The further adventures of an earthbound alien

Check out my Band
Not really. It just seems to be the thing to say on my space. I started a page on my space for one of the characters on our cartoon. But I don’t have the time to go back and work on it. It’s not that I find the youthful pursuit of telling everything about myself and my thoughts to a computer is beneath me. Heavens no. It’s just that, well… that Playstation isn’t going to play itself.
But my band… Let me tell you about my band. A couple years ago in LA some friends and I started a band called “PLASTER CACTUS”. We rocked! Our first gig was a talent showcase for animation bands. We figured that since we were all animation directors we were a shoe-in. So we picked a couple songs and practiced and eventually, after a lot of hard work, we were rejected. Not a good start; getting rejected from a talent show. But we trudged on.
As it turns out, practice was my favorite part of being in the band. We’d get together at a rehearsal place on Sunday night, someone would bring beer and we’d jam for a couple of four hours. We’d assassinate a couple songs from the 70’s, finish the beer and roll back to our wives, deaf. I was fine with that. But my band members had other ideas. They were enrolling us in other talent shows. Ultimately, we played another talent show and a company picnic. Not exactly the Roxie but, we weren’t exactly Mötley Crüe.
And thank GOD for that.

Now, I return to LA. Two of the boys have checked in. We’re going to reform under a new name. here are the candidates for names:
Old Fogerdy
Or
The Meathawks.
(Our logo could be a guy with a steak on his head.)
Or maybe we’ll throw our front man’s name in there; “Chuck and the Meathawks”.

This is just one of the things I’m looking forward to. So why didn’t I join a band here in Michigan? I don’t know. I asked people but I never got in anywhere.
“So you play? Wanna get together and jam?”
“What do you play, man?”
“I don’t know. I favor 70’s glam rock.”
“Sorry, too busy.”

I suppose if I said, “Celtic sea faring tunes” I’d be in for sure.
Picture me sitting behind the guy (who plays the spoons) shoved into some back room at a bar with stuffed animals rotting on the walls, sitting with fifty other musicians, each equipped with his own bizarre, bowed, Irish instrument, shillelagh, and golden retriever standing near.

A bearded local and his golden retriever who has a dulcimer tied to his neck step up to the beer soaked microphone.
“Thank you all for showing up on this cold winter night that doth, like a foul witch, limp so tediously away.”
(Waits for laugh. None comes. Moves on)
“We’d like to play one of our favorites. Molly, don’t cry for me because I’m dead.”
Then the band slowly picks up the tune like a train starting to roll. Two thirds of the way into the intro everyone seems to be playing roughly the same song. Secure in the knowledge that the fifty musicians all seem to be on the right track the bearded man (and his golden) turn to the outnumbered audience and he sings…

‘Twas neigh past four
when the foul wind howled
and the galley mast crashed through the deck.
And the cookie with a basket
of fresh steamed potatoes
Stepped up and said,
eat up boys, it could be your last.
“Clickety clickety” (that’s the guy on the spoons.)
When all hands sunk down
beneath the briny foam,
with black eyes transfixed on the waves.
Chorus:
Don’t cry for me fair Molly O’ Sullivan.
Beneath the briny foam I lie.
Don’t cry
Don’t cry
Don’t cry, you whiney old bag
Stop crying
Knock it off
Get a grip woman,
don’t cry…”
Clackity clack. And so on…
Eventually the song mercifully slams to a stop when the guy in front of me drops one of his spoon, someone knocks over a lamp, a set of cross country skis falls over and smashes into a tray of drinks and two of the golden retrievers in the tambourine section start fucking.
The audience, made up of captive friends and apathetic wives, deliver a sturring round of applause.
Clap! Clap!
“Do the one where the ship sinks! Whoooooo!”

You gotta love Northern Michigan!