Long and rambling, this story will NOT be wrangled. For more than a week, I have been swingin’ my lasso, catching the mournful fwup, fwup, fwup in my ears as the rope first strikes the hide, then hits the ground. Taking one last tough stab at it today and then slipping it into my out box. Here it comes. Here it goes. Here’s the sandwich tease.
More about cheese steaks after a word from our sponsoring beefcakes.
We were there in Philly Sunday last for the mighty, mighty Bloodshot Records B¤B¤Q, making a splash, having a blast. Barbara Q Sauce never made it over to our table, all out, 86’d was the word, so we ordered off the menu. A far cry from BBQ – carrot soup. Fancy. Some Yayhoos were nearby, a duo of ’em, hatted, and we sent over a love-noted bev nap. Oooooh, they do twinkle on that Love Train.
We felt twinkly too, me and I-Do-My-Best-to-Suit-Myself Cynthia, and Along-for-the-Ride Heidi, all of us in red and white and black all over, subconsciously bloodshot. The line up at the World Cafe Live was hair raising, all the hair on the back of your neck erect, quivering, yeeeiiii, what a beautiful ruckus of Ha Ha Tonka, Robbie Fulks, Cordero and then, and then, and then, darkness fell, and rock and roll rose with a triple whammy, The Bottle Rockets, Yayhoos and Waco Brothers. PoW PoW PoW.
After the weekend fairy dust settled and everyone was back to business, firing up their work computers and taking advantage of corporate wifi, I bragged on myself on the Bottle Rockets message board, with a link to the pie fest post.
Brian Buck Stopshere Henneman posted this fine note:
The food had excellent presentation, a wonderful bouquet, with a strong finish.
Did not impede my rocking one bit (only because I passed on a second piece of pie. I was “takin’ one for the team” by doing so, ’cause I REALLY wanted more pie…).
It was so good, that the starfruit and mustard greens were not missed in any way.
It was so good that John Horton did not have to send any of it back.
So good that Keith happily allowed it to cross over into his pre-show “herbal hours”.
So good that Mark didn’t have to eat 600 pounds of it to be satisfied.
So good that I said “Hell YES” to pie, carb counts be damned.
‘Twas a fine ol’ time.
Thank you Lisa!
And this too. Swollen head material.
I must also add…
My favorite pie memory of the weekend was actually in Philadelphia.
Lisa brought a pie for The Yayhoos.
I walked into the dressing room, and there it was…
The ENCORE pie!
With the rocking and rolling completed for the evening, there was nothing to hold me back.
Myself, Roscoe, Dan Baird, John, Mark, Keith, Terry Anderson, all eating pie, as if it was a pizza.
Roscoe slicing it, and passing it around.
Dan had three pieces.
I was respectful, and let those Yayhoos have as much as they wanted, it WAS their pie.
It was such a happy scene.
A room full of rockers, eating pie.
Maybe not as enthralling as Led Zeppelin aftershow stories, but, perfectly enthralling by my standards…
BACKREADING FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE NOT VIGILANT LUNCH ENCOUNTER PATRONS
(You know who you are, pretty dang near all of yall I expect.)
DO NOT READ AHEAD WITHOUT FIRST DOING THE LEGWORK. HERE TIS.
Conversation that passed over hor d’oeuvries on the porch the afternoon of the Brox Iota gig:
Eyeing Brian, Cindy said, “My husband would look really good in that hat. Can he try it on?” Eyeing Cindy, Brian said to Jon, Cindy’s husband, ” I think I would look really good in your wife’s underwear. Can I try it on?”
Following Brian’s posts, and those of other Brox boarders, Cindy and I had an e-post-post-post mortem and she sparkled on Brian a bit. Cindy typed: Brian’s posts are so nice. It makes me like him even more. What a sweetie. I wish I had thrown my underwear at him.
I typed: May I post this?
Cindy typed: You can post it on the board ONLY if you also say that I would not have thought to do it if he hadn’t asked to wear them!
I typed: I will put it in context.
Cindy typed: Ok then. Just so folks know I would need a good reason to throw my underwear…
Tell you what, brother, she toyed with the idea of tossing panties onto the stage at The World Cafe Live. Had we only planned ahead a bit and stocked up on a cache of fresh, cute pairs…
NOT that we didn’t have enough fun. Keeping the level to myself, cause I will be condemned to a life of drudgery, just to even the score, should the powers that BE discover that the mercury blew through the top of my funometer.
We had as much fun as is legal at the Bloodshot BBQ, including coercing enforcers to bend rules for the three resident prima donnas. The following morning, were we haungry!!!! Reading Terminal Market, diner destination, was locked up tight on Labor Day. Our faces fell, and our appetites sighed real heavy. Press faces to glass, silent as a tomb.
Boink. Bounced our heads on that drawing board we turned back to it so swiftly. Cheeeeeesesteaks, here we come!
Kitty corner, signs screaming in diagonal unison. EAT HERE EAT HERE EAT HERE EAT HERE EAT HERE! Pat’s? Geno’s? Pat’s? Geno’s? I got suckered by the neon. You know me, if it looks vintage, I’m in. Here to be bought, I am. That offcolor cheesesteak lumbering up the stairway to heaven should have tipped me off to the unsavory spiritual state of the place. Eeek.
O. Kay. Can you say, I’ll have mine with a side of intolerance? I could swear there was a wave of immigration from Italy, just, uh, not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things. Like a mere millisecond in the history of the world.
Warning: Reading this sign may cause all mastery of the English language to vanish from your brain. Blank. I went blank. Blinkety blink blink. Are you kidding me? Are you out of your minds? Don’t make me take you down in French!
As if we weren’t disgusted enough… We saw red – in the sign at Pat’s King of Steaks, across the streak, and bolted for it. “We are going across the street for fries and drinks,” said Cindy, and she took off like the aggravated mother of a dawdling child. Long, strong strides. We scampered behind her and she did not reach back with a hand.
Je voudrais une steak du fromage, s’il vous plait, avec les frites de liberté. Oh, wit whiz. To put it in a univerally understandable, utterly non-English way.
We were enthralled with Pat’s “collateral”.
The wood grain cups especially tickled our fancies.
Oh, that sounds kind of suggestive, doesn’t it?
Fancy now, weren’t we?
Home again. Heidi got a souvenir, while I will have to souvien. Just below her devilucious winged minerva runs the word BLOODSHOT. Bloodshot she ain’t. Disheveled maybe, deviluciously disheveled. On the order of Record Companies We Love, by Jove, Bloodshot is Jupiter!
There, I said it, I meant it, I’m outta breath. Pant pant pant. Over and under pants! Here, there and everywhere. Over and under where? There!