Don't step to me....or on me

Many years back in the days of grungy angst and unread Bukowski novels in dirty backpacks my band got booked at the Grog to play two sets on a weeknight. We were told to, "promote the fucks out of the show" and dutifully being rocker boys with staple guns we did. For our efforts we were promised a whopping $25.00 guarantee plus some percentage of the door based on attendees, girls vs. boys, the position of the sun, bio-rhthyms and the O.J. trial.

The complexity of these calculations for who gets what percentage of the door are amazing. If Hussein really wanted to develop nukes he should have rounded up some thick necked meatballs working the door at rock clubs and put them to the task, they're mathematical geniuses in too small Beefy-T's.

Anyway on the designated night of the ROCK FEST we get up and play and whirl and dervish away for a few hours blathering about the holes in our souls or some such thing and grimace convincingly at the small but unenthusiastic crowd that was there. At the end of the night the door guy is counting up cash and I ask for our cut and he says "you didn't make shit, go ask the bartender." Well we did indeed make shit (both financially and musically to be perfectly honest) and since we were the only band playing what cash was there was brought in by us. I figured even if I didn't really understand the algorithm that if there was indeed shit collected and we were supposed to get some percentage of the shit that we were entitled to at least some
measure of said shit and rightly so!

Armed with a bellyful of pure rock fury and crappy domestic beer I strode purposefully to the bar and said, "the door guy said I need to get my $25.00 guarantee from you and anything else that you owe us from the door." Boney the Bartender of course claimed complete and total ignorance and showed a Herculean lack of regard for my plight. I believe the exact quote was "fuck you, you guys suck." Next thing you know it's grunge Abbott and Costello playing 'Who's on First.' I asked and he denied and I asked and he denied and I yelled and he yelled and we all yelled and finally the hundreds of crappy gigs and crappier paydays or lack thereof all boiled up and I jumped up on the bar and grabbed his shirt in both of my soft little ballled up fists and started maniacally sputtering "GIVE ME MY $25.00 MOTHERFUCKER......GIVE IT TO ME.....GIVE IT TO ME!!!!"

It was truly Vedderian angst to the Nth but being in a position of little to no leverage I quickly started sliding back off the bar pulling Boney's head down with me. It was more like pairs figure skating than fighting to tell the truth but I was fully engaged in my rage moment and ready to tear the house down until five seconds later when Beefy McT-Shirt threw me on the floor and
stepped squarely on my chest (which hurts). The dudes in my band stood a safe distance away and glowered unconvincingly while I squirmed and sputtered 'neath the booted foot of fiscal malfeasance and rock and roll destruction.

Nobody really knew what to do at that point. I was pretty up on the idea of me breathing but Boots didn't seem to have that as a #1 priority. We all just stood and/or wiggled on the floor there for a moment until the bartender waggled his boney witch-like finger and proclaimed, "YOU ARE NEVER TO COME IN HERE AGAIN....BANNED....BANNED FOR LIFE AND DO NOT THINK WE DO NOT KNOW YOU WHEN YOU COME IN HERE!!!! YOU COME HERE AGAIN YOU SPEND THE NIGHT IN D.C. JAIL AND THEY WILL....."

You don't really want to know the predictions of what would happen to my body and person were I to go to D.C. Jail. Suffice to say the message had been clearly delivered. I was released from my podiatric confinement and went and stood outside of J.P.'s smoking dramatically while the band packed up the equipment and talked about how they were "just this close" to kicking some serious ass.

Equipment packed we left and that was that. Banned for life from the Grog was I and never have I stepped foot in the place again. I'm pretty sure I could walk in there just fine as so much time has passed but will refuse to do so until I get that $25.00 and a private tutoring session in quantum economics from the doorman. I do have principles after all.