Parrothead Ramblings

Steve-O and I have always
been very, very, very close friends.
Saturday. A day of reckoning. The moonshine-flu symptoms were relatively mild, and by midday I was back in full swing. OK, semi-swing. There was that little nap......Anyway, I did manage to participate in a resort activity more frustrating and demeaning than golf. It's called a "Slot Tournament," and has the advantage over golf of adding the element of complete mindlessness to the mix.

Here's how it works: The person operating said tournament parks you and a half-dozen or so other unsuspecting asses on bar stools in front of slot machines. The machines are preloaded with all the credits you need. She says "go." You push the button. Over and over and over again. She says "stop." You stop. If the little red number on your machine is higher than the little red numbers on all the other machines, you win. That's it. No element of skill or decsion-making whatsoever. Got my ass handed to me by The Headbeak himself. I think he got whacked by somebody else later, but by that time I was back out at the pool with the The Big 3: Beer, bullshit, and buddies.

That night, we got a couple of treats that none of us will soon forget. First was Coconut Bob Karwin in the ArrowWeed Lounge. Dude was on fire! I've seen Bob perform several times, and he's always fun, but I've never seen him kick ass the way he did that night. Bob had that audience in the palm of his hand. He even made broken guitar strings seem like part of the act. His show was off the hook!

Once we had been swept away by Bob Karwin, we headed back over to the pavilion for the evening's main attraction:The Boat Drunks. You might remember that I reviewed their album, This Ain't Duval Street, a while back, and really loved it. I bumped into the band on my way in to the pavilion and chatted them up for a bit. Man, you couldn't find a nicer bunch of guys, and I mean that. They told me how thrilled they were that I profiled them on Ramblings, and even promised me an advance copy of their next album. See, they don't realize that only like three people read this shit. Let's keep that a secret till after I get that advance copy, shall we? Well now, let me tell you, listening to their album doesn't compare to seeing them live. Howie's harp is an absolute showstopper, and new guy with the sax (was it "Bill?") had the Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog and the rest of the crowd spellbound. Mike's mike (sounds kinda weird) was disappointingly light on "Hollow Man," which, I might add, they dedicated to yours truly. I was waving my arms towards the booth like a madman, and they eventually got it turned up a bit. Still couldn't hear him very well, though, but I'll get another chance at Meeting of the Minds, I'm sure. In addition to Buffett tunes Jimmy himself probably can't even play anymore, as well as "Hollow Man," they did "Pirate on the Caribbean" and "Big Food" from This Ain't Duval Street. CD sales seemed brisk during intermission, and I guarantee you there are about 300 more Boat Drunk fans right now than before that show. My best buddy Steve-O listened to the CD twice on the way home. But then, he also allowed himself to be photographed groping a rubber ass that had been strapped to me the night before, so let's not read a lot into his judgment shall we?

The highlight of the evening was when the Drunks invited all of the other musicians who had already played up on to the stage to join them. Like the rest of the band, Jake, the Drunks' admitted Cub-aholic front man, already has a wonderful guitar and a terrific stage persona. What happens when you add Stars on the Water's Jerry Gontang? Magic! As my boys The Blues Brothers might have said: We had a band that could turn goat piss into gasoline! As a side note, if you ever want to see something hilarious, try watching a bunch of drunk Parrotheads square dance to "Peanut Butter Conspiracy."

So, we danced the night away until about 1:30AM, then headed over to the bar. My bum leg betrayed me a short while later, and The Fetching Mrs Crime Dog and I had to call it a night. The party was till going strong, though, with the lovely and talented Arizona Cheesehead outlasting me by a wide margin for the coveted title of "Last Parrothead Standing."

Of course, when I bumped into Cheesehead and her posse the next day on the long road home, I liked the shoes I was standing in a whole better than hers. Things just tend to sorta even out, don't they?
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