushku if I hadn't been drinking for seventeen straight days when someone slides into the booth next to me. He's wearing a yellow trucker hat advertising an establishment called "Ted's Beaver Repair."

"Dude," he says.

I turn toward him.

Yup. Keanu.

"I knew I'd find you here. That's some fucked up shit you wrote about my band last week."

"I thought I acknowledged that as a band with a celebrity in it, I am required to cynically cut it down. Besides, you should see how I treat Harrison Ford, and he just flies helicopters."

A cute waitress pushes her way through the crowd to my booth and delivers a fresh bucket of beers. Rolling Rocks. I grab her arm before she can leave.

"Does this joint have a kitchen?"

"Nope," she says.

"A-fucking-ha!" says Keanu.

"Well, it used to. Downstairs, but they turned it into another bar," she says.

I let her go and smile at Keanu. He immediately holds a fist up to me.

"You wanna play 'Rock, Rock, Rock' for her?"

"It's 'Scissors, Paper, Rock,' dude."

"Whoa." He looks around the bar. No one's recognized him yet with the trucker cap pulled tight over his eyes. "Let's play anyway. She's fine."

I sigh. "Okay...once, twice, three...shoot!"

I put down the scissors. Keanu asks, "Dude, what's with the peace sign?"

Before I can answer, Keanu throws a rock. And then another. Then another.

Rock, rock, rock.

He slaps me on the shoulder and starts off toward our waitress, whom I should mention was never so cute as she was at this exact moment.

"This time, put a hot picture of me up, maybe one where I'm all damp?" he says over his shoulder. I nod. I can see that the waitress is already smiling.

Smiling at me. I'd bet her two buckets of Rolling Rocks that Keanu would sit in my booth, get all excited at the lack of a kitchen in the Viper Room, and then hit on her after playing Scissors, Paper, Rock.

She didn't believe me.

Maybe she'll do better next Monday, Keanu or no Keanu.




About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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