Here's my story..
He cocked a loaded .357 magnum and then jammed the muzzle of the barrel into my right temple and snarled. 'You play that bass Bwahh! Or I'll splatter paint these walls grey and bloody red!!' With trembling hands I plucked my first three eight notes of an open e, and then fretted the a on the e string and plucked two eights again. The action on the cheap bass was at least 3/4 inch high off the fretboard, and the old rusted, dead strings sounded like a sick yak with extreme flatulence, I was nauseated, and had to fight the urge to vomit. The frenchman with bad teeth and a nose bigger than mine slapped the back of my head with his left hand as he held the pistol to my head. "Play the NEXT NOTE You stinking Yankee PIG!!!!" He screeched at me, his breath smelling of foul stinky cheese and snails..
What the hell is this idiot talking about? I thought to myself. I'm not a cop.. I'm just a stupid punk Southern California hippie kid with zits.. And why is there a sick Yak with extreme flatulence in this tiny stone walled cell? Don't they have any idea how bad this all really stinks? And how and why did I come to be imprisoned in this North Korean hellhole run by French Harmonica players with large butts and bad complexions?
"PLAY THE NEXT NOTE!!" He screamed again Slapping the back of my head. The Yak let loose another volley of bad gas as I fretted the b on the e string poorly and plucked another three eighth notes Suddenly, the door to the cell burst open and there stood something I could never in my wildest dreams, have imagined something this hideous actually existed.. There, standing in the doorway, dressed like a cheap Viet-Namese hooker with extremely bad taste in slut wear, pancake make up applied so thick it cracked like the parched Tejas badlands in august. Blue mascara and glossy red lipstick seemingly applied by monkey's on crack! The horror of the vision made me lose control of my bowels and I soiled myself. The Yak puked in response.
"Play the Last Note and then repeat it all again till I pass out!" J. Edgar growled out to me. Then he turned to the mad Frenchman holding the pistol to my head and said. "Beat him severly about the head and shoulders if he shows any sign of quitting!"
The cheaply dressed Cambodian wanna be Transvestite mumbled, then in smooth, deliberate motion. Raised a gallon jug of an unmentionable brand of very cheap red wine that was very popular with budding wino's such as myself, in the 60's and 70's, and gulped down a quick quart. The cheap vino, dripping down his jowls from the corners of his poorly lip rouged mouth. What the hell is J. EDGAR HOOVER doing here? I asked myself, and now I'll ask you Dear readers If you could tell me why J. Edgar Hoover, dressed like an American Politician attending a Uber TOP SECRET 'Let's be what we want to really be for the evening, and oh by the way could you place this peacock feather up my ***'. lavishly expensive, tax payer funded party, with some pretense about being a private fundraiser for a medical resolution to the problem of flatulent Yaks. Because I really need to know.
Any way.. After what seemed liked ages being forced to play the same lick over and over again with pistol muzzle pressing into my temple, the now sloppy drunk J. Edgar in cheap drag passed out, and I was left alone in the smelly dark, dank rock walled cell, to gag the remains of the night away.
After a week of this daily torture, I began to become addicted to the cheap bass and my ham fisted, out of tune playing. Like a junkie in dire need of a fix, I would shake uncontrollably, sweat and grease coating my flesh until I could once again pick up the damnable instrument and attempt rather lamely to play Louie Louie for the millionth time badly I had no concept of new strings, a decent setup and intonation was at that time. All I new was being addicted to the instrument and the ridiculously bad sounds I was able to derive from it
Then, suddenly, and without any warning, my cell was invaded with stinky cheese Frenchmen dressed like al-Qaeda terrorists. They grabbed and bound me with rope made of goat hide, and covered my head with an old burlap bag. They beat me as they forced me out of my cell of misery and stench and put me in what I can only assume was a 1964 dodge van that hadn't been invented yet. That or a Ford Pinto, take your pick.. We drove what seemed like a lifetime, for some reason in a counter clockwise circle, until we came to a screeching halt upon which the kicked me out of the vehicle and sped away never to be seen again As I lay on the concrete in the midmorning sun, emaciated, soiled, ADDICTED!! I suddenly realized I was near the entrance to cacophony heaven. There I was dear reader, at the entrance to Guitar Center!! (which by the way, didn't exist yet, but since we're fabricating here )
My life has been a downwards spiral of trying to play Louie Louie correctly ever since. That's my story and I'm sticking to it..
He cocked a loaded .357 magnum and then jammed the muzzle of the barrel into my right temple and snarled. 'You play that bass Bwahh! Or I'll splatter paint these walls grey and bloody red!!' With trembling hands I plucked my first three eight notes of an open e, and then fretted the a on the e string and plucked two eights again. The action on the cheap bass was at least 3/4 inch high off the fretboard, and the old rusted, dead strings sounded like a sick yak with extreme flatulence, I was nauseated, and had to fight the urge to vomit. The frenchman with bad teeth and a nose bigger than mine slapped the back of my head with his left hand as he held the pistol to my head. "Play the NEXT NOTE You stinking Yankee PIG!!!!" He screeched at me, his breath smelling of foul stinky cheese and snails..
What the hell is this idiot talking about? I thought to myself. I'm not a cop.. I'm just a stupid punk Southern California hippie kid with zits.. And why is there a sick Yak with extreme flatulence in this tiny stone walled cell? Don't they have any idea how bad this all really stinks? And how and why did I come to be imprisoned in this North Korean hellhole run by French Harmonica players with large butts and bad complexions?
"PLAY THE NEXT NOTE!!" He screamed again Slapping the back of my head. The Yak let loose another volley of bad gas as I fretted the b on the e string poorly and plucked another three eighth notes Suddenly, the door to the cell burst open and there stood something I could never in my wildest dreams, have imagined something this hideous actually existed.. There, standing in the doorway, dressed like a cheap Viet-Namese hooker with extremely bad taste in slut wear, pancake make up applied so thick it cracked like the parched Tejas badlands in august. Blue mascara and glossy red lipstick seemingly applied by monkey's on crack! The horror of the vision made me lose control of my bowels and I soiled myself. The Yak puked in response.
"Play the Last Note and then repeat it all again till I pass out!" J. Edgar growled out to me. Then he turned to the mad Frenchman holding the pistol to my head and said. "Beat him severly about the head and shoulders if he shows any sign of quitting!"
The cheaply dressed Cambodian wanna be Transvestite mumbled, then in smooth, deliberate motion. Raised a gallon jug of an unmentionable brand of very cheap red wine that was very popular with budding wino's such as myself, in the 60's and 70's, and gulped down a quick quart. The cheap vino, dripping down his jowls from the corners of his poorly lip rouged mouth. What the hell is J. EDGAR HOOVER doing here? I asked myself, and now I'll ask you Dear readers If you could tell me why J. Edgar Hoover, dressed like an American Politician attending a Uber TOP SECRET 'Let's be what we want to really be for the evening, and oh by the way could you place this peacock feather up my ***'. lavishly expensive, tax payer funded party, with some pretense about being a private fundraiser for a medical resolution to the problem of flatulent Yaks. Because I really need to know.
Any way.. After what seemed liked ages being forced to play the same lick over and over again with pistol muzzle pressing into my temple, the now sloppy drunk J. Edgar in cheap drag passed out, and I was left alone in the smelly dark, dank rock walled cell, to gag the remains of the night away.
After a week of this daily torture, I began to become addicted to the cheap bass and my ham fisted, out of tune playing. Like a junkie in dire need of a fix, I would shake uncontrollably, sweat and grease coating my flesh until I could once again pick up the damnable instrument and attempt rather lamely to play Louie Louie for the millionth time badly I had no concept of new strings, a decent setup and intonation was at that time. All I new was being addicted to the instrument and the ridiculously bad sounds I was able to derive from it
Then, suddenly, and without any warning, my cell was invaded with stinky cheese Frenchmen dressed like al-Qaeda terrorists. They grabbed and bound me with rope made of goat hide, and covered my head with an old burlap bag. They beat me as they forced me out of my cell of misery and stench and put me in what I can only assume was a 1964 dodge van that hadn't been invented yet. That or a Ford Pinto, take your pick.. We drove what seemed like a lifetime, for some reason in a counter clockwise circle, until we came to a screeching halt upon which the kicked me out of the vehicle and sped away never to be seen again As I lay on the concrete in the midmorning sun, emaciated, soiled, ADDICTED!! I suddenly realized I was near the entrance to cacophony heaven. There I was dear reader, at the entrance to Guitar Center!! (which by the way, didn't exist yet, but since we're fabricating here )
My life has been a downwards spiral of trying to play Louie Louie correctly ever since. That's my story and I'm sticking to it..
