Parrothead Ramblings

He might make a great Parrothead, but just keep this dude away from me, OK?

By Friday afternoon at Phins To The West, the party had re-started in earnest. I ambled on down to the pool to hang out with about 499 of my best friends, taking with me my inflatable floating cooler. Every Parrothead needs one of these things. It has an insulated cooler in the middle, and the ring that surrounds it is occupied by numbered cup holders, so you don't grab someone else's drink. Like it mattered, since no one could remember their damn number, anyway. After a while, our own Phins To The West Security people came around and advised everyone that it was contrary to hotel policy to bring your own cooler of drinks to the pool, and that we should get rid of them before the hotel Cooler Nazis came around. That kicked off a scene reminiscent of a Cheech and Chong movie, where everyone was trying to drink up their stash before getting busted. Others put their coolers just outside the pool fence, where they could reach through the bars and grab a brew. When all was said and done, I never did see any Cooler Nazis.

Take a late outing the night before, add golf in the morning, throw in some hanging around the pool afterwards, and sprinkle all that with copious amounts of alcohol along the way, and you get yourself one ass-draggin' Crime Dog by about 3:30. The decision was made to lay down for a few minutes so I could kick it in now, second wind, and I can safely say I wasn't alone. Well, obviously the Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog came along with me, but that's not what I meant. The whole pool area pretty much cleared out by that time, and I got a feeling there was some significant Z-catching going on around that joint. As for me - I was asleep before my proverbial head hit my proverbial pillow, and stayed horizontal for the next couple of hours.

The entertainment lineup that night of Sunny Jim, Kelly McGuire, and Hanna's Reef turned out to be a fantastic. It was a lively crowd, with its share of sprinters reaching the finish line well before the band did. But what really marked the evening for me was an event I'd never encountered. God willing, I never will again.

OK, let's see if I put this in context.....If you're half-century old, bald, overweight, hypertensive, and often flatulent Parrothead, any flattery is good flattery, right? I mean, if a woman - any woman - tells you you're sexy, and she loves your bald head, you would tend to listen to her, right? (Don't bother answering aloud, gentlemen, for I know you will lie) It really doesn't matter if the purveyor of said flattery is young, old, fat, thin, homely, hairless, or even if she's one taco short of a combo plate. My flatterer shall remain nameless, and she could have been any, all, or none of those things. But when told me my bald head was sexy, and she just had to see the top of it, I....well...showed it to her. And that's when it happened.

She licked it.

No, I don't mean she just touched the tip of her tongue to it, either. This was a full-on, full-length, extended Gene Simmons meets the Rolling Stones lick job.

I don't actually recall what happened right after that......everything is still a little blurry. The next thing I remember, I was pouring a shot of tequila over my head. Now, let's be fair here: It could have been just about anybody. I have an unabashed weakness for Kate Winslet, but it would still creep me out if she licked my bald, sweaty, head.

Well, that's it. Now my whole mental train has been derailed. Might as well quit now and try again tomorrow.

ADDENDUM: OK, my brain train is back on track, or at least as close as it gets. So, anway, there I was: speechless. Yep, that's right. The Crime Dog was speechless. Now, that's a rarity. I must have had that deer-in-the-headlights look, and Pab saw it. She immediately swooped in, put her arm around me and said "Hey, Dad! How's it going?" At first, I didn't get it. For just a moment, I thought I had entered some sort of parallel universe, but then it came to me. Pab was my Delta Force, my Rambo, my US Navy SEAL, rushing into harm's way to pull me from danger! She was my wingman, or whatever the female equivalent of a wingman is, a wingwoman? My flatterer was confused, "er, he's your Dad? I didn't know....." I stood there for a minute as the two of them started talking, then did that thing where you take a little half step, then another, then another, in the vague hope that your gradual withdrawal will go undetected. Now, the right thing to do would have been to pull Pab away with a "C'mon sweetheart, I've been waiting all night to dance with you!" But when you've had your head licked, your brain makes bad decisions. And I hauled ass, leaving Pab to fend for herself. My bad! She saved me and I threw her right under the bus. She somehow managed to extricate herself, though, and now I owe her BIG.
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