Grease

I must have rocketed past the time/space continuum because here it is, the second day of our Lord's year 2008, and I'm still stuck on Christmas.

Stay with me, though. I think you'll appreciate this.

As noted earlier, I spent some time in small-town Ohio, where Megan Jane and I are from. We went to a local watering hole that, naturally, used to be the town's ice cream parlor, also equally revered for its waffle fries. Naturally.

Now, it's just a place to get cheap drinks and cheap girls, but during the evening, we got some priceless photos. If a picture is worth a thousand words then, my pretties, I am a gazillionaire.

Meet my new friend. I never actually got his first name, but we called him simply and beautifully, Victor Mustachio. It's been a long, long time since I've seen anyone brave the long permed hair with bangs, probably circa 1987. Too long, if you ask me.

He is the lead singer and brightest star of a kick-ass (no, really) classic rock cover band. I don't want to tell you the whole name in case Victor Mustachio googles the band and sees me and—boom—I have a stalker. No, thank you. I can't handle all of that lovin'. But I will tell you that the word "grease" is in their name. That's really all that you need to know.

But speaking of stalking, it took a little finesse getting this close to such a wild animal.

We started from afar.

And moved ever closer, our bodies propelled by the heat and motion of a bitchin' cover of Layla.

He's on to us! Quick, turn on the charm! Megan and I tag teamed him, gave him the old razzle dazzle, and love blossomed in Ohio. He sang a song for me, but neither Megan Jane nor I can remember what it was. It must have debilitated all of my neural processes with its loveliness because I am sure it had nothing to do with Jim Beam.

The only thing left to do was start a massage train.

Yeah, seriously. But amid the back rubs and kneading, something went horribly wrong. Victor Mustachio must have gotten hold of some peyote backstage.

After a while, he and his tambourine just got ... a ... little ... bit ... slower ... than everyone else. He looked, and probably felt, like this:


Every once in a while, he'd sit down on his stool, nod off and jerk awake when a particularly nasty riff came about.

"Oh, he's seeing The Rattler. Ssssssss," Megan Jane sagely said. He was, indeed, seeing The Rattler. He felt the bite of the good stuff. The sasparilla. The hot dog heaven.

But I tell you, his music was like a bee sting--you almost didn't know that it had gotten inside of you until you felt the pain after he left. Damn.

Victor said the next stop up the road was Burlington, Vermont, so all you New England ladies, let me tell you something right now: If you see this fine thing coming your way, give him the love, respect and deep conditioner he deserves.

Well into the next day, Megan Jane and I still couldn't recall the song he sang for me, so we pulled in the help of her brother who wasn't actually there -- surprisingly to no avail.

In the Comments section, tell me what song you think Victor Mustachio sang for me. The winner gets the hand towel soaked with his sweat that I stole when he was passed out.