Hockey Town… Atlanta?

Atlanta has lost two NHL hockey teams for two different reasons, but neither was lost because Atlanta is not a hockey town.

Atlanta is one of those places where everyone is from somewhere else. After our parents moved us there from Indianapolis, my brother and I found ourselves on Atlanta hockey teams with kids from New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Montreal…. We’d travel north to play teams who took us for granted, and we rarely lost.

My brother went to an Olympic Training Camp, played college hockey and professionally in Europe. I went to an Olympic Training Camp, played juniors in Canada, the USHL, and worked with the NHL selling custom equipment for Easton Hockey.

And we were not the only hockey brothers out of the ATL: One of the talented Ardagna brothers was Dartmouth’s team captain in the early ’80’s, one of the Hall brothers started the hockey program at The University of Georgia, and one of the Saponari brothers was an NHL draft pick.

An Atlanta youth hockey teammate and friend of mine Chuck Fletcher actually became a GM for a couple of NHL teams. His dad, Cliff, was Atlanta’s GM and moved with the team to Calgary where they won The Stanley Cup a few years later.

Who knows, if the team would have stayed in Atlanta maybe The Flames would be the ones with their names etched onto that cup?

I will admit, after The Flames left Atlanta there was a dip in hockey enthusiasm. We didn’t even have a local hockey rink for a few years and were forced to drive 2 hours to practice in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I had to look for a better place to play and coincidentally followed The Flames to Calgary when the Fletchers took me in at 17.

Dinner at the Fletchers in Calgary was often a lesson in hockey or the business of sport. Topics ranged from the one-way game of players from Scandinavia at the time to where the next batch of International players would come from to rising stick budgets to how to make the game better for TV.

Guests included Flames coach Bob Johnson who was doing double-duty as Team USA’s coach, and Sports Illustrated’s Editor in Chief who would stay for days. The All Star game was in Calgary that year so it was a who’s-who.

One evening talk turned to why The Flames left Atlanta and Cliff was adamant that they didn’t leave for lack of a southern hockey audience (present-day successes of The Carolina Hurricanes, Nashville Predators, Tampa Bay Lightning and Florida Panthers can attest to that.)

The Atlanta Flames hockey club was owned by Tom Cousins who was a residential real estate mogul. In the ’70’s Atlanta was growing faster than the gloves were dropped at a Flames vs. Flyers game. By the ’80’s the city was erecting high-rise office buildings like Dubai in the aughts. Cousins wanted to consolidate everything into this burgeoning boom, and his hockey team was a money-loser, so that went on the block first.

There were some local buying groups interested, but no one could match Canadian businessman Nelson Skalbania. Why? Because Skalbania pre-sold advertising (which was illegal btw). Skalbania would later go to prison for misappropriating funds on another deal.

I know, I know, the Flames weren’t the only hockey team to leave Atlanta.

The Thrashers had their own problems: first off they played downtown like the Flames. The majority of the hockey crowd in Atlanta lives well north of the city in the suburbs. They don’t want to fight traffic, worry about their safety, or pay exorbitant parking rates to see a team that loses. And that was The Thrashers second big problem: they rarely won. But their biggest problem was they were owned by a group of disparate entities called The Atlanta Spirit.

The Atlanta Spirit owned not just the hockey Flames but the basketball Hawks and the arena they played in. These owners were scattered from Atlanta to Boston to D.C. Some of the owners were more interested in the basketball team, others in potential revenue from the arena, others in who knows what. They were always arguing and they actually sued each other a few times well before The Thrashers ultimate demise.

Once again, there was local sentiment to keep the team in Atlanta, and there were some interested local parties, but the fact that they had already lost one NHL team did not bode well for a local savior.

If Atlanta does get blessed with a third team, they really need to be in the northern suburbs. There’s talk of that happening now with the Anson Carter group. They also need to up their marketing skills, and do more community outreach.

A few years back I was thinking an Atlanta group could buy the beleaguered Phoenix Coyotes and name the new team The Atlanta Phoenix, since they’d be rising from the ashes like the city itself had done. But that name was taken by an Atlanta female football team not long after The Thrashers moved to Winnipeg, and The Coyotes are somehow still in Phoenix.

So… If Atlanta gets another chance, and I think they will, how about naming the new team The Atlanta Dragons? There’s still fire and folklore involved, and great cross-marketing opportunities what with the Dragon Con crowd and all the movies and TV shows now shot in Atlanta.

And I’m available for consulting. Just sayin’.

Future Past 1984

Future past, alternative facts

Orwell a flash, a distant memory

Big Brother and two-way telescreens

Future past, ungood bad

Pills to remember, pills to forget

We give a lot for what we get

Foresight in hindsight      

We’ve seen it all before

Foresight in hindsight

1984

Future past, hope gone fast

It’s hard to learn when there’s no time to think

Life’s a blur in a cyberspace blink

Future past, lost and last

Avatar living, what’s less is best

missing misgivings, sympathyless

Foresight in hindsight

We’ve seen this all before

Foresight in hindsight

1984

Oppressive normality

Newspeak reality

Revisionist history

Who claims victory

Foresight in hindsight

Why can’t we learn from before

Foresight in hindsight

1984

https://open.spotify.com/track/0KnhxBaeVABy8MXGE1e97z?si=1215c1396b6947ff

Dracula on the Kitten Porch

When we first flew out from LA to see houses with our Atlanta realtor, she had to explain some things to us. For example, in LA the room off the kitchen with the TV and the couch is usually the family room. In Atlanta they say keeping room. A screened porch in LA is just a screened porch. In Atlanta they say sleeping porch.

I asked why on both.

“Keeping room because it’s next to the kitchen so you can keep the cook company. And sleeping porch, I guess back in the old days when people didn’t have air-conditioning they could move out to the sleeping porch if it got too hot in the house,” the realtor answered.

My wife looked at both of us and said “thank goodness for AC. You won’t find me sleeping on a porch.”

“Even if the weather’s nice?” I prodded.

“It may be screened, but it’s not sealed!” was my wife’s prescient reply. “It’s perfect for the kitties though. Instead of a sleeping porch, we can call it a kitten porch.”

From then on, even our realtor was calling them “kitten porches”.

Cut to a few years into our new home in Atlanta with the kitten porch another part of our living space: large couch, loveseat, cozy chair, lamps, rug, etc. Fall and Spring are great out there.

But Alex’s prescience was spot on: we got stink bugs, spiders, a snake, and even a bat on our screened kitten porch.

The bat was discovered one cool night while we were sitting casually on the porch. Suddenly what looked like a giant moth wizzed by Alex’s head. She screamed and ran into the house. I wrangled the cats and joined her.

From the safety of our sealed house, we realized the giant moth was actually a bat. Not wanting the thing to fly into the house, we left it alone for the night. The next day I snapped a photo of it hanging there like it was an extra in a Dracula reboot.

The internet helped us come up with a plan: buy a butterfly net, trap it, and release it somewhere far away. This was easier said than done. Bats are fast and erratic flyers. I spent more than a few frantic minutes trying to trap it in mid-air, then finally it settled on the screen… and I got him!

Okay, now what? I thought.

“Alex, grab a towel or something!” I yelled into the house.

She came out hesitantly.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got him trapped” I confidently stated while knowing I wasn’t so confident what would happen next.

Well, we somehow got him into a box, put him in our car and drove him to his new home in someone else’s woods.

The next cool night, I jokingly asked Alex if she wanted to sleep on the kitten porch.

“I am not about to get bit in the neck by a mini Dracula with rabies!” she proclaimed in her matter-of-fact with a side of humor kind of way.

Probably a good thing I never told her about the snake.

Addendum to “Fixing the World One Small Problem at a Time”

I wrote this back in July and in the months since we have had to fix many more small problems. Then, just last week, an actual solution presented itself right out of thin air (or more likely off of a garbage truck). I went to collect our trash bins and there on the street was a pink business card. I picked it up and the friendly font lured me in: “Thanks!” it said, and in a smaller different font, “For Taking Two Parking Spaces.” I saw where this was going and I liked it. It continued: “I HAD TO PARK TWO BLOCKS AWAY YOU STUPID INCONSIDERATE Bastard.” This last sentence was in all caps except for the Bastard which was in bold to emphasize the word.

I’ll leave you with my prior post about fixing small problems while we reproduce this brilliant card for future use. We may even have to add some other cards in the mix if anyone has any good ideas?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is July- more than 3 months before Halloween- and there’s a giant talking witch display at our local CostCo. July! Not August, not even September.

And this witch doesn’t just talk loudly, no, it cackles loudly and repeats itself over and over and over. You can hear it throughout the store. I tried to ignore it, but then I thought about the poor employees who were made to listen to this thing all day long and I started to stew.

Alex said if she came in here again she’d unplug the thing. I didn’t doubt her, as I’d seen her right many small wrongs before, but I thought why not just do it now… so I did. Small problem solved.

We’ve been helping the world, one small problem at a time, for as long as I can remember.

Back in Woodland Hills we had an older neighbor who’d rake his driveway leaves every day in the fall- with a metal rake. Talk about grating. Ever heard of plastic rakes, brooms, or even a dreaded leaf-blower? At least the leaf-blower would finish the job in 30-seconds as opposed to the hour-long metal rake sessions we had to endure.

Alex said, “we need to come up with a plan to get this guy to stop the racket. We can call it Operation No Rake!”

That’s when I realized my wife and I were small problem solvers in this crazy world together.

We discussed our options to stop the metal raking: Knock on his door and tell him how much of a nuisance he was, or something a little more creative?

We went the creative route. We bought a broom and wrapped it in a big bow. Then we printed up an image of a metal rake inside a red circle and a slash: the universal symbol for “NO”. I think we even wrote something on the paper like “No Metal Rake on Pavement Please.”

Under cover of night, we propped the broom up on his garage so he wouldn’t miss it. Over the next week or so, all was quiet… a little too quiet. Not long after our gift-giving we heard that the old man had died. I could just picture him being so surprised by the broom that he had a heart attack or something, but they told us it was just old age that got him.

On the way home from the CostCo we were stuck behind a car taking a right hand turn. The sign above said “No Right on Red”, but there was also a blinking yellow arrow pointing to the right. I didn’t honk because I realized the guy’s conundrum. The sign should have said “No Right on Red Arrow”.

After finally making it through the light, I found myself thinking would you use a stencil to change that sign or just free-hand it?

Ahoy!

Have you ever been in a car that feels like a boat?

My mom’s Lincoln Towncar was like a boat and a tank combined. When I was a teenager I was floating that thing at about 43 knots down Peachtree Rd. in Atlanta- two lanes each way- and a guy in a regular land vessel jumped in front of me.

This guy obviously didn’t know the rules of the sea and how hard it is to change course or stop a moving ship. I hit his back quarter panel with my giant bumper and we got out to assess the situation. No one was hurt but his car. My mom’s Lincoln didn’t even have a scratch.

So, when Alex and I started shopping for our latest vehicle we were looking for the safety of the old Towncar but with the modern functionality of a car, not a boat.

Maybe it was the Matthew McConaughey commercials, or maybe it was remembering the smooth, comfortable ride of my mom’s car, but we started our search at a Lincoln dealer.

We spent some time there and ended up with a loaner to try out for a couple days.

My first clue should have been the name, Navigator, but when I got into this large SUV it felt more like a comfortable spaceship than a boat. Control panels and buttons in odd places I’d never seen before, massaging seats, and an auto-retracting steering wheel for easier access. When I turned on the car for the first time, the retractable steering wheel came at me like we were about to take off from a NASA launchpad.

Once on the road though, it did remind me of my Mom’s old boat. Well, more like a comfortable yacht. I told my wife I’d need a captain’s hat if we bought the thing. We saw another Navigator floating by in the next lane and Alex raised her hand with a wave. “Ahoy!” she proclaimed with a giggle.

We got the loaner home and I opened the garage. I wasn’t sure if it would even fit, and I wasn’t about to try.

We returned the loaner and thanked them and said we would sleep on it. The pros were its comfortable, quiet ride, and the massaging seats. The cons were its feeling like a big yacht in a tiny harbor, and its price which was a bit more than we were wanting to spend.

To this day, whenever we see a Lincoln Navigator floating its way down the road, we both break a smile and give a hearty, “ahoy!”

Fixing The World One Small Problem at a Time

This is July- more than 3 months before Halloween- and there’s a giant talking witch display at our local CostCo. July! Not August, not even September.

And this witch doesn’t just talk loudly, no, it cackles loudly and repeats itself over and over and over. You can hear it throughout the store. I tried to ignore it, but then I thought about the poor employees who were made to listen to this thing all day long and I started to stew.

Alex said if she came in here again she’d unplug the thing. I didn’t doubt her, as I’d seen her right many small wrongs before, but I thought why not just do it now… so I did. Small problem solved.

We’ve been helping the world, one small problem at a time, for as long as I can remember.

Back in Woodland Hills we had an older neighbor who’d rake his driveway leaves every day in the fall- with a metal rake. Talk about grating. Ever heard of plastic rakes, brooms, or even a dreaded leaf-blower? At least the leaf-blower would finish the job in 30-seconds as opposed to the hour-long metal rake sessions we had to endure.

Alex said, “we need to come up with a plan to get this guy to stop the racket. We can call it Operation No Rake!”

That’s when I realized my wife and I were small problem solvers in this crazy world together.

We discussed our options to stop the metal raking: Knock on his door and tell him how much of a nuisance he was, or something a little more creative?

We went the creative route. We bought a broom and wrapped it in a big bow. Then we printed up an image of a metal rake inside a red circle and a slash: the universal symbol for “NO”. I think we even wrote something on the paper like “No Metal Rake on Pavement Please.”

Under cover of night, we propped the broom up on his garage so he wouldn’t miss it. Over the next week or so, all was quiet… a little too quiet. Not long after our gift-giving we heard that the old man had died. I could just picture him being so surprised by the broom that he had a heart attack or something, but they told us it was just old age that got him.

On the way home from the CostCo we were stuck behind a car taking a right hand turn. The sign above said “No Right on Red”, but there was also a blinking yellow arrow pointing to the right. I didn’t honk because I realized the guy’s conundrum. The sign should have said “No Right on Red Arrow”.

After finally making it through the light, I found myself thinking would you use a stencil to change that sign or just free-hand it?

Parallel Olympic Universe

The Atlanta Olympics were going on at this time 27 years ago. Just prior, I worked as a liaison and interpreter for a French TV crew with France Deux who were trying to find a spot to set up their Olympic headquarters and build a remote studio with a view.

The French crew consisted of a couple of producers, assistants, construction specialists, executives, and even a well-known French sports broadcaster.

Before the potential studio meetings, we toured Olympic venues and ended up at the newly built Centennial Olympic Stadium; its red rubbery track just laid down. We looked up at 85,000 empty seats and a giant cauldron on one end that Muhammad Ali would famously light with shaky hands while fighting his last fight.

We attended a press meeting in a giant hall with crews from around the globe at the aptly named Georgia World Congress Center. The press themselves were like a small city’s population.

We wined and dined our French contingent, and I became their de facto driver around town.

At a one bar, a member of the French crew was getting an inordinate amount of attention from a woman who was clearly out of his league. I’d seen this kind of thing before. There’s friendly and there’s too friendly, and this was way too friendly, way too fast. I quickly tried to think of the least offensive way to tell this guy in his own language that he was being solicited by a prostitute.

In the following days, we visited a number of potential buildings downtown. There were some real professional places and one or two family owned operations that were clearly flying by the seat of their pants.

At one of the latter, a guy met us kind of late in the evening sporting a well-worn Atlanta Falcons cap and a dirty white tank top undershirt barely covering his pot belly. He brought us to the roof of his older brick building and showed us an excellent view.

The guy talked fast and with a thick southern accent. He was clearly excited by all of this Olympics action and admitted he’d already rented his whole brick facade to advertisers. The roof would be an ideal remote broadcast spot.

We then went into his messy office to talk numbers and it suddenly felt like we were in a Dukes of Hazzard episode. He adjusted his tattered Falcons cap as he sat back in an old dusty desk chair and chewed on an unlit cigar while he talked. There were papers strewn everywhere, an open bottle of whiskey, a shotgun and a rebel flag on the wall, an old safe in the corner, and a stuffed squirrel staring at us while we negotiated.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the stuffed squirrel. It was hard enough for me to understand this guy’s English, I can’t imagine the French team even trying. I did my best to translate back and forth, but the accent, the slang and the squirrel were getting to me.

Finally, it came down to the asking price. All I can say is, I think this guy was trying to retire on the deal.

Leaving the building, I could hear two of the French crew talking to one another. I didn’t catch everything, but in between the rapid-fire French exchange of numbers and business-speak, I succinctly heard “Dukes of Hazzard”.

That’s the true beauty of the Olympics, bringing cultures together.

The Atlanta Olympics will always be remembered for the Muhammad Ali torch lighting, Kerri Strug’s one-legged vault for the win, Agassi’s tennis gold medal, Michael Johnson’s gold shoes, the horrible pipe bomb, and for some, a Dukes of Hazzard-like meeting in a seedy brick building late one Atlanta eve.

And with the Summer Games next year in Paris, there’s no doubt that someone will have a parallel Olympic universe experience of their own out there. Instead of Dukes of Hazzard it might be more An American in Paris, Emily in Paris, Family Business, or French Kiss, but an experience nonetheless.

To Pee or Not to Pee in Trump’s Pool

Checking in at the Marriott in Doral, Florida, we were told that guests had access to the pool and fitness center across the street at Trump’s Doral Resort.

I almost didn’t book the Marriott due to its proximity to this buffoon’s bluster-piece. I thought I might get indigestion just from being so close. But we couldn’t find a better rate for a decent hotel in the area, so we booked the Marriott.

I don’t know the history of Doral, the town, but I did notice rather quickly that it’s in the flight path of Miami International Airport, very industrial, and in the shadow of a giant trash mound.

The view from our hotel room was of a large pond with fountains, surrounded by condos, and what looked like a hill rising up in the distance. “Wait a minute,” my wife said “there are no hills in south Florida. What the hell is that?” “Mt. Garbage,” I replied, softening the second ‘g’ for garbaje. “Probably called something fancy like Mt. Doral in the original business plan for Trump’s place.”

We wandered down to the Marriott pool which was full of screaming kids. The concierge must have read our minds when she told us there was an adults-only pool across the street.

“Okay,” I said to my wife “but if they’re selling MAGA hats in the lobby, we’re outta’ there.”

“Look at it this way,” she replied, “that man has taken so much piece of mind from us over the last how many years, why don’t we use the hell out of his amenities and get a small token back.”

“Yeah…” I was starting to see her point, “and we can pee in his pool!” I proclaimed.

The first thing we noticed was how empty the place was. There were more employees than guests. No one, and I mean no one, on the golf course. No one sitting in the lobby or adjacent lobby bars or restaurant. There wasn’t even a concierge- just a sign on the concierge desk that said to go to the front desk for service.

A congratulatory Grand Opening certificate framed in gold (of course) on the wall from Miami-Dade County was interestingly missing a signature. The Mayor signed, the Chairman did not.

Speaking of gold, we had to check the lobby bathrooms for gold toilets: the bathroom fixtures were gold-adorned but the toilets white porcelain. I guess the gold toilet is only for the orange turd.

The pools were just as dead as everywhere else here. One or two families were at the main pool (one of which we recognized from the Marriott) and nobody at the adult pool, which was fine with us.

At the entrance to the pool, they had a merch display with Trump Doral hats, towels, and the cheapest looking flip-flops you’ve ever seen- like the kind you’d get at the Dollar Store- definitely made in China- and with a price tag of $40!

There was also a free tray of what looked like small to-go mayonnaise containers- you know, the little clear cups with lids that they put condiments in when you get a to-go order? Well, my wife grabbed two of these, and instructed me to do the same.

I followed orders but remarked “I know we’re trying to get our piece of mind back, but I’m not sure about this sunbaked mayonnaise.”

“It’s sunblock,” she replied like I was supposed to know.

With the adult pool to ourselves, a nice 85-degrees and sunny, and surrounded by palm trees, we had a moment of peace… then a plane flew directly overhead and snapped us back to reality.

A mangy cat clan appeared out of the palm trees and came toward us looking for food. It was obvious the poor things hadn’t eaten much lately, what with the sparse guest roster and all. One jumped into a nearby trashcan that I noticed had the Trump name with some kind of crest attached to the bin. “Appropriate,” I thought.

“We should have brought some water,” my wife said, “those cats look thirsty.”

“Well we’re not buying anything here.”

“Check the fridges” she said, nodding toward the private cabanas behind us.

With no one around, I casually walked into one of the tents that only the ultra rich or the corporate sponsored could afford. This was first class. It had comfortable couches, a fan, a TV, and a fridge. I grabbed two waters and returned to my seat in coach.

My wife got busy trying to hydrate the cats, while I took a big gulp from my bottle.

“This will help me pee!” I said, a little louder than I should have. Fortunately, there was still no one around to hear me.

A few empty water bottles later we headed back to our humble hotel across the street. I have to admit I was relieved.

I Shaved For You

Late April many moons ago we had gone up to Big Bear Resort from LA for a late-season ski trip. To call Big Bear a resort is a stretch, but it is the closest ski town to LA.

Since Alex had only skied once before, she was still excitingly putting her gear and outfits together. We got her some cute skis with hearts on the tips, you know for better performance, and a faux fur-lined jacket to ski and apres ski. She braided her hair in long pigtails and looked like she had ski-jumped right out of a fashion magazine.

We drove up with a friend from LA we’ll call McGoo. McGoo claimed to be a seasoned skier, but I’d only seen him dealing with moguls of the LA kind, not moguls on a mountain. He was in PR so he was good at spinning things, but all that spinning must have affected his vestibular system; he was a bit clumsy to say the least.

McGoo missed getting on the first chair lift. The 3 of us had scooted up to get on a 4-person chair and before we knew it, it was just me and Alex. We looked back and there was an empty chair behind us, then McGoo all by himself on the one behind that. He was smiling and waving like nothing had happened.

Our first run down the mountain, I’m hanging back with Alex to help her find her edges so she doesn’t do a Lindsay Vonn and we see McGoo zoom by in a straight line, hunched over with his poles tucked under his arms and straight up in the air. Not the most stylish or aerodynamic, but he was skiing I guess.

Down near the bottom, McGoo had to come out of his tuck and now his poles were flailing through the air to his left and right like two gyrating spears. He lost his hat in the middle of all this, but somehow managed to stop at the bottom without killing himself, or impaling anyone.

I told Alex to steer clear of him for the rest of the day, or at least a ski pole length away.

We’d rented a house for the night with a jacuzzi deck overlooking all of Big Bear and its lake in the distance. We were up on a hill surrounded by trees and nature. There was even a giant tree coming up through a hole cut into a corner of the deck.

We enjoyed the deck for awhile but the altitude, skiing and drinks had tired me and Alex out. McGoo was a notorious late-nighter, so when Alex and I went to bed I reminded him to close and lock the patio door.

Maybe it was the fact that we were in a place called Big Bear, or all the bear decorations everywhere, but Alex woke me up in the middle of the night with “I think I hear a bear!” I rolled over and listened. Sure enough there was a deep and loud bear-like sound coming from somewhere in the house. I got up to investigate and grabbed a ski pole by the front door like that was going to help. I tip-toed around the house and followed the noise… straight to McGoo’s room. He was the bear! And he was snoring like he was in hibernation!

McGoo woke up refreshed, us less so, and he suggested a lunch place for the drive home. “It’s a real dive in the best sense of the word, kind of a Harley hangout, but they’ve got some great smoked meats” he said in his PR way.

He wasn’t kidding about the clientele. The attire was more bike-gang vest than ski-resort chic. The waitress appeared with disheveled hair and a dentist-averse smile. She was a little rough around the edges but nice. She even offered us a sharpie so we could graffiti on the wooden seating area we were seated in.

We enjoyed our smoked meat lunch to the sounds of music from one of those CD jukeboxes where you pick three songs. After one too many hairband ballads, McGoo took it upon himself to choose the music. “Uh,oh,” I thought, “this could turn ugly.”

When I heard the refrain “bye, bye, miss American pie” I figured that was safe enough. I mean I’d heard people sing-along to that chorus from Pittsburgh to Paris (Texas and France). The place seemed to like it and a couple of the bearded biker-vests were looking our way nodding at us.

The problem with American Pie though is that it’s much longer than you’d think. It clocks in it at more than 8 and a half minutes. So unless your drunk at a late night bar and unable to keep track of time, it does get a little tiresome.

McGoo’s second song was a safe country version of “Life Is A Highway” by Rascall Flats. The place seemed to move a little with this one. Alex even got up and did a little two-step on her way past the bearded biker-vest guys to the bathroom.

By the time Alex got back to the table, McGoo’s third song had started and it was American Pie…. again. McGoo had pulled another McGoo. I got up to go to the bathroom so we could exit this place before they turned on us.

When I opened the bathroom door the first thing I saw was a bright red drop of blood on the white sink, and a biker-vest guy leaning over the sink with some kind of paraphernalia in his hand. I backed the hell out of there and went to get Alex and McGoo to leave. American Pie was only in its 3rd minute or so by this time.

As I started the car I tried to explain what I saw in the bathroom. “I don’t know what it was, but it didn’t look right,” was all I could say. Just as we were backing out, one of the biker-vest guys was quickly approaching our car. I don’t know why I didn’t just take off, but I rolled the window down a crack to hear what he was saying.

“I was hoping I could get a dance with the little lady in there before you left?” he said. “Huh?” I answered. He looked at Alex “well, I thought you was so beautiful I went and shaved for you. By the time I come out, you was gone.”

Alex didn’t know what to say. “That is so flattering, but we’ve really got to get going. Maybe next time?”

“Maybe next time?!” I asked my wife as we peeled out of there.

“Well, I’ve never had a stranger shave for me,” she said.