THE GROUPIE FROM HELL

In a comment regarding my last story, Rocky jokingly said that she was now my "groupie". Of course, Rocky was being funny and, thankfully, complimentory.

I am extremely flattered that she or ANYONE bothers to read my drivel.

However, her remark reminded me of a time, not so long ago....maybe seven years or so, when I had an encounter with...

"THE GROUPIE FROM HELL".

Let me preface this by making the following statement:

ANY person who has EVER played music long enough in public has had admirers, fans, hangers on, followers, sychophants, and yes....even groupies.

It is not so much a testament to the talent, appearance, sexual magnetism or image of the musician but rather, the by-product, I believe, of the absence of a life, respect for the ability carry a friggin' tune and, the consumption of drugs and/or alcohol that allows even half assed musicians to gain a following.

In any case, in the interest of full disclosure, I must say that, while I was never, "THE SHIT".....I WAS, at the very least, "THE SHIT'S" second cousin. I was pretty damned good.

I made a nice living, had a lot of fun, got to know alot of people (women) and did it for almost thirty years.

I said all of that just to say this.

While I DO have a massive ego, I'm not delusional enough to believe I was ever worthy of the adoration I received from.............

"THE GROUPIE FROM HELL"

First, allow me to set the stage for this tale.

Damn, this could be another LONG one.

For over four years, I played almost every weekend and the occasional week night at a restaurant and bar in Banner Elk, NC called Nick's.

Almost anyone who has visited the North Carolina ski area has probably been to Nick's a time or twelve.

It was a fun place to play, mainly because of a close knit group of local regulars we called "The Golden Liver Club". We even had gold plastic membership cards made up for our elite group.

We didn't allow just anyone into our club. You had to be a serious drinker, possess the ability to tell a good joke and be willing to buy a round of drinks at least once a week. It was a pretty small but loyal group of charactors.

Another wonderful aspect of playing at Nick's was the fact that I had a brand new audience almost every week due to the influx of skiers (ski bunnies) in the winter, Leaf Gawkers (beautiful women in tight fitting sweaters) in the fall and of course, tourists (scantily clad women) escaping the heat in the summer.

What a gig!

Lastly.....there was George, the owner of Nick's. He was and is, a great friend. He was a true charactor.

Picture a fifty-ish, fiesty little Leprechaun who would just as soon shoot you in the ass as he would stay up all night drinking with you.

Women LOVED the cocky little little bastard...hell, they still do. I could and probably will write a long story about George in the near future.

Lord the brain cells we put to death together "back in the day".

On with the tale........

One summer night, I was in the middle of playing a set when a very large group of people came in. I could see the wait staff hustling to put several tables together so as to accomodate the small mob. They were pretty loud and obviously, a few of them were not fixin' to have their first drink of the evening. Some of 'em were already sloshed.

Much to my displeasure, the wait staff had chosen to put them directly in front of me, about midway in the big room. Thirty or so men and women in various states of inebriation forty feet away.

This could be a long night.

I Wished I Was Dead.

As I finished up the tune, "Amy", by Pure Prairie League, the audience applauded but the new arrivals exploded!

Jeez, they startled the shit out of everyone in the joint!

You'de have thought someone scored a friggin' touchdown on TV but, there were no TV's.

A big guy came up to the stage with a big grin on his face.

"Lisa told us all 'bout you so, we all came up to listen at you play some tunes."

"Well great man...glad to have ya'll here. I'm Ron."

I shook his hand, took a big chug of beer, lit a cigarette and waited for him to leave.

Of course....he stayed.

"Yeah, my name is B0." he said.

"Nice to meet you Bo but I need to get back to work, I'll talk to you later."

I began to pretend to tune my guitar listening intently to each string. Hoping against hope that he would beat a hasty retreat.

The old, "dedicated musician tuning his instrument" ploy had worked a thousand times before.

Of course......he stayed.

"You know, she 'gon be here purty soon I 'spect. She's always late."

"Who's SHE?" I asked innocently.

"Lisa, I done tolt you before, Lisa sent us." he seemed a bit irritated.

I knew a few Lisa's but none who would send a gaggle of bumpkins to hear me play. One of the Lisa's I knew might have sent a hit man but certainly not a bunch of admirers of my questionable talent.

"What's Lisa's last name?" I was trying to be polite and, of course, I was pretty curious now.

He gave me the ole RCA Victor Dog look. His big ole shaggy head cocked to one side with a goofy George Bush grimace on his face.

"I'm a talkin' 'bout Lisa Cooney man, you'ins know Lisa." he was exasperated.

Did I mention that he was tall, half drunk, stoned or both and, oh yeah....BIG?

So.......I decided to put this thing to rest with an Oscar quality performance.

"Oh....LISA COONEY! Sure, I know her. Nice lady. Sorry, my mind is a million miles away tonight dude what with all the troubles over in Equador."

"What's goin' on in Equador?" he asked.

"You know, the revolution. See, my uncle Juan Valdez is the dictator down there, and everyone's tryin' to kill him.... I'm just all to hell over it." I said.

He cracked me up by giving me a truly sincere look.

"No shit?....damn son, I'm sorry to hear 'bout that."

I told him I needed to get back to work and thankfully, he returned to his table.

Before I could start another song, a waitress came over with a fresh beer and some sort of drink.

"The lady in the red shirt at the end of that table bought it for you. She said to tell you that Lisa is here."

"What's in the glass?" I asked.

"It's a Vodka Kamakazi, just like you like 'em." she smiled.

I looked over to the table and there she was.....a woman I HAD actually met before but had never really talked to.

She was easy to remember because she was about six feet tall, big boned and looked like a cross between Martina Navrotalova and a bleached blonde Greta Van Sustern, complete with the whole lopside mouth thing going on. Her mouth looked more like a nasty gash than a mouth.

She was just plain scary looking.

I raised the Kamakazi, looked at her and gave her the universal,

"Thanks for the drink and please, dear God don't come over here" look. Ya'll know that look...we've all used it before although, to my knowledge, it NEVER works.

Didn't work this time either.

I'll be damned if she didn't hurry up to the stage, climb the two steps and give me a huge hug followed by a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Thank the Lord for small blessings.

Jeez what a hideous mouth.

"I told you I'd come see you soon. I brought some of my friends and family with me." she gushed.

"You told me?" I didn't recall ever saying more than "hi there" to her before.

"Sure I did, remember when I came to the studio? You, Teddy and that other guy were recording?"

Well, it was true.

She had come over with Teddy's wife and, I remember that she was absolutely snockered!

She kept telling me over and over again how great I was. How wonderful my songs were and, now that I remembered it.... she was really coming on to me. A lot of double entendre remarks which made me uneasy.

She was not my type but....apparently, I was hers.

Finally, I persuaded her to leave me alone and finished the set.

After every song, her table went wild.

DURING every song, she stared a freakin' hole through me while smiling that demonic gash mouthed smile.

It was more like a pained grimace masquerading as it was a smile but....you get my point.

When I got through, I quickly put my guitar on the stand, stepped off the little stage and grabbed Rachel, a friend of mine and a waitress who happened to be walking by.

I told her I wanted her to kiss me. Quick!

"Hey big boy....we've already tried that don't you think?" she asked. She was referring to a brief encounter we had during which it was mutally decided that we would be better off being good friends than bad lovers.

"You'll be saving my ass. The big amazon woman with the red shirt is out to get me. I've gotta nip this shit in the bud....now."

She hugged me around the neck and planted a long slow kiss on my mouth. I remember thinking that maybe we'd been a bit too hasty in our previous decision.

I put my arm around her waist and together, we walked into the other room where the restaurant and main bar was located. I thanked Rachel for saving my ass and sat down at the bar with George and a maniac named John C.

I sat down beside George and ordered another Kamakazi, lit a cigarette and nodded at John who was seated to George's right.

Side Note:

John was a thiry-ish ex tennis bum who had gotten a bit plump. Until recently, he had been a career college student who had been tossed out of several schools over the years only to finish up his so-called education at our local diploma mill, Lees McRae College or, as the locals called it, "L.M.C" (last motherfuckin' chance).

John's father was loaded and owned the local newspaper at the time. As luck would have it, John had recenty been given the job as the paper's sportswriter. We were all shocked that John had landed such a great position just out of college.

Shocked I tell you.

The goofy little dude still lived in his parent's house, drove a car his daddy owned and was terrified of his parents.

He looked like a cross between John Lovitz and Jack Black.

He was a friggin' genius but had an annoying habit of wearing what he referred to as "outfits".

He would come in almost every night and ask...

"How ya'll like ma outfit?" the son of bitch would ask it with a straight face.

"John....MEN don't wear fuckin' outfits! We wear gotdamn clothes." George would holler. "You come in here one more fuckin' time showin' off your gotdamn OUTFIT in MY gotdamn bar and I'm shootin' your faggot ass!"

John would always look at him like a hurt puppy.

"George, if I was a faggot, legally, you be s'posed to call me a homosexual. 'Course, I'd be a country queer so, youin's could call me a "Homer-sexual" but, sadly for you, I don't go that way."

Every night, the same silly shit back and forth between the two.

Ok...back to the tale.......

"Howdy brother Ron....who's the girl up 'ere kissin' ya all over ya face?" he was grinning like possum.

"Screw you John"

George grinned and looked at John.

"Yeah John, ole Guitar Boy here's got him a live one tonight."

"Fuck you George."

"Well damn Ron....she's lookin' purty good from where I'm sittin'. Hell I'd do her right ch'ere on the bar."

George and I cracked up. Fact is, John probably would have done just that.

"J.C., have you seen her up close? Man she looks like somebody didn't get the hook set right and it ripped her face clear to the gill." George said.

John looked up and said.....

"Well bless her heart.....I'll bet that poor ole gal could use a dose of ole John's sexual healin 'bout raht now. I'm a special needs care giver you know."

I thought I'd die laughing. That was John in a nutshell.
I was just beginning to relax when someone ran their hand through my hair from behind.

"Hey there Ron."

Awwww MAN!

Yep, it was her alright.

Standing there with that spooky, lopsided so-called smile.

Remembering my manners, I spun around on the bar stool.

"Hey girl. What are you up to tonight?" I asked.

She was wobbling a bit.

"I'm jus' having a couple of drinks and waiting for you to get back in there to sing me some songs."

She was trying to pull off the classic, "I'm trying not to sound drunk" thing.

Unfortunately, she was also trying to pull off the whole, "I'm not hideously disfigured" thing but.....she wasn't gettin' it done. Lord she was rough.

Just then, she sort of stumbled and fell against me.

"Don't you think you might ought to sit down and have a cup of coffee or something?" I asked.

She took a couple of steps back, shot me an evil grin and said.........

"Oh.....you think I'm drunk? Well, watch this!"

Without warning, she slammed her drink down on a nearby table, hitched up her skirt and performed a slow, backward flip.

I had to hand it to her........she nailed it.

The place erupted.

People were hootin' and hollerin' like the freakin' rodeo had come to town.

Did I mention that she was wearing a very short skirt which was now bunched up around her waist?

Oh yeah, she also forgot to wear panties.

The crowd went wild.

Lisa basked in her accomplishment.

After a few minutes, an older lady seated near by motioned for her to pull her skirt back down.

Lisa pulled her skirt down, picked up her drink and strutted back to the bar.

"What do you think about that?" she snapped.

Before I could formulate a thought, George spoke up.

"Darlin', you might wanna trim that sumbitch ever so often. Some of these boys carry guns and that thing looks like a 'coon caught in the fork of a fuckin' tree."

I thought I would collapse.

Not to be outdone, John piped up.

"Sugar, maybe you could get somebody to transplant them hairy lips up 'ere on your poor face. 'Course you'de have to learn to handle a razor but still......"

George and I were damn near crying.

John looked at us with an innocent grin.

"Well.....they could probably fix that shit is all I'm sayin'"

People were spitting drinks all over the bar. George and I were slapping each other on the back. Everyone was howling.

Lisa gave us all a big, "screw you" look and marched back to her table.

Just to cap it off, John said....

"Well shit...I try to help the poor ole girl and ya'll start actin' all crazy!"

I couldn't breath.

To Be Continued..........