The awakening of a lifetime

I used to love going to concerts.  I remember catching some of my favorite acts many years ago for under $20.  Now you go to see these same performers and they are senior citizens.  I understand reliving the past and paying tribute to our musical heroes, but now you pay 1000% more to see them.  Some old geezer at a microphone only singing half the song and I have to make a car payment to attend?
Let’s be clear on one thing, fans see things with rose colored glasses.  If 67 year old “Johnny rock n’ roll” struts on stage, gives cool looks, spits, and breaks his guitar, he cannot possibly look as cool as he did at 27.
No botox, penile implant, or super-sized Geritol dose is going to bring back his youth.  On the flip side, everyone should play music until they drop.  If you want to make grandpa a rock icon in your mind, that is up to you.  At least you don’t have to clean him up if he soils himself hitting the high notes.  
 
We get a bit of the best of both worlds in Onion Dent’s first major arena performance.  Donny is healthily back on his feet and primed and invigorated for his triumphant return to the stage. 
Rock veteran, Iian Hunter, on the other hand, had genuine interest in this show and initialed his participation in the event. He became intrigued with our group in conjunction with Donny’s near fatal show injury at the New Jersey non-profit benefit.  Donny isn’t going to call it good luck.  However, good fortune did arrived for Onion Dent in the form of a fallen light cam that put Donny in the hospital and really put us on the map. 
Since then, Donny had the visiting nurse “death episode” and the public’s endearing passion for Donny “the man, and victim” has increased tenfold.  The public doesn’t care if that old rocker , one Mr. Iian Hunter, shows up or stays home.  It is a peculiar position for the veteran rock star.  He has been peppered in the press as a “tag-along” trying to re-invigorate his career” by “latching on” to the most compelling musical story in decades.  He is commonly referred to in the press as the “rock n’ roll butt monkey.” Not only is the press hammering Mr. Hunter, Onion Dent is sour on the idea of sharing the stage and wants him placed firmly in the back seat of the limelight.  All of this chaos has transpired in the spite of a sold out show. 
  Onion Dent sits and chats at our luxery hotel.  Iam gave us some honesty “as happy as I am to be able to play such a huge arena, I really regret that we have to share the stage with this guy, he serves no purpose.  “I agree, I spent enough time in the hospital and don’t feel it’s right to compromise all that I went through” Donny had spoken from the heart.  We tried to get our manager Shill, to work Mr. Hunter out of the picture, but they are old friends and he puts his loyalty in the forefront.  There is always a catch when it comes to the circumstance surrounding this band.  Ironically we continue our winning ways to success with just that one show under our belt.
The marketing onslaught has kept us busy.  The band has been interviewed countless times in conjunction with the upcoming show and fans have embraced the candid personalities and spontaneous humor.  “Iam, what was the first thing you said to Donny when he came out of a coma?” “I fancy the liver spot on your buttocks that resembles the boot of Italy.”  “Jerry, did you ever imagine that Donny was possible of killing someone?” “No, but I know he used to host phony jewelry parties that he tried to turn into gang bangs.”  “Joe, is it true the band almost broke up over all of the difficulties experienced by Donny?”  “No, I could never leave the band because of Donny, he has too many naked pictures of me on his mantle.”
The band has become a prominent part of the story and has risen to the occasion.  The focus had been on Donny, but the group’s unique personality muscled in on the intrigue and allure.   The press embraced this quirky ensemble with the strange name. 
We meet for lunch at the hotel and talk about the upcoming show with an aging rock star. “Stay clear of the male enhancement M&M’s bowl in his dressing room, I think it’s the pink ones that have an ‘O’ on them.”  “How old could he be?” “Let’s flip him over and check his born on date.”  “Where do you think his born on date is?”  “Next to his sun-dried bean bag?” “I’ll tell you how old he is, If he sticks around another week and we can use his bird’s nest as compost.”

There is a luncheon held at a private suite at our resident posh hotel. We have the wall sized plasma TV tuned in to the area news as the entertainment portion begins.  There is an upcoming feature of an Iian Hunter interview that catches our eye.  It is the next segment after the commercial break.  The short interview uncovers his sour and candid views on Onion Dent.  He refers to us as “amateurs” lacking talent.  He stated that this show would prove the difference between “hype” and “genuine talent.”  Finally he said “I’ve seen these type of fly-by-night bands come and go, and they’ll be gone before you know it.  Most of my backup bands are left in the dust and then they sweep up when I’m all done.”
We weren’t pleased and took our turns in comment.  “This guy looks like he hasn’t been cleaned up since the bicentennial.”  “Let’s mop up the stage with him, before we need a mop on the stage for him.
“Don’t guys his age just like to smell bad, fart at the grocery store, and proudly sport unkempt ear hair.”  “If his groupies throw underwear on stage, I’m calling 911.”
This guy certainly has changed his tune from one of sympathy to competitive assault as we approach show time. Onion Dent’s  sentiment for Mr. Hunter has turned vile.  The joking stopped as reality sunk in.
“He’s through, this will be his last show.”  Joe uttered the resounding last word and the group agreed.

We sit in the vacant mammoth arena where the show will be held for our initial meeting with Iian Hunter. The venue always looks smaller when empty, but it was impressive to see and realize we were the ones filling it up with fans in three days.
We heard Iian Hunter from the stage upon arrival before we actually saw him.
“I heard about this band they call Onion Dent.”  There he was sporting extra dark aging rock star sun glasses, a black t-shirt with an orange triangle design, time tested  faded ripped jeans, and new blinding white high top sneakers.  The band was eager to establish an aggressive tone and to set the record straight.  Donny started off the festivities “hey look, it’s our opening act.”  Iam took his turn “This is exciting, I never shared the stage with someone that had osteoporosis.”  “Watch out for his crooked finger, it’s still eager and functional.”
Suddenly we were redirected by a loud thump. Through the side door holding guitar cases and additional gear was a distorted and peculiar aging hippie character. Iian Hunter’s assistant was an oddly arranged specimen of a man.  His name was Chit.  He was a sandy colored died long hair, chain –smoking, deep wrinkle faced, sculpted biceps, half cut-off shirt wearing, obscurely tattooed veteran of the music biz.  Two visuals stood out upon our introduction.  One absurdity was his missing teeth; the other was a stomach tattoo. “Do you think he’s just waiting for the shock treatments to take effect.” I curiously wondered.

Chit cracked a broken smile and the assorted tooth arrangement curiously had some deficiencies.  It mirrored a visual facsimile of an extraction of Dracula’s fangs.  The remaining front teeth were reminiscent of yellow Halloween corn candy or some runaway Chicklets caused by decades of chain-smoked lucky strikes and a mallow cup addiction.  On either side of the periodontal defensive line, were gaping black holes that drew in your eye.  He laughed a lot, even when no one talked to him.  When he laughed, the eyes affixed on the missing teeth regardless of how funny the inside joke was.  I had a strange neurological daydream that confetti was going to shoot out on some hilarious joke and we all would have to run for cover. 
The second absurdity was a stomach tattoo that could have been a case study right from my old abnormal psychology professor.  Chit had a “c-section scar” tattoo.  He thought it was hilarious, we thought it was insanity. He used it as a curious introductory conversation piece that brought on an unsettling feeling and loss of an appropriate response.  After he introduced himself, he pointed the tattoo out to the band and said “how about that?”  We had some comments that we mumbled amongst ourselves so he couldn’t hear us.  “I hope he doesn’t think I’m the fictitious father and expect me to pay child support in monopoly money.”  “I hope he doesn’t have another tattoo that he’ll show us later that is currently hidden by his dungaree shorts.”  “I kind of like how he chose to accessorize the gaping tattoo with the missing teeth to compliment the vacancy of brains.”  “If he tries to breast feed a Betsy Wetsy doll during the sound check, I’m calling the psychologist who helped Donny to quit sucking his thumb.” 
We decided to throw Chit a few of our usual mode of questions and he didn’t seem to understand any of them. 
Joe was the first to inquire then we took our turns. “Is it true that doctors have yet to deliver a baby through a human teapot spout?”  “Did you do the Lamaze class ‘cleansing breath’ technique while getting the tattoo?”  “Does belly button lint make it look like a maypole?”  “You should probably wear a cummerbund to the next family reunion.”  “Does your girlfriend call you girlfriend?”  “The matching birthing hips are a nice touch.”   “Is that the C section?  At least he got good seats.”

Shill told us that Chit was harmless and was traumatized thirty years ago when he was curiously left at the alter of a shotgun wedding.  The bride, and mom-to-be, ran off and left him at the backyard grill at her Daddy’s gunpoint.  All he had was his BO and aqua velva mix, and tuxedo shirt as he stood in groom position with the preacher for two hours.  The “coulda had a V-8” moment finally hit home when Uncle Bub ran in from the front yard to yell to the congregation that Thelma’s pickup truck was gone.  Chit stayed for the pig roast, got drunk, and then hiked for months to his new life of desperately needing psychotherapy.  Iian hired him one night after a show.  His limo was driving out of the barren parking lot and all that was left was a stick figure of a man standing by the exit.  Iian put down his window and Chit returned the guitar pick that he caught during the show.  He said, “ I thought you might need this.”  They have been friends ever since.

After our brief interlude with Chit, Iian Hunter took the initiative and shot back.  “Shill Miller told me what monumental ballbusters you are.  Let’s be clear on one thing you fookers, this is my show.  Anybody that gives me any lip will have to answers to Chit.  He is undefeated in cage matches in the UK.     
Joe had a little message “listen fuzzy, without us you’d be out to pasture with a carrot up your hole.”  Donny tried a gentler approach “why don’t you be a nice elderly man and take your orthopedic high heals and get on the bingo bus.”  The veteran rocker looked at Donny “listen Mr. Lucky, no one will care about you once this show is over.  Thank that light cam for your one day in the spotlight.”  Donny replied “I’ll take my chances Iian and hopefully I won’t ever need to meddle my way into someone else’s spot light years from now when my prostate swell interrupts my vocals.  You are just a worn down, crusty old turd.”
“That does it!” Iiam Hunter pushed Donny and he toppled over a vocal stage monitor.  A tense moment ensued and instead of a fight there was a revelation. 

Jerry spontaneously maneuvered a rapid step toward Iian Hunter and ripped his trademark wig off of his head. 
Jerry didn’t know for sure that it was an actually a wig, until he stood there with it in hand.  There was silence and we couldn’t accurately gauge each other’s facial expressions or feelings.  Was Iian Hunter red with anger, embarrassment, or both?  Chit, on the other had been down pacing around in pre-fight anticipation.  We just stood in silence and waited for whatever would unfold.  Jerry slowly lowered his head and stared at the floor in regret and peered in silence at the wig.  “I don’t do things like this,” he said.  “I hold the remnants of a rock star and his persona in my hands, this just isn’t right.”  He walked over to a red-faced broken former icon that had been exposed to a small group of confused onlookers.  “I’m really sorry about this, it wasn’t right to take away how you chose to be.”  “Iian Hunter reached over and took the wig, he proceeded at a snail’s pace toward the trash can at stage right.  He softly tossed the synthetic curls in the trash container as he stared momentarily at the contents and results.  “You’re right, I have been holding on to a memory for too long.” 
Nicole reached in her purse and found a compact mirror and slowly approached Iian Hunter.  She positioned the small mirror so he could get a glimpse of his own realty.  “Look,” she said.  “You know something, you’re a good looking man.”
He stared at the mirror with the same wonder and curiosity as someone who had just regained his eyesight.   He tilted his head to the left, and then to the right, then a small tear ran down his face and landed on the stage as it christened a new beginning. 
Nicole had a tear in both eyes as she witness the awakening and whispered some inspiration “let go, be yourself.”
He continued to look in the mirror, he wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and a tiny smile appeared as if an old man had been introduced to boyhood again.
“Come on Chit.”  They both began to walk off the stage.  Chit had Iian’s guitar pick in hand.  He stopped his tread behind Iian, paused and peered at the wig inside of the side stage garbage can.  He sighed, sniffed, and proceeded to throw pick into the trash.   They both exited through the stage side door on the left.
Donny was now on his feet and staring at the door that Chit closed tight.  “Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”  I gave him my best approximation “not in this lifetime Donny, not in this lifetime.”

Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(Check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The homicide of a lifetime

People don’t vote when it rains.  I heard it on the radio and thought of all the political addicts who spew their strong views and debate politics in bars, malls, and restaurants across the USA.  They listen to the talk radio personality that nationally airs the same opinions, put candidates bumper stickers on the car, and send blanket political e-mails that express their extreme viewpoint.  They spend every day of their lives engaged in politics just to sit on the sidelines on a rainy Election Day. Their voter message is “I support you all the way, depending on the acu-weather forecast.”  People are crazy.

Speaking of crazy, the press is portraying Donny as a crazed psychopath who is accused of killing a sweet, innocent, elderly visiting nurse.  I guess they never had the distinct pleasure to meet sweet Zelda.  She is fondly being remembered in one of the worst cases of yellow journalism the press has ever delivered.  The written descriptions of her being “loving, caring, and a true humanitarian” conflict with my vivid memory of her angrily stemming the middle finger toward Joe and calling him mini-dick.” 
That’s not to say Joe didn’t rise to the occasion in making her feel “warm and fuzzy” before she turned “cold and stiff.”  Speaking of stiff, we have a meeting with our manager, Shill.  He has masterminded a brilliant plan to get us together in a secret location as the press is hounding us for comments.  We arrived unnoticed and disguised as we are transported in an indiscrete cargo van to a cabin in the woods to discuss the facts.  We spend the trip in Onion Dent conversation. “Nicole, no fashion stops for an extreme makeover, no pee breaks, did you pack the turkey baster?”
“What is that stink?”  “It’s Jerry, he isn’t holding anything in on this trip, open a window!”   “It wasn’t me, it was Joe, didn’t you see him finish the leftover rigatoni and braciole?”  “Pass Joe the beano and I’ll take an oxygen mask.”  “Now I really miss Donny, this van smells just like his bachelor pad!”
The driver opens up the door for us and we shuffle in.  It’s a nice cabin that has the ambiance and warmth of a “Leave it to Beaver” Boy Scout fishing trip episode.  “Can we try to catch a “mess o’ catfish” when Scoutmaster Shill arrives.”  “The way he mounted Donny in the hospital, I don’t want any of you to let me alone with that guy.”  “He’s the kind of guy who teaches you how to tie a slip knot and then tries to slip you the tongue.”  “He teaches you grooming techniques by having you tuck his shirt in, then he asks you to guess his religion!”
   
We sat down and waited for Shill as we discussed “Donny the accused murderer.” 
“I wonder if he killed her by asphyxiation or the lethal ass fumes did her in.”  “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“She probably had him by bird’s nest and squeezed it like it was a stress ball.  “Maybe she had to use some Ajax to clean his white walls.  “Do you think she might have talked to him, like she talked to Joe, and he just killed the old bag?”
 
 Shill walked in and passed out coffee and bagels.  He sat at the head of the table with hands folded in front of him, cologne filling the air, and produced a prolonged exhale before speaking. 
“Here’s the scoop.”  Dr. Meat is not a doctor.  He practiced medicine as part of this complicated scheme of altered files and a complex illegal drug operation.  It was widespread and involved hospital administration, a metropolitan drug ring, and the local government. 
He was treating Donny with some fabricated LSD laced with other ancillary compounds and ingredients.  Donny didn’t kill Zelda, she was dipping into his prescription stash and her heart failed.”
“Do you have all that?”  “Yeah all except for one part.”  What part was that?”  “The part after here’s your coffee.”  Joe does it again.  

So when did Zelda croak?  Iam inquired
 “She died while bathing Donny.  She was found next to him on the floor as he slept naked on his stomach with the washcloth still on his bottom. 
I deducted “when the authorities walked in and found the wash cloth wedged between Donny’s ass cheeks and Zelda dead on the floor, did they rule it a suicide?”  “Is it true her famous last words were “P you?”  “When they pulled out the washcloth did the sound make everyone shout Happy New Year!” 
Shill continued “here’s what happened.  She dipped into Donny’s medications and took a lethal amount, enough for her heart to give out and died shortly after that.”  “Who called emergency services?”  “She had a medical alert device that she must have pushed before dying and that summoned the medical emergency unit.  The EMT’s called the cops and the rest followed.” 
“What a crime scene, a Farah Faucet wig, the air filled with proctologist potpourri, and Donny’s moon rising over the end tables.” “The captain called the precinct, “we’re gonna need another case of outline chalk and a mop!” 
“Could you send over some tweezers, witch hazel, pipe cleaners, and don’t ask any questions corporal!” “The detective said, it’s an open and shut case, this was an obvious failed attempt at a circus act!”
“You know, we should take some fingerprints of Donny’s ass cheeks just to rule out any foul play!”  “Or if it went into extra innings!”
Shill just walked out to his car talking to himself again.  We just kept on laughing.

Donny had to recuperate and detox before we could make any definitive plans.
The true story was spelled out in the press the next day, Donny was cleared of all charges, and Shill ran with the publicity to work on packing a larger arena for the Donny comeback show with Iian Hunter.”

We go to visit Donny once again.  The poor guy has had a rough month and a half.  We enter the hospital where he has been recuperating for the past ten days.  It was a pleasure to see him smile and comforting not to see him in his hanging down undies.  We all give him a big hello.  After making sure he was happy and well, Jerry made him feel right at home. 
“You are lucky we didn’t find you with Zelda before the police.  They would have found you two in the missionary position with you wearing the wig and nurses cap.”     
Donny chimed in for the first time in a long while “you know I never pass up on getting some action!” 
Joe pointer his finger “Donny, you really have me pissed off.” “Why?”
“We are the only band in the history of music that has a band mate on a two week acid trip who didn’t even write one song!” 
We all shared a laugh and enjoyed a pleasant visit.
Donny had a few things on his mind.  “Hey, I want to apologize to all of you for what I may have said when I was under the influence, I heard it was some pretty nasty stuff.  Iam replied “it wasn’t too bad, except when you asked Jerry and I to join you on your recliner for some three-way action. On a positive note, “you did a wonderfully touching undies slow dance with Joe on “three times a lady.” 
Donny added, “I hope I didn’t do anything too obnoxious or disgusting.”
“No you were fine, although you may want to throw out your wind chimes when you get home.”

The next order of business was to get Donny on his feet and prepare for the first rehearsal with Iian Hunter.
I remember Iian Hunter as the singer/songwriter of the band Lop Off. 
I checked out some of his recent concert clips online, and to answer Jerry’s question, he still can “bring it.”  He performed all of his classic hits “doing it, “doing it with two” “doing it with three” “doing it with the lights out” and his biggest hit “doing your taxes.” He has a reputation for strong introspective lyrical content and extensive knowledge of advanced managerial accounting.

My mind envisions the first meeting of our band with a rock legend and the nausea begins.  I know one thing about Onion Dent; no one will give a shit that Iian Hunter is in the room.  We won’t “kiss-his ass” or pander to his “rock royalty” status.  We are also the biggest bunch of ball-busters who ever walked the face of the earth.  It only means one thing; this could be a disaster.

We get together in preparation of the first rehearsal to the big show.  Shill certainly did his job and rescheduled the show to a much larger civic arena as he made good on his promise to capitalize on the press coverage.  Donny isn’t happy that we return to New Jersey, but that is where his popularity shines.  The show is already sold out and the triumphant return of Donny is what the people want to see.  Iian Hunter not only has to put up with his new ball crushing backup band, but also has to take a back seat to the emotionally compelling story of the damaged and abused drummer who dramatically returns to the stage.

I thought I would attempt an appeal to the band to rise to the occasion. “Listen, try to be on your best behavior when we meet Iian Hunter.  Iam made his point “why, they want to see us, we are helping his career.”  Jerry was next “I agree, he is old news and we are coming into our own.”  “He can kiss my sweet arse, I am not going to take any crap, I’m also on a mission to find out if that’s his real hair.” 

I decided to ask what was jarring my brain.  “This is going to be a disaster isn’t it?”  Nicole summed it up “if Mr. Hunter doesn’t play by our rules it will be.” The band nodded in agreement with stern conviction.   “That’s what I was afraid of, this is going to get ugly.”

 Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(Check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The side effects of a lifetime

I’m back at the grocery store and the cashier asks if I have my bonus card.  The bonus card, one of mankind’s most lame and inconvenient inventions.  Retail stores want to engage you in a relationship.  It starts with a free turkey at Thanksgiving and a coupon calendar at Christmas.  They woo you and it progresses to the point where they eventually ask for a commitment, and tell you about the plastic card exclusively for you.  In exchange they get your phone number and other personal information.  You are now involved in a more serious relationship than just the average shopper.  They start sending you “invitation only” incentives by mail and special deals on everything they know you like.  They also begin keeping tabs on your every shopping move.  They keep a detailed record of every purchase you ever make, what time you made it, and when you left the store. 
Where do you think they got this bright idea?  The institution of marriage!  They should have the assistant manager get down on one knee and propose when they ask you to join!  If you show up without your bonus card, it’s a hassle.  The cashier treats you like you are her a-hole boyfriend who didn’t open the car door for her! 

I open the car door as Donny comes home from the hospital and needs an additional two weeks of rest and clearance from his doctor to rehearse.  We carry Donny’s tweed luggage in from the New Jersey fiasco and settle him into his favorite vibrating recliner.  Donny has a one-floor bachelor pad fully stocked with vast quantities of cheap wine and an extensive assortment of generic brand dry goods.  It is a nice one-floor bachelor pad.  The thing that really stood out was his bar.  There was an impressive assortment of collectibles.  There were his “unknown comic shot glasses, ” “drummers know how to bang” bumper stickers, and a full size cardboard cut out of a beautiful model in a bikini that reads “drink up boys!”  We noticed the picture’s bikini top was worn-out from Donny’s “two eggs, sunny side up” longstanding party skit. 

He engaged in a recliner positioning ritual in an effort to find the “wiggle around” sweet spot.
Donny shifted from one side to the other until his derriere was dug into the perfect comfort shift where his rear end puzzle piece snuggled into the recliner cushion imprint.  The wrinkled brow of the forehead was unfamiliar to us.  It was part of his whole new irritated expression.  It resembles a man with no other viable option but to use a roadside port-o-potty to do a number two.  His recent dialect was projected through a distinct cocky side twisted open mouth drawl.
It wasn’t easy to see him this way, but it sure beats last week.
“Tell Shill to get Dom to fill in for me on drums the next time the group is booked in Jersey.  Now I know why they call it the Garden State, when I got there, they tried to turn me into a vegetable!”  There are two nagging challenges for Donny.  He cannot negotiate his usual stellar grooming habits, as he needs assistance from the visiting home nurses.  The other thing is that he is on some short-term, post-head trauma, prescription narcotics from Dr. Meat that transform him into a shadow of his usual jovial self.  We are not used to him being miserable and high step the humorous banter attempts whenever we can.  We all try our best.

“Was your favorite part of your hospital stay when they had you plugged into the back end meat thermometer or when they held you like a six pack?” 
The nurse said you were one of the easiest patients to shave.  It easily held like a cigarette.”  “She said she never bathed a patient who asked her if she preferred top or bottom.”  “He set off the smoke alarm when he lit up a cigarette and asked if it was good for her too!”  “The psychiatrist was brought in when he started drinking rubbing alcohol out of the bed pan and buzzed the front desk for a drink umbrella!” 
Donny grew agitated.  “That’s enough! Now get the hell out of my house!  Get out! Get out!  I’m going to count to three!” 
“Is he gonna blow our house down?” Grandma what big teeth you have, let’s break out the scotch.”  “My porridge is too cold and has a peculiar valve poking out of it!” “Does your bologna have a first name?”
We stepped up our efforts to stifle Jerry and Joe, as it was obvious Donny was about to burst an artery.    We exited after a hastened goodbye and filed out passed the screech of the screen door.

“We regrouped and caught our breath in the driveway before departing.
Until the band gets Donny and his mental capacity back, we are at a standstill.  The fans can’t wait to see him make his valiant return, and either can we.
The upcoming show where we share the stage with established veteran rocker Iian Hunter will have to be dealt with later. 
Right now he couldn’t even be trained to play drums by a circus lion tamer on a valium bender.

Dr. Meat had a lengthy conversation with Shill and discussed making absolutely sure we successfully ignore Donny’s verbal assaults.  He was certain it would dissipate when he finishes his medications in two weeks.  He said it could be dangerous to rile him up.  If provoked, he could escalate rather quickly.  

It is a week later and the Onion Dent home health care visits are wearing on us.  This band can certainly dish it out, but can we continue to take it?  We will find out soon as Donny continues to take no prisoners and hit below the belt. 
“Iam you sing like you have a battery operated pepper mill up your arse.”  Jerry, I heard better bass playing at cockfights.   Joe when you play the sax it sounds like the mating call of the of the one eyed pump pheasant.”  “Dom your third grade level writing ability makes me long for my ‘Dot and Jim’ books!”
Then he suddenly lost it.  “I hate you all, get out, do you hear me? Get out you mother…” He then proceeded to called us every filthy name in the history of Home Boxed Office.     

We tried our best to get his mind on something else.  “Donny look at the pretty girl on TV!”  “Do those toenails have a warranty?”  “Does the word washcloth ring a bell?”  “That yellowish brown tank top tee looks great, do you recall it’s original color?”  “This house smells just like my favorite pet store, thanks for being so thoughtful.”
   
He didn’t buy our humorous attempts and things only got worse.  “Get out of my house, get out!” Donny screamed.  “It’s alright Donny, look the ‘price is right’ is on.”  He just kept it up, cursed us, threw stuff at us, and charged at us in his hanging down undies.  “We hustled outside to a resounding door slamming and distant uncontrollable thunderous screams.  Through the front picture window we were further entertained by Donny’s theatrical smutty mime act where he projected the “middle finger,” “fungule gesture” and the ever-popular “ universal vertical fist levitation for whacking-off.”
As we raced to a secure location near our cars Joe started us off “I wonder if he knows walking against the wind?”  “I don’t want to walk against his wind!” Jerry was next “maybe if I just mime ‘taking a bath’ it’ll all come back to him.”  “Anybody know how to mime a hot paraffin spa pedicure?”

There was a runaway car that entered the driveway and we all had to jump into the grass to avoid meeting our maker.  
Donny has a visiting nurse named Zelda, and she has just arrived in her speeding jalopy, a 1981 K-car.  She looks like she has been in the business forever, and could possibly have been called to the scene when Lincoln was shot.  She had a massively bobby pinned nurses cap that looked like it may have been issued upon her graduation that featured guest speaker Christopher Columbus, Jr.!  Her uniform was fashioned with faded stripes and coated with DNA evidence of every patient she ever inserted a tongue depressor into.

 She is the biggest malcontent I’ve ever seen.  The problem is, unlike Donny, her drugs never wear off.  She is permanently miserable and nasty beyond repair.  You know Joe.  He is never one to hold back his words. “Hey Zelda, are you playing solitaire in there, I don’t know what’s worse the stale smell of anal solitude or the wonton toenails.”  Zelda shot back “shut your pie hole mini-dick, he gets power washed and waxed today.”  Joe kept it going “after he’s all cleaned up can I bring my pen in and play a few rounds of connect the liver spots!”  “Zelda scowled “your pretty funny for a guy who is romantically involved in a close encounter of his own vine.”  Zelda then treated Joe to his second heartfelt “middle finger” of the hour.  She closed the door slowly as her middle finger backed inside the house followed by a slam of the door.
Joe thought a second “she’s a nurse?  At least they sent the right personality match!  I’m sure Donny will really love that blue-ribbon beside manner while she scrubs the vitals!”
“I hope we never see that nasty old bag again.”

We decided to go for some lunch and commenced to an ancient diner a few blocks from Donny’s place.  It was a prototypical greasy spoon with the waitresses that were hired in the early 1950’s on the same day the plumbing was installed.   This crinkled elderly lassie with a synthetic Farah Faucet wig approached the table.  She had an irrefutable mole on her chin that led the way and looked like a milk dud with a curly perm. She approached us with her order pad in the ready position and her pen cocked for blue-plate special hieroglyphics
We ordered then discussed our visit with Donny.
Jerry got the conversation going and we all took our turns. “What was with Donny’s underwear, was he storing for the winter?  “The hospital gown was bad enough, but I didn’t need to know how his garden grows!”  “He looked like my nephew when the babysitter was on the phone all night and the kid dumped out his happy meal.”    

Just then my cell phone rang and all I heard was deep breathing.  “Can you call me after lunch Mr. Masher, I would like to finish ‘my everything omelet.”  It was Shill “Dom, there’s a serious emergency, get everyone over to Donny’s place right away.  It’s bad, real bad.”    We dashed out of the diner and quickly backtracked to Donny’s humble abode. 

To our surprise the home front memory transformed from our previous recollection of the nurse visit, to a full-blown crime scene.
There were a number of police cruisers, emergency units, and one vehicle that immediately caught our attention, the one from the city coroner’s office.  
The emergency team guided the manned stretcher and strategically burst through the rusted screen door.  The body was unidentifiable at first glance, until the nursing cap became visible perched atop the covered corpse.  A few seconds later, the door was forcefully kicked open to a radically distressed Donny being physically pushed out with his hands cuffed behind his back.   He yelled with a ferocity that expanded the veins of his neck to fullest extent. “I hate you, I hate you, who took my skittles?”  He was muscled into the back seat of the police car and they sped off with the sirens singing throughout the neighborhood airwaves.
Jerry slowly shook his head “he lost his skittles alright.”
The poor guy has no idea what he’s doing.”
Nicole asked, “do you think we’ll ever see Donny again?
“That is the million dollar question Nicole and the walls of that house hold the secrets and the truth.”  I replied. 
Joe sighed and looked up to the sky “it’s a real shame.”  Iam asked “that you got your death wish on Zelda?” 
“No, that I never got to eat my rigatoni and braciole.”

“You never cease to amaze me Joe.  You never cease to amaze.”  

Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(Check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The moment of a lifetime

Is there ever a pleasant trip to the hospital?  Even if you are droping off some paperwork, you are reminded of past disturbances and your own mortality.  We didn’t expect an extended stay in Paramus, but here we are.  Donny’s accident at the show is all we can think about as well as the imagery of the ominous puddle of blood on the stage.  It certainly is not the way any of us expected our very first show to end, but this band and unpredictability go hand in hand.  The show is just a lost memory swallowed by moment in time.  A moment that stands still as Donny hasn’t responded for the past twenty-four hours. 
The severe abrasion and blood loss have the doctors searching for more complicated answers.  Shill has been keeping us informed and has shown great fortitude and support for us.  We have been wearily stationed in a prototypical waiting room for 24 hours.  We anticipate some news of our dear friend and hope the verdict is a positive one.  It starts out as some fun on facedbook and now I sit with my stomach churning in a hospital waiting room.  Life always has the knack of making itself so interesting, especially when it pulls in your emotions.

I hope Donny gets better soon.  I really want to hear what he has to say about his doctor’s name.  His doctor here at the hospital is Dr. Meat.  No, that is his real last name and how he survived the medical school jokes is beyond me.  Donny would have a field day with that one.  If he ever heard the name “Dr. Meat,” I’m sure he could probably come up with a dozen great comebacks even in a comma. 
Meat’s stocky build and rotund physique are clear signs that his name has not influenced his consideration of the Atkins diet. 
Every time Shill or Dr. Meat walked in the room we all perk up for a second in anticipation of some positive news but there hasn’t been any to speak of.  They won’t let visitors in the room as they keep running tests, scans, and additional blood work.  It’s amazing how close our friendships have grown in the short time we’ve been a part of Onion Dent. 
How can you care so much but be referred to only as a “visitor?”     

Shill somehow pulled some strings and worked out a ten-minute visit for the group.  He thought it was worth the chance of stimulating Donny to respond to our voices or some dramatic change in his environment.  We shuffled in to an unflattering and disturbing visual of our friend.  A bandaged head, more wires in him than our soundboard, and the toughest part was the missing smile.  It was difficult to hold back a tear as such an expressive and positive person lay there motionless. 

Dr. Meat offered simple instructions “just be yourselves when you talk to him, he may be listening.”  It gave us some hope and allowed us to concentrate on the purpose of our visit.  We slowly gravitated in our own space trying to think of a strategy and what to say.  It was like approaching a new situation for the first time.  Those tentative tread cautiously and unsure.  After a few silent moments, Iam started things off “Donny there’s no way we’re going to let you wear that on stage.”  Jerry followed “ you know you can cut the shit this attention seeking activity has got to stop.” Joe was next “thanks for F’ingup my sax solo.”  The jokes couldn’t hide the painful disappointment and his state of unresponsiveness made it seem hopeless.  We didn’t say a word and just stood in our shoes without any reason.  As we lifted our heads up and made eye contact we decided to exit the room by Joe pointing to the door which we slowly migrated to.  Nicole looked like she was in deep thought and before following our decent, she leaned over to Donny’s ear and whispered an imitated counted-off to a song “one-two-three-four.”  She stood and looked at his face for a minute and turned away disappointed and faced the door.  She was about to turn the handle and exit when we heard a low registered voice “what a sorry sack of sappy shits.”  We all turned toward the hospital bed to see the open eyes and slight shit eaten’ grin of a freshly resurrected Donny.  We all shuffled over with huge smiles, followed by hugs and hand shakes.  We then shared a common sigh of relief, and an uncontrollable tear.

Joe broke the melancholy moment and we followed with the usual antics “don’t worry you didn’t miss a thing.  I’m sure Ringo and Sting will be back to see you again soon.”  When you were in a comma, we lifted your gown and took a peek, we wanted something to remember you by.”  “We thought the pictures of your ass would be perfect for the first album cover.”  “If you notice any marks on your private parts, it’s only because we poked it with a stick to try to wake you up.”  “We got a great new band picture, we all gathered round your Chia pet.”  “I hope you like my name, it’s gonna be on your nuts for a while.”  Donny smiled and pointed his finger toward us “it’s good to be back my friends.”

Shill ran into the room and hugged Donny to the point of turning on a distress signal with a distinct alarm that brought half the hospital staff running in the room.  The managing nurse took a look at Shill with one leg on the floor and the other on Donny.  “You two want me to get the Justice of the Peace, you make a lovely couple.  Sir, could you please dismount the patient, he’s still hospital property.”  We all laughed like wild and considered recruiting Nurse Crusher into the group.   Donny was groggy and subdued but he was there, laughed along, and it was magic.

We left the hospital and Shill provided us with a floor of hotel suites loaded with food and a well stocked bar.  By the way Shill mounted Donny, we could tell he was in a celebratory mood.  We were all exhausted, but were in more of a party mode than to sleep, so that’s what we did.  The guitars were uncased and Nicole added some percussion, as this was a jam session for the ages.  We started the digital recorder to archive the spontaneous and energetic performance.  It didn’t end until all of our nervous energy dissipated and the next day’s sun came up.  Luckily we ruled on an isolated floor of the hotel to house this musical rodeo.

The next day after sleeping in and peeling our eyelids open, we did a buffet lunch at the hotel restaurant.  We were stuffing our faces and siting around the table when Shill sashayed into the room and approached our table.  He smiled and slightly tilted his head.  “That show got a lot of press.  The outpouring of concern for Donny is overwhelming.  The people who attended the show are being interviewed in the news and have a lot of interest in Donny’s return and seeing you finish a proper show, and there’s more.
I got some big news for you.  I got a phone call from an old friend of mine, Iian Hunter.  He’s been following the story and would like to help us make this next show a special event.    Onion Dent will perform as the opening act followed by being the backing band for Iian Hunter’s set in a rock extravaganza at the Media.  “Shill you mean the Media, the new and state of the art amphitheater in Maine?  Iam asked.  “That’s the one my friend.” 
We were filled with excitement but had some obvious questions in turn “isn’t Iian Hunter like 100 years old?” “Does AARP sponsor the show? “  “Does he need a special stand for his colostomy bag?”  Does he have bladder control or does he piss when he sings” Jerry had the key question “can he still bring it?”

“You’ll find out next week, just be ready because he takes his profession very, very serious.  You have rehearsals next week and the mammoth show in a month.”  I have you all set up and will take care of everything.   It’s going to be big.”  “Shill do me one small favor,” I asked.  “What’s that?”
“Make sure the house lights are the only ones that come down this time.”  “Will do Dom, will do.”

Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(Check back for more installments that continue the story)

 Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The benefit of a lifetime

There are a lot of jokes about New Jersey.  It’s tough being so close to the big city.  You can’t possibly compete. You are going to have to take your lumps.  I like New Jersey.  It’s got the boardwalks, an easy commute to the city, and Frank Sinatra was born there.  People from New Jersey move to Pennsylvania not for jobs or cheap housing.  They move there so they can make fun of another state.  It’s like New York picks on New Jersey, so New Jersey picks on Pennsylvania.  People from Pennsylvania get screwed because they can’t pick on Ohio (it’s basically the same state but they have the Rock N’ Roll hall of Fame), Maryland is nicer, and upstate New York has too many wineries to piss off!  New Jersey it is, as we venture into the garden state for the very first gig for Onion Dent.

Driving to Paramus was exhausting experience.  Shill rented us a gigantic custom van so the band would travel as a “team” and “bond” on route 80.  The guys traveled light and were low maintenance.  Nicole was another story.  She kept asking our driver “could you stop here please?”  The most challenging aspect was that no one wanted to pay the price of getting her mad, so the resultant silent suppression of emotion was unbearable and caused passenger anxiety and pedestrian envy.  We had to add a cargo box to the roof of the van for the additional luggage and accessories she brought.  Iam posed a question to me “who in their right mind brings an Ab Circle Pro, vintage soft bonnet hair dryer, and a popcorn maker for an overnight trip?” The driver had to keep opening the cargo box to get her “just one more thing.”  Every time we stopped it was at least a half-hour wait.  She would stroll out of the ladies room from each respite with a complete extreme fashion makeover.  She would transform her hairstyle, outfit, and accessories.  Joe followed with some observations “what is this the family vacation?  Who pees on the hour, every hour?  It’s making me want to piss myself.  Come to think of it, I think I did piss myself.  If she were my wife, she’d return to the van to my lawyer serving her papers and telling her my famous last words to her were “you look fat in that outfit!”
This latest stop was to tie her sneaker and loosen up her back with some Eastern European yoga.  She got out and stood at about a four feet earshot from the van. We sat there percolating and softly vented our frustration.  Donny was disgusted “who does she think she is, the Imperial and Royal Highness?” Iam next “I think when we get the van going at a good speed, I’m just gonna jump and end it all.”  Jerry chimed in “if she moisturizes next to me one more time I’m gonna let that fart go that I’ve been holding since the Hickory Run exit!”

We practiced exactly two days ago, at least four of us did.  We set up a podcast for Jerry and Iam who could not possibly swing another lengthy trip with the concert looming.  “It might be a good time to get rid of the dead weight, bass players are way over rated.”  “Donny let’s just hope they don’t mail in their performance at the show.”  Joe took his turn “I like the extra space on stage, and it smells better too.” Jerry and Iam had a few reciprocal choice words from their far off lands, then we got down to the business at hand.  We decided to do our two “known” songs as bookends in the beginning and end of the show.  “Fat cat” was the unanimous chosen closer as we hoped by then the audience would be primed to dance in the aisles and sing along.  The middle was the problem.  We didn’t want fluff or to do a night of cover songs.  We came up with a 50-minute combination of solos, jams, and inserted lyrics from my backpack.  With the little time we had we continued to made sure that the rhythms and percussion were as infectious as possible. There was actually a bit of all of the musical styles the band was founded on (polka, grunge, country, and Joe on sax).  It was a shaky foundation but occasional “bright” moments upgraded us to cautious optimism.  At minimum we took away a “snowballs chance in hell” outline to firmly hang our hats on.  Joe summed it up “it’s not bad, except for the music.”  Iam next “what other non-profit event supplies the audience members with a barf bag?”  “If they pass out some industrial ear plugs we are in the money.”
I offered a final thought before sign-off “whatever you do, however this goes, just LOOK like you know what you are doing.”

When bands reminisce about their first gig, the details usually include a smoky bar; a three member drunken audience, a bar fight, and not getting pay.  Well we weren’t getting paid but at least expenses were on Shill and we did get to act like pseudo-rock stars.  We all wore are dark glasses and tried to play the part. It’s not as easy as it looks.  We all had a really cool strut until an Iam misstep took him for a tumble down a floor slope.  His busted sunglasses were in pieces on the recently carpeted floor scattered next to him.  It certainly was not the first time we saw Iam tumble to the ground but it was a first appearance of sorts.  Joe dished it “he’s into carpeting, and ass-exposure” Donny followed “the pastel tones in the carpet fiber really accentuate your ass crack. ” Nicole joined in for the very first time “pay attention boys this is the part where he pulls a rabbit out of his crack.” We laughed like wild as Iam pulled up his pants and shook off the vision of cartoon stars ‘circling his head.”

We were scheduled to meet the stage manager, a Mr. Scrota, for a brief theater tour.
He approached us in the hallway and looked liked a recently resurrected vampire more than our personal tour guide.  Jerry verified my assumption “I should have worn my turtleneck sweater” Donny added “Nicole probably has all of our sizes in stock outside in her luggage emporium.”  “Saint Leonard please don’t let the mean and scary vampire have his way with me.”  Joe chuckled.
To make matters worse, Scrota had an authentic classic horror movie voice.  “Follow me” he said.  Donny added “at least he didn’t say, walk this way.  I hope I don’t follow him after he takes a dump in the men’s room.”  Jerry smiled “that suit needs some emergency dry cleaning, maybe he’s helping out Shill with servicing the elderly and deceased board members!”

We got to tour the stage first.  A lavish theater of red velvet and ornate gold awaited us.  The velvet ropes and tempered track lighting accented the warm tones of the carved oak trim and caps.  Standing on the impressive stage was a surreal experience.  “I don’t know about you, but standing here is enough for me, this is a magical moment.”  Iam continued “I might just smash my bass and retire from the industry after the show.”   “I was gonna smash your bass after the show, it’s a mercy killing.” Donny said with a sly smile.

The one thing that everyone wanted to see was the dressing room.  We had a joke about having a “star” on the door or we would refuse to play.  Shill proudly stood outside the room to greet us.  He must have had a board “member” meeting as he looked a little “undone.”  We immediately dished it out.  “Shill are you the “opening” act?”  “Did she show you to her seat?”  “Take your seat in the flute section.” “He uses his conductors baton with such skill.” “So who played your wind instrument?” “He can’t find the board of directors, he forgot where he “laid” them.”  “Did you get a standing ovulation?”

Shill quickly learned to ignore us and opened the door.  “This is the dressing room.”  It had a temporary sign with “Onion Dent” loosely sketched at eye level.  I must say it was impressive to see it, even in this cheesy “official” presentation.  There was a slightly “off center” star on the door that looked like Shill may have applied right before we got there.  We walked in and it was a large room with white everywhere, six dressing areas with lighted mirrors like the ones you see on a backstage segment of a TV show.  There was a divider set off in the corner of the room so Nicole could have privacy.  Shill said “see you in an hour for show time, I’m sure you will be great.”

We did a hurried sound check but it managed to be a breeze with the sound guy Shill hired named “Knuckles.”  Knuckles looked like he should opt for the ever-popular shaved head option verses the barren long hair he was grasping onto the memory of.  Every response from Knuckles to whatever you said to him was “cool.”  I was also hoping Shill purchased him the supplemental dental plan he was in dire need of.  The open genuine smile really showed off the neglected bicuspids.
On a positive note, he really knew his stuff and got us back to the dressing room in ten minutes.

We started our preparation for the show as time was ticking.  Scrota came to the door and told us we had to take the stage in 5 minutes.
There weren’t any real pre-show “bad habits” that I could detect.  Thankfully everyone seemed sober and coherent.
We wanted a cool pre-show send off, but rejected the notion of “putting your hands together in a circle” as it is way overused.  We decided upon a group toast, just one shot, from Donny’s old remedy case.  We clanged our glasses to one of Joe’s old comebacks “balls to the wall.”

It was a dark stage and we all took our places.  It was a little nerve racking and a timely Jerry eased the tension “come on shitheads, play like you mean it.”  We chuckled but quickly got our game faces on.
We were introduced and Donny counted four “ticks” to our first public appearance.  We hit the mark and from my view we looked like a band with confidence, conviction, and fusion.  The mix was impeccable and the early minutes went without a hiccup.  The audience response was warm and they received us well and momentum came in our favor.  The movement from the front performers (Jerry, Iam, and I) became looser and we interacted more on stage and with the ever-evolving enthusiastic crowd.  It was all moving, flowing, and vibrant.  There was a peculiar noise above us that we had to ignore in order to stay focused and perform.  We had just begun our last song of the night.
A sudden thud and the drums were out of the mix.   We all did a rapid turn around.  Donny was on the floor next to a light cam with a bloody head.  He grimaced and wearily verbalized “keep playing.”  The audience noise was one of concern and the silence deafened the show.  Donny seemed alright and I quickly took over the drums and started the same “feel” he left off with.  Jerry moved to my guitar and we slowly got a groove going.  Shill, Knuckles, and Scrota shifted Donny and situated him out of audience view as they moved him behind the curtain at my back.  The audience tried to get back into the show, but their heart wasn’t in it.  We did all we could to make it a “big finish” but we went through the motions as our concern for Donny grew as we couldn’t help but notice the substantial amount of blood on the stage where he had been.  We ended the show to respectful applause as the final curtain came to touch the stage floor.

We expected to see Donny in the dressing room resting, but the back exit of the building told a different tale.
We watched as the ambulance Donny was lifted into had sped away.  Shill came to us with something other than his suit wrinkled; his brow showed signs of genuine concern.  “He was unconscious when they arrived, he bled quite a bit, let’s hope for the best.”   We quietly entered the dressing room and quickly cleaned up and readied for an unexpected trip to the emergency room.   We were on our way out when our sights were drawn to a small round table with six empty shot glasses and Donny’s open travel case.  Nicole gathered up the contents.  Before the show we shared a toast and high hopes, now we shared sinking hearts of uncertainty.  On the way out Joe closed the door after putting out the lights.   Joe was trying to soldier an upbeat attitude “he’s gonna be fine, just fine” he said.
“I hope so Joe, I really hope so.”

Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(Check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The rhythms of a lifetime

I woke up to a coffee maker malfunction that spewed an entire pot of coffee all over the kitchen counter and hard wood floor.  A roll of paper towel and twenty minutes later I discovered we were out of Q-tips and milk.  The milk didn’t bother me, the Q-tips did.  Q-tips are essential to my post shower ritual.  There is no viable option to replace a Q-tip.   Any alternative means at ear duct cleaning will typically result in a punctured cranium blood letting.   My uncle used to clean his ear with a car key.  You would be talking to him and he would nonchalantly take his keys out, continue talking, grimace, and dig. It kind of looked like he was trying getting a good idea going.   I never had the courage to ask him if there were ever any complaints at the car dealership. I could see it now; the mechanic comes out and says “sir your car wouldn’t start because of ignition wax build-up of a foreign matter.”  There’s nothing like creating a car malfunction with your own DNA!  I wonder if faulty genetics are covered by the extended warranty?
This morning’s stellar beginning coincidentally comes on the verge of the “do or die cage match” rehearsal with “Onion Dent.”

St. Leonard’s parking lot had inhabitants this time.  Shill was in the parking lot in what appeared to be serious conversation with Nicole.  I just hope they aren’t comparing notes on “advanced tactical testicle foot to nut combat maneuvers on innocent unskilled in fighting defenseless musician types.” That is a curious non-contested demographic to prey on.
Joe was at the trunk of his car and yelled, “hey Shill before I get over there my wife requested no hugging.  She’s not a big fan of your cologne.”  Joe’s honesty was uncanny and right to the point.  I was wondered if it would jettison Shill into a karate stance, but all was well.  Shill gave Joe a sly smile and a half-mast “peace sign” of cordial agreement.  I made my way over to Joe.  “Joe that was some declaration of independence.”
“Dom, I showered three times and I still stunk. That oversized urinal cake cut into any possible chance I had at getting any nookie.  You know that I’m a lover at heart.”  Loverboy then proceeded to unpack an athletic supporter with a cup.  “Joe are you catching today?” I asked. “Just Nicole-proofing so the nookie can be nooked without a blue Hawaii.”  “Joe you certainly have a way with words.”

Nicole took up a large corner space on the stage with a percussion smorgasbord of “bells and whistles”
“Is that Sheila Ee’s second cousin twice removed from a previous marriage? I bet you five bucks she mentions Sheila Ee. today.” “You are on Joe,” Donny replied.  Jerry was tuning up and adjusting the controls on his amp.  They were the first to the stage and the rest of us where still unpacking and settling in.  Jerry “warmed up” with a funkadelic groove right out of the Parliament fakebook.  Nicole took the rhythmic counterpoint and nailed the backbeat and mesmerizing peripheral syncopation.   She put on a clinic before we even tackled a note of rehearsed and Jerry had a “pitching a tent smile” pushing his face to the limit.   The “fist tap” ended the warm up session that could have masqueraded as an encore.  She was fantastic.  Jerry turned to us “I’m pretty awesome, now if I could just get a little cooperation up here!”

We stood in silent awe.  There was an over-achiever in our mitts.  Everyone had a connected comment that followed.
“So you discovered her in the grocery store, where by garbanzo beans?”  “I wonder who leaves and releases a solo album.”  “Donny, thanks for the shots, you can go home now.”

Nicole walked off the stage and sat quietly eating her chocolate bar.  She didn’t even break a sweat and was totally unimpressed with her God given talent.  “Donny, you go practice now and let us know when we should take your training wheels off.” Iam dished out more of the usual.  Donny was silent, as he was on his way over to take a seat by Nicole.  “Where did you learn to play like that?”  Nicole held up her finger to signal “wait a minute” as she finished the last bite of her chocolate bar.  She replied “I went to the Sheila Ee. drum camp a few years in a row.”  “We all burst out laughing but immediately stopped and turned it into a group coughing spell.  “Let’s not piss off Bunny Rich.  Balls to the wall boys.”  Joe had the last word and an extra five bucks.

Shill stood on the stage.  He did kind of an inspirational jam send off and walked off.  We all got tuned up and ready.  I had a song I wrote that wasn’t really going anywhere.  It had some solid qualities but a lot of holes.  I thought it might be a good starting point of creation and improvisation.  We could see how much of a “group” we really are and paint the blank musical canvas.  The working title was “lucky finger.”  It was loosely based on a gambling story, but you know what the boys in the band dished out when I announced the title.  “You know where you could stick your lucky finger.”  “Dom I think I have a fever come over and give me a dipstick check.”  “Lucky finger, meet lucky dupa!”  “If your finger is so lucky, why is it up my emergency exit!”   They all laughed as I experienced a humbling ball busting moment.  Nicole jumped up and stomped towards the boys with fists clenched in my defense. I must admit it was a treat to see the fear stricken expressions on my detractors faces.   I calmed the impending storm. “Nicole it’s ok, they are just kidding in their own charming way.  She stopped in her tracks, gave them a last “killer” stare and went back to her seat.  They looked like they all needed to be changed from a self-inflicted “scaredy pants dump.”  I did enjoy the fact that she was in my corner, maybe I can skip buying an athletic supporter and cup after all.   I then imagined overhearing my lower anatomy celebrating by singing a joyous victory duet of “we are the champions.”

Donny said, “how about you just play us the song Dom.”  I broke out the acoustic and played it in its entirety.  There was a common “not bad” opinion and group intrigue.  After a few dozen “you know what we should do’s” we had the makings of a foundation of our first song.  It was kind of a “Sex Pistols meets Frank Zappa” with a sax solo and soothing vocal if you can picture that.  We ran through it a few times and shaped and shifted the contents.  What we ended up with was with was a progressive/pop rock/punk disco/ funkabilly opus.  One last run through and we had it down to a science.  Next, a jam session followed with a nice feel that fluctuated rhythmically from a defined verse to chorus and back.  I grabbed some lyrics out of my backpack and improvised a lead vocal.  Three run throughs later and we had a song entitled “fat cat.”   “Fat cat…. knows where it’s at” was the funky sing along we all got on the mic for and Joe took it out with a howling sax that was like a cherry on top of an ice cream sundae.  Iam and Jerry dueling bass pulsations were magic and Nicole accented and punctuated the percussion.  I held on to the reins of the rhythm on acoustic guitar to glue the rest together.  Donny then counted us down to the big finish.  As the cymbals crashed we all let out some victory howls on our magical shared journey.  We were all “buzzing” from our musical accomplishments and for the first time we shared a common smile and energy as a band.  It was a moment where handshakes and hugs put it all into perspective.   It was so good that for the first time nobody had anything to joke about.

Shill proudly clapped and enthusiastically approached the impromptu celebration.  “This is fantastic, I have no doubt you will bring down the house next week.”  “Next week” we simultaneously shrieked.  “I forgot to tell you, your first gig is at the “single mother’s against deadbeat dad’s and senseless fornication” fund raiser in Paramus.”  Donny couldn’t resist “Paramus, single woman, senseless fornication, should I bring my drums or my edible undies?”  Shill gave us the lowdown “I’m serious, the advertising campaign is underway, the press will be well represented, and the event is sold out.
Iam had a question “what kind of donations are they accepting?  Should I spend the week saving pennies or applying ice packs and herbal oil to the old sacroiliac?”
I decided to get to the heart of the matter “how in the world did you get involved with that nonprofit Shill?”
“I date a couple of the ladies on the board.”  That was it, now came the group comment floodgates.
“That is one hell of a charitable contribution Shill, do you smoke after presenting the check?” “I’m sure they wholeheartedly cherish your throbbing generosity!” “I was wondering why he only had one cuff link!”
“You can get to third base as soon as the check clears!” “Sorry to hear about you troubles honey, a little to the left!” “
Jerry kept it going.  “I can see the headline now: non-profit pelvis poking produces prostitutional profits in Paramus.”
Joe stood up “this is gonna be pucking pun!”  The roar of laughter was spontaneous and contagious.
The laughter eventually died down and reality hit me. “We will have to ‘turn a few tricks’ of our own in trying to make two songs into an entire concert.  If we bomb, Shill will have a lot of musical chair makeup sex and hefty donations to redistribute.  Speaking of distribution, Onion Dent just might become Jersey’s latest major export if we don’t deliver the goods.”
One show and two songs hold the key.
I just hope it isn’t the key my uncle was using.
Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(Check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The cowbell player of a lifetime

It is now a week since the first rehearsal.  How do you dissect such a bizarre experience? When the post game highlights from a band rehearsal mainly recollect rum shots and karate a flip, that is not a good sign.  In addition to fielding multiple daily phone calls from Shill, I am additionally burdened in using my “minutes” with giddy cohorts Iam and Jerry.  Nobody wanted to do this, now these two guys specialize in over-enthusiasm and childlike glee.  “I’m gonna put new strings on again” and “wait until I bring my dobro” is the kind of musical information that beckons my undivided attention.  They quickly realized old “money bags” Shill would cough up cash for just about anything “project related.”  Plasma TV’s, laptops, spin classes, and cases of rum were distributed to Shill’s “boys” at alarming frequencies.
Things hit a new low when Iam’s personal masseuse started following him around. She was an absolute “knock-out” hand picked by Iam because of her “personal charm.”  I thought it might be time to tell the “strolling minstrels” to tone it down a bit.  I made a few targeted phone calls. “We had one lousy rehearsal and you guys are walking around like rock stars. We don’t even have a song or show under our belt!”  “Don’t give us that self-righteous shit Dom, the guy wanted us, not the other way around.  Let him pay.”  I am going to ride the wave until I fall off,” Jerry finished and then slowly puffed on his Cuban cigar.  The next phone call was Iam “Dom are not seeing the big picture here, got to go” he abruptly hung up as he was busy getting his nails done.  I called Donny, as he was the sole “voice of reason” that I could turn to.  “Donny, this exorbitant spending and pampering has got to stop, Iam just hung on me as he was in the middle of a manicure.”  “I got news for you Dom, his nails are done and he just hung up on me because it was time for his ‘Brazilian!’ Time for a meeting, no Shill, just us.”  After I caught my breath from exhaustive laughing, I agreed.
I like grocery shopping.  My wife gives me an extensive list. Later, I return home with everything I like and the other requested products are mysteriously “out of stock.”  There was a cart in my way of turning the corner.  It’s probably some old bag who won’t get out of my way.  “Excuse me” I said.  “You are not excused.”  I peered around the constructed cereal box corner to affix my view.  There she stood, arms folded, tapping one foot to embellish disgust, and an obvious red faced expression of being “pissed.”  “What no girls in the band, I never figured you for a good old boy type Dom?”  ” Nicole, didn’t you say you play the cowbell?  I thought you were kidding.”  “I don’t kid and will be at the meeting tomorrow,” she proclaimed.  How do you know about the meeting?”  I know Iam’s personal masseuse.”  What is this “all my children?”  ”It is now numb nuts!”  She did a bumper car swivel, and sped away with her racing cart.  So far online social networking has netted me a bunch of offline “screwballs.”
We had an informal meeting at Donny’s drum studio two days before our next scheduled band rehearsal.  Everything was spinning out of control in an uncomfortable fashion. Matters turned strange and curiously annoying as Jerry and Iam took on a disturbing “ass-kissing” posture with Shill.  In a psychotic “paying of the respects for his financial support” they both started to accessorize with custom pinky rings and extra hair gel.  “What is this the Fairy Goomba band?”  Joe exclaimed as he walked into the room.  “You guys look like a couple of greasy ass-kissers who should cut the shit!”  Joe is usually light-hearted and jokes around, but I sensed some anger in his tone this time.  Donny took it from there “Joe does have a point.  You guys resemble a couple of lug nuts going to perform in the “off-Broadway, back room, underground, gay-cult, production of ‘Greese 3, when the the closet door opens’.”  ” Go ahead bust balls, we are just paying our respects.”  Sounds like your “cashing in” your respects, nice laptop Jerry!  Donny said.  Where did you get the upright bass and the top hat?  The good news is that you are only the cane and monocle away from being “Mr. Peanut!”   ”Shut your trap and let it go, I’m warning you.”
Tension was mounting and the “greasers verses the sharks” was about to begin as we were suddenly interrupted.  I somehow failed to mention our newly self-elected band member. Nicole walked in and sat down in the empty chair next to me.  ”Did you get a masseuse too? Way to go Dom!” Iam snarled.”  Nicole got up pointed a finger in Iam’s face and offered a direct hit “screw you scumbag, I am in this band and you better be respectful of I’ll kick you right where it hurts.”  He couldn’t help but start hysterical laughter, and everyone else joined in, except me.  It instantly infuriated Nicole and she could not help but to make good on her promise.  A “shock and awe” swift kick in the marbles sent Iam back to the ground again. This time he lay there as if he were posing for a sonogram from the second trimester.
It was a moment sadly reminiscent of the first rehearsal.  Nicole said she was sorry and sat down as the laughter died as Iam’s breathing returned.  We all sat in our chairs and didn’t speak.”  I gradually stood up from my chair and said “this is Nicole” she is a new member of our band, any objections?”   Iam mumbled “I have two objections for you right here in my left hand.”
I continued my speech; “Look, I’m ready to walk away right now.  This was a bad idea from the start and it just keeps getting worse.  I will call Shill today and tell him.”  I walked away from the table.  “Wait a minute. There was some cooking moments to our first jam.”  Joe stood up and went on.  “I say we do the next rehearsal, if it disappoints, we quit.  Let’s see what we’re musically made of first, on a genuine try.”  There wasn’t another word, just Donny’s magical “make it all better” ritual of shots that melted us to eventual laughter and camaraderie.
We got back to some basic idea exchanging and preparation for the next rehearsal.  We got up and exited after agreeing to see each other in two days for the beginning or the end.  Iam was the last to limp out to his car.  I looked out my rear view mirror and saw him slowly hobble through the parking lot.  I felt sorry for the poor guy.  The thoughts of how dysfunctional this band has been and the sight of Iam struggling to get to his car made too much sense.  This mirrored picture of him was a symbolic snapshot of what he represented. He was the poster-boy for the band called “Onion Dent.”  He approached his car in an exaggerated and painful gate.  In one hand was his car keys.  In the other hand was arguably his most valuable worldly possessions.  A platinum pinkie ring and the family jewels.
Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.
(check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The fight of a lifetime.

All I did was type an idea on facedbook and now I’m in a closed down church basement breaking up a fight that emits clouds of “vile 80’s cologne.”   These have to be the most fragrant guys ever to rumble.  I knew I should have made that last minute stop to the “pinky ring emporium.”

It’s like the start of a bad joke.  It goes like this “these two guys that smell the same get into a fight in a church basement.”  Maybe it’s just the lost episode of the “Father Dowling Mysteries.”  Tom Bosley himself would force regurgitation.

Things are boiling over.  Iam intensified his anger and went “nose-to-nose” to Shill.  Shill looked more confused than scared and Iam looked more insane than mad.  Donny and I were on our way over to break it up when there was some sudden movement and a thud.

Iam was on his back on the ground looking up.  Shill pulled the best “Bruce Lee in a three-piece” move I have ever seen.  He literally lifted, twisted, spun, and catapulted Iam through the air to the ground in a single bound.  The slicked hair was in place and he only needed a minor adjustment to gently tuck his tie back into the confines of his suit jacket.  So his parents sprung for Jujitsu lessons, go figure.  He impressed with his calm and collect, but mostly he was cool. Shill was cool?  I must be hallucinating on old frankincense sediment.  What is going to happen next?  If Jim Morrison strolls in, I may have to call “Inside Edition.”

Our focus quickly settled on the ground in hopes of a positive medical “first opinion” on Iam.  He looked in shock, didn’t blink, and for a few seconds there was a shared “great concern.”  Then the first signs of life began.  Iam dry heaved, coughed, and slowly rubbed his eyes. He kind of looked like he did too many sit-ups.  Then his first words from the “kissing the canvas” conversation.  “Fookin’ wicked Shill” said Iam.  That was the coolest ‘fungule’ I have ever seen…. you impressed me man.  We should do that again.”  He sounded like a lightheaded kid who just got off “the scary theme park ride.”  That convinced me that a psychological evaluation was definitely in order.  Suddenly he sat up, smiled, and pointed at Shill “you kick ass, I love this guy!”

I was now the one in shock.  The karate stylings of Shill notwithstanding, then Iam suddenly hit by some distorted Cupid’s arrow of blood brothers.  Donny and I just stood there silent as Shill and Iam walked away arm in arm as sudden best friends.  “Do you think they’ll invite us to the wedding” Donny said.  “Only if it’s upstairs,” I replied.  There was Jerry staring from the doorway.  He almost missed what transpired.

He slowly walked over to us in a curious manner.  ” This is absolutely nuts and I have to come back as this is a sign that this is going to work.”  Jerry’s expression transformed from “conscientious objector” to “crazed introspective.” “Jerry what are you talking about?” Donny inquired.  Jerry continued “that fight sequence is symbolic of his whole crazy vision.  The guy has the money, enthusiasm, and balls to do whatever he wants, but he chooses Dom’s pie in the sky idea.  In spite of impossible odds he backs everything up with results.”  I have to stay and see what happens, are you with me?”  I knew he had an epiphany.  We were isolated in St. Leonard’s closed down church basement, and this is the second minor miracle I have witnesses in the last five minutes.  If Donny freaks me out next, I may have to call an exorcist.  “Jerry, when did you become saved?”  I said it with a sarcastic tone and intention.  “Dom, I know I didn’t want to be part of it or return, but I do feel like a changed man.”

“I do too,” I said ” you are freaking me out!”  Just then Iam came back and had the same “crazed introspective” expression that I just got sideswiped with from Jerry.  Donny was as white as a ghost.  It was obvious that I was not the only one freaked out by the last seven minutes of my life.  It made me feel a tad better, as I was upgraded to “disenchanted.”
Donny motioned for all to quiet and said, “before you say anything Iam, I need a necklace of garlic to ward off whatever the hell you guys are tripping on!”  This was like one of those movie roles they gave Chevy Chase after he was funny.  We all had the dumbest expressions on are face, two guys looked possessed, two looked like they sell Amway, and another guy was off in the distance adjusting his pinky ring.  They just don’t prepare you for this shit in the Cub Scout handbook.  Jerry and Iam looked a little too giddy for my liking.  All I could think of was “if theses two a-holes ask me to join hands or pull out a ouija board I’m going to take my chances with “middle aged running away.”  I clapped my hands a few times before I spoke thinking it may snap someone out of something or reverse the spell.  No luck, there was only the euphoric sanctity of a “shamwow” testimonial.

I tried the best I could to utilize reason “look, you guys joked and ball busted all day, and now you have an epiphany?  It’s hard believe.” “I want to do a few more songs,” Iam chimed hypnotic and quiet.  “I am inspired and we should go up and play to see if this all is real.”  Iam looked up at the sky “insane religious style” as if he were getting a metaphysical collect call from Pontius Pilot.  I looked over at Iam annoyed “you need an MRI, ice pack, and to pee in a cup.  You want me to call your wife and ask if your dosage is correct?”  I started thinking “this is suppose to be a band, who will we attract for groupies, a couple of ambulance chasers?”

Uncharacteristically, Shill remained silent.  He leaned against the stage, folded his arms, and took a deep breath.  The deep breath among the silence really caught everyone’s attention.  I knew at that moment that the third minor miracle was about to happen.  I got in my “pre-miracle mode” which felt like “a gust of boogey man scared and having to pee.”

Shill softened his expression and voice “look I’m sorry for the way everything turned out.  It was not intentional, but hey, it all worked out for the better.  You tell me what you need and we will work it out to give this the best push we possibly can.  What do you say guys?”

In from the cold, Joe walks back from packing his car “did I miss anything?”

Donny gave him the summary “there was a karate fight, a love scene, and nearly some full frontal nudity.”  “I told you that guy needs some loving” Joe whispered.
In the last ten minutes I saw a different side of Shill, Jerry, and Iam.  Maybe it wasn’t properly categorized as “miracle status” it felt more like “screwball.”  As strange as it was, again something did feel uncomfortably “right” about it.

Donny broke the oddness of the moment and said he would be right back and walked outside.  He quickly returned with a travel bag and opened it to the contents.  He looked up, smiled and said “time for some shots guys, don’t say anything, just enjoy.”  He pulled out a bottle, smiled and added “I only use this for special occasions.”  He unveiled a bottle of “Sailor Jerry’s rum” and six shot glasses.  After a few toasts I became a converted “believer” as well.  I just shook my head.  “Next time we get together, I’m bringing a body guard, life coach, and a body double. This is absolutely nuts.”

Shill reached over and filled the shot glasses one more time and signaled to “raise them up.”  He stood proud, yet looked like a rejected understudy from the “Godfather 3.”  “Here is to you, your time was well spent, raise your glass for your great new band ‘onion dent’.”

“Onion Dent?”   The “believers” blank expression signaled a hard “landing on earth.”  Joe leaned over to me and asked “onion dent, what is that, another name for butthole?”  “It might be Joe,… it just might be.”

Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The rehearsal of a lifetime

I arrived an hour early just in case there were any unseen problems that could be eliminated before the others arrived.  The exterior of the school was an absolute mess.  A turn-of-the-century run-down brick elementary school.  The faded sign read “St. Leonard’s catholic school and recreational center.”  St. Leonard?
He must be the patron saint for those who about to fail.  Thoughts of failing now had a voice.  I heard it in a distant echo “Dom is that you?”  There at the back of the building he stood.  A gray three-piece suit, bright red tie, over-slicked hair and a collection of jewelry I suspect he got from Mr. T.  “Park back here my man, I’ll help you unpack.”  Shill Miller had a smile that could only be rivaled by a Mad Magazine cover.
Did you ever get that ominous and unsettling feeling as a kid on the first day of school when you met your new teacher?  You knew by the look on her face with the deep wrinkled brow and missing “laugh lines” that you were screwed for the entire school year.  I am actually at a school on my way inside and even in middle age, it still feels as bad as it did back when Nixon was president.
The next moments were spent driving the van to the back and parking near the open double doors.
I peered inside and there was Shill with a pasted smile next to a table full of donuts and coffee cups.  “Not bad is it? he said.”  The place was actually well kept as they obviously painted and resurfaced just before closing it down.  He was ten feet away from me, over-smiling, with hand extended out for a handshake as far as his arms length would allow without the dislocation of his shoulder.  A major trade wind of “Polo” hit me in the face as I got within eight feet of him. It was as if Saint Leonard himself anointed him with cologne.
“Dom it is such a pleasure to get this show on the road” he said.  A handshake pulled me in to a “Polo” hug and a pinky ring dug into my ring finger.  An uncomfortable moment followed as I realized I just got a deep-pressure embrace and unsolicited affection with gallons of cologne in an Old Catholic school basement.
For a moment I thought it might have been a hidden camera e-harmony commercial.
“This band is going to be big and you are the reason” he chimed.
Shill, this is no slam-dunk,” I replied.  “You will see my man, you will see.”
There was a stage at the back of the room.  It was where they used to set up the table for “Floyd whats his name” to announce the bingo numbers.  To my surprise, Shill came through in a big way.  The stage was completely set up with top-notch equipment and a terrific sound system.  It was very impressive and would help sell the foggy expectations to the later arrivals.   “I figured some extra instruments couldn’t hurt,” he proudly said.  “My neighbor got me a good rental rate on this place, he knows the Bishop.”
I quickly changed the subject to bypass the story of that rental agreement friendship.
One by one each musician arrived.  Everyone rolled their eyes in disgust, as they were let go from their initial Shill embrace and pinky ring indentation.  I guess it was our “initiation” into the group.  The post-hug aftermath left us unwillingly smelling like our fearless leader.  Donny started the comments “I haven’t been hugged like that since the 1980’s” “I feel like Don Johnson,” Iam said.  “I feel like Don’s Johnson” I replied (I could not pass that one up).  We all laughed off the inherited fragrance assault.
We then shared twenty minutes of coffee, conversation, and catch-up.  It really lifted my spirits as we all genuinely had a cohesive unit off stage. It was loose and friendly and all of a sudden our attention was directed to the stage.  Everyone got “astounded ” into quiet, as they glanced at the stage with realization of the presence of top-notch equipment.
It was like the last miracle that God had left for this old school.
Suddenly, there was Shill tapping the microphone signaling an opening ceremony speech.  “This ought to be good,” I thought.  “Is this the opening act?” Donny whispered.  “I think this guys been locked in here since the placed closed and is just looking for some loving” Joe said.  That started a roar of laughter that was calmed by intense mic tapping.
After Shill cleared his throat for a few minutes he put on his “game face.”
He began with “gentleman I am honored to be a part of this great group and really looking forward to you all becoming rich and famous.”  Like school kids, we had to hold back our laughter.
He continued putting a positive spin on everything and offered support to accommodate all of our individual needs and family obligations.  “I will make this work for you, thank you.” A “golf” clap followed as he walked off the stage.
We all started to unpack, take turns for the pre jam bathroom break, and set up what we needed to.
Iam walked back to the stage towards me with a stone cold look on his face and said.  “What’s up with Shill?”
“What do you mean?”  “Well he stood in the bathroom and talked to me the entire time I was going!”
“He better not follow me in there if he sees me walking in there with a newspaper!”
“This guy is walking on thin ice my friend.”  I calmed Iam down the best I could and he got Donny agitated as he relayed the story.   I thought it was a good time for a break in the action.
I got up from my seat, thanked everyone for being there and said the proof will be in how we play.  I suggested we get right into a casual jam session to get musically acquainted and work out the kinks.  After twenty minutes of a sloppy “taking care of business” there was an uneasy moment of silence.
“How about an old rocker like ‘blue suede shoes?” I went right into “it’s one for the money.”  Everyone followed and half way through the song Donny yelled, “pick it up!”  We increased the tempo until it sounded like a punk rendition.  We put the brakes on a few minutes later and it sounded like a slow country ballad.  We finished it off with going back to normal time and honestly, it sounded great.  Yes it was a simple song, but we spontaneously wrestled around with it and it became much more interesting.  The horns really shined as they exchanged solos and best of all it was fun.  It was a small victory. When Dave said on the mic “you guys suck” we all lost it in laughter again.
We did a few more tunes that we all were familiar with, had some more coffee and finished up for the afternoon.  Shill could not contain the excitement.  “You guys are the best, I mean it and this is just the beginning.  Clear your schedules for next week.”
Nobody wanted to rain on his parade so we just went on and packed up our stuff.  The realization that this would take a lot of work and time( time we did not have) hit us all.  There were unsettling rumblings in the comments that followed and I thought “wait until they hear the name he came up with.”
“This guy is nuts, if he thinks he is going to run my life, he has another thing coming.”  Iam was percolating again.  “I will straighten this all out before I leave, he said.
“Dom, this was fun, but I’m not returning to Scranton.”  “Jerry I understand,” was all I could utter in reply.  “I do not like this guy, if he hugs me again, he is going down.”  “Take it easy Iam, he means well.”  We then realized Dave and Tom left without saying goodbye, not a good sign.  I learned rather quickly that Shill didn’t always say the right thing.  He must have really hit a sore spot this time.  Iam had Shill by the shirt collar and was in his face. It happened so fast and unexpected.  Joe must have been reading my mind as he mumbled “this could get really ugly.”   He was right as it was just about to.
Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.
(check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The joke of a lifetime

“Dom you are out of your mind.”  “I am not going to drop everything to put a band together.”
Jerry had been a friend of mine many years ago.  We frequently exchange pleasantries on “facedbook” but this was our first conversation of many years.  What a thing to call an old friend about.  Some “ass” from your past calls you and invites you to be part of a fictitious band with a cheesy financial backer, and to request he meets you for the first rehearsal in Scranton of all places.  I don’t even know why I’m doing this.  It was all a joke and now I’m on the phone like a sleazy promoter calling people who I don’t want to hurt or piss off.
“Jerry he will pay for the plain tickets, rooms, meals, and he is serious about it.  I would have never called you if Iian Hunter and Dize Clay didn’t call me to give the guy a recommendation.”  “Dize Clay and Iian Hunter, who is going to call you next, Mr. Tea?   Dom I don’t like the smell of this, no offense but I have to go.”  He hung up and I felt like an idiot.  It wasn’t until Dize Clay, Iian Hunter, and Mr. Tea called Jerry that he was convinced it was worth his trip from Florida to see what this craziness was all about.
Everyone was called and recruited.  Donny convinced Iam, Tom and Joe agreed to bring the horns, and Dave felt two drummers would be a great combination.  The core of the group was set to meet.  To add to my embarrassment, the meeting was set in the basement of an old decrepit Catholic school in Scranton, Pennsylvania.  It was such a strange scenario..  There was an ominous realization that it was crazy, but a strange excitement that it was so crazy it just might work.  The nausea overwhelmed me as I packed my guitar in my van to drive to this train wreck waiting to happen.  It just didn’t feel right.  I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin, yet I kept going.
The last few weeks have been a blur.  Shill Miller became a big part of my day and kept telling me that he believed in my ideas.  I never shied away from innovation or originality, but this had so many drawbacks to consider.  The idea of a polka grunge country band with a horn section came to me in seconds and now I’m going to an actual orchestrated meeting.  The large coffee and ‘talk radio” couldn’t stop the question in my head.  Who the hell names their kid “Shill?”  This guy looked like a sleazeball but thus far backed his sincerity and enthusiasm with proof.  As promised, he sent out the plane tickets, paid for everything and was prompt and professional when he had to be.  He didn’t want any money or agreements signed.  He frequently mentioned he had enough money for “two lifetimes.”  “I just want to be a part of something that sticks” he’d say.  For some strange reason, I believed him.
A joke on facedbook that happened to be read by Shill Miller, you can’t make this stuff up.  His initial sales pitch was lame.  He told me he liked my music but was more interested in my new band idea and in forming it through social media.  It somehow sounded better the more it sunk in.
The only real background check I could do was through my cousin.  He said they were friends.  I called my cousin, as this “Shill” guy wouldn’t let up.  “Bob who is this Shill Miller he wants to back a project of mine but he seems like a nutcase.” An unsettling deep breath and a pause preceded his answer.  “He’s a good guy.  His parents won several million dollars on the lottery.  They offered him a lump sum payoff if he’d move out of their house and never talk to them again, and he took it.  He had a couple of red carpet events that he staged that got some attention and from there he picked up some low-fame clients.  He actually made them some money.”  “Can I trust him? I asked.”  “He’s quirky, greasy, and a jerk.  When you get passed cologne drenched shallow exterior, you find a genuine, bright, and charming guy, but it does take time.”
I asked him what his “gut” told him and he thought a moment and said I should meet with him.  “You got nothing to lose except a couple of friends.”  That’s what worries me.
Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.

(check back for more installments that continue the story)

Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.