Menu Close

My Dinner at Virgilio’s

I’ve had some interesting dates in my life, but none was as scary and weirdly funny as my dinner at a place called Virgilio’s in Philadelphia. It was owned by a mobster named Phil “The Chicken Man” Testa, who was immortalized in a Bruce Springsteen song.

Virgilio’s was a small Italian restaurant tucked away on a small side street in the city. The guy I was dating was not Italian, and he was totally fascinated with the Mafia. Yep, lucky me. It was the kind of place where you were asked to check your guns at the door by the two behemoths who let you in.

So we get seated in the middle of the room. Now, if you don’t know anything about the Mob, sitting in the middle of the room is the LAST place you want to sit. You want a table by the wall, and every man in the place was facing the door. You see where I’m going with this?
Our lovely waitress, Nancy, comes by to take our order. Date was so thrilled, he ordered a bottle of champagne. As the cork is being removed, it popped with such force, it made a loud noise – I mean LOUD.
Men dove under tables, behemoths came charging in, guns drawn, and out of the back room comes Chicken Man himself, with what looked like a Thompson submachine gun. I froze, Nancy burst into tears, and Date looked like he was enjoying this a little too much.
“What the fuck is going on?” Chicken Man bellows. Nancy tearfully holds up the bottle of champagne. “I’m sorry, Mr. Testa. It just exploded.” He looked, nodded, and returned to his meeting in the back.

Have I mentioned at this point I’ve lost my appetite and couldn’t wait to get out of there? But nooooo….Date was grinning from ear to ear, like the kid who got the Golden Ticket in Willy Wonka.
Men climb out from under tables, tuck their napkins back in, and go back to their meals, while the wives looked on nonplussed. Was I the only person in this place who just about wet her pants?

Needless to say, it was the last time I went out with him….and two weeks later, Chicken Man was blown up by a bomb placed in his front door.

A Phone Call From A Lunatic

It’s 2:30 in the morning. It’s quiet here in God’s Country.

Too quiet.

Suddenly, the sounds of the late, great Jimi Hendrix’ “Purple Haze” blares from my night stand. It’s my ringtone because…why not? It was either that or a recording of me screaming: “THE PHONE IS RINGING! THE PHONE IS RINGING! ANSWER THE FECKING PHONE, YOU IDIOT!”

I move to answer my phone, only because I have left strict instructions to everyone on my address list NOT to call me after 9:00 at night unless they are on fire.

With that in mind, now I am interested. Is one of my family or friends ACTUALLY on fire?



I knew that voice. My mind reeled through my past, images playing in my head: horrible weirdness, substance fueled, degenerate behavior, mind-numbing madness.

This phone call was going to cost me…

The voice on the other end of the line was Air Wreck Martin. He was born Eric Martin, but became Air Wreck after he spent one night in the 1980’s tripping balls on 27 hits of blotter acid. That was the night he decided he could photosynthesize…

He was one of the most talented fretless bassists I had ever heard. He could play Hendrix’ version of “The Star Spangled Banner”…on the bass…He was absolutely amazing. For almost three-and-a-half years, we toured the Western United States playing some of the best music I had ever played, and partying like the sun was never going to rise again.

I’m not sure what happened, but I think, one night, we partied so hard one of us stepped on my tongue.

We played together until, one day in 1987 I checked his hotel room in Oklahoma City and he was gone.

I hadn’t heard from him since.

ME: “Sleeping. It’s like two thirty in the morning. Where are you?”

AWM: “Sleeping? YOU? What the hell happened to you?”

ME: “Nothing happened to me! It’s late! People sleep at night! Where the hell are you?”

AWM: “Oh, no! You’ve gone to the other side! You’ve gone all NORMAL on me! You and I used to stay up for DAYS! This is NOT good…”

ME: “Wait…What? Where ARE you?”

AWM: “I’m out on my back porch, looking at the stars. Angie fixed me a spaghetti dinner with my secret “Magic Mushroom” sauce, and I came out to smoke a little and found a half full bottle of tequila.

ME: “So you’re tripping, high, and drunk on your back porch…and who is Angie?”

AWM: “Yeah, and I am in the middle of fending off an attack!”

ME: “What do you mean…”

AWM: “Hang on a minute!…”

(I hear the sound of him putting down his phone.)


(He picks up his phone.)


ME: “What the hell was THAT?”

AWM: “Shotgun! Was it loud?”

ME: “WHAT? What are you…What is…WHAT? What’s going ON?”

AWM: “I’m shooting CHICKENS! You should SEE it! Feathers everywhere…looks like SNOW!”

ME: “What chickens? Why are you…”

AWM: “I told that neighbor of mine to KEEP HIS CHICKENS OUT OF MY YARD! NOW I have a virtual chicken STAMPEDE going on! I will NOT be INVADED by FOWL! Do you HEAR ME YOU BASTARD? Hang on a minute…”

(Puts the phone down.)


(Picks the phone up.)

AWM: “A TWOFER! You should SEE this! Anyway- I know you’re still playing. I’ve heard your music, it’s GREAT! I’ve got a couple of guys and I’m singing, and we want to work with you on an album! What do you say?”

ME: “Well, that’d be great, but you have a voice that’s a combination of Satan and a foghorn. When were you thinking of…”

AWM: “Fantastic! I want to do some REAL METAL! Really edgy. We will take off later tonight and we will be in your area TOMORROW!”

Me: “Tomorrow? Wait…I…”

AWM: “Hang on…”

(Puts the phone down.)


(Picks up the phone.)

ME: “What in the HELL…”

AWM: “OK! I HAVE A SITUATION HERE! (Screams off phone.) ANGIE! GET THE HOSE! (Speaks to me again.) HOLY HELL, MAN!”

ME: “What WAS that?”

AWM: “Part of that was a stick of dynamite. Part of that was a can of gas I forgot was along the fence line. I GOTTA GO! WE HAVE A LITTLE FIRE HERE! I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW!”


I was stunned. So many questions, and no answers. I still had no idea where he was, I didn’t know who “Angie” was, and I hadn’t had the chance to tell him where I lived.

Somehow, I knew he would find me…Like the CIA, or a stalker, or a madman.

Or the bird flu.
As I put the phone down, my wife rolled over, and in a sleepy voice, without even opening her eyes, she asked: “Who was that? Is someone on fire?”

Sarcasm. Even while half asleep…My wife is amazing! She still hadn’t opened her eyes!

“You remember that bass player I told you about? A guy named Air Wreck Martin?”

“Was he the one that thought he could photosynthesize?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “He and a couple of his friends will be here tomorrow to start working on an album.”

“Hmmmmm,” she said dreamily, rolling back over on her side. “Over your dead body, honey.”


I am truly and completely doomed.

Imagination Is A Talent

A Paean, Tribute, and Panegyric

Had I discovered first, the Bard of Avon, I would have shouted the discovery far and wide. If instead I’d discovered Jonathon Swift, I’d have yelled – not as loudly nor as long, but yell I would. And I’d do as much for the ever-clever Mr. Wilde.

Now this is not to say I’d discovered someone new. Only that I’d noticed what has been little noted but was there all the time. The most brilliantly addled imaginative mind I have ever come across, personally, so to speak. His is either a brain to which half a hemisphere’s nodules and synapses are devoted entirely to imagination… or… he’s been swilling magic mushroom juice of his own making and refuses to put a label on it and market it for the masses.

Look, I’ll not be singing hosannas about anyone’s virtuosity because I just don’t roll that way.
Ask anyone who knows me well and they’ll tell this: the signal feature of my interest in anything… ANYTHING, is to badmouth, excoriate and abrade it. If you must think it than do so – I’m a natural born hater – there, I said it for you. If you can’t say something nasty about some one/thing don’t say anything at all.

Give me some one to beat up or have cider spit in their eye and I’ll beat him and spit cider – with a song in my heart. But ask me to say something praiseworthy about someone and I cringe all over. It’s not that I believe there are no humans worthy of praise – it’s just not in my wheelhouse – missing or damaged DNA perhaps? As that Dirty Harry guy said – “a man’s got to know his limitations”. The dark side of ‘nice’ is mine.

But I can not let it not be noted that I’d come across an imagination so fecund, so pregnant, so juicy/luscious, and, so delectable an eccentricity, or so nutritive a compost heap that is a brain, as the one that has hold of this fellow calls himself Psykosity.

I truly believe if you took the squeezin’s from a cold-pressed Psykosity the resulting decoction could cure the pandemic insanity that is warping the world. Would that not be a scientific breakthrough? Like venom fighting the venomous, warp would re-adjust the twisted.

PS – Psykosity, really, on the QT, between jus’ you ‘n’ me – Magic Mushroom juice… is that it… c’mon… is it? Is it? It is isn’t it? Yes?


“Camping With Dad: Round Two” Part 2

(The story so far: Marge suspects she is pregnant with Kevin’s baby, while Murphy is planning a coup and toppling Herb from his position at Moonbat & Stein. Meanwhile, Angie is in jail for…wait, that’s a different story. THIS story involves my father, after recovering from a heart attack, decides to take my brother and myself on a fishing expedition into the Canadian wilds. This decision, already fraught with problems, starting with having to fly to the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from anyone else, in a Buddy Holly Memorial Death-Plane, gets instantly worse when my father forgets to take our food off the airplane. We rejoin the three drunken idiots desperately trying to catch something…ANYTHING…to eat.)

Camping With Dad: Round Two: A Struggle For Survival pt. 2

By day three, the situation had turned grim.

The company that ran the fishing “expeditions” had three canoes for their clients to use. We put the first one into the water and it immediately sank. In the second canoe, some enterprising wasps had built an impressive nest that looked more like some kind of planned community for insects that was so big they had lovely little manicured lawns and tiny garden fountains…

Late in the afternoon of the second day, we managed to find an unopened can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew that had dropped out of the gear of the previous clients. Or, maybe it had slipped out of the pack of a soldier during the Great War. Or, maybe God had dropped it on the day when he invented dirt. In any case, we managed to heat it up on that night’s fire and gobble it down like food was going to be outlawed the next day which, considering the fish weren’t biting at all, was not far from the actual truth.

We bobbed up and down in our shabby but watertight canoe, fairly close to the shore on the huge, miles long lake; sunburnt, drunk, hungry, grubby, and silent. My brother Mike was using my Dad’s brand new, and very expensive, rod and reel. He went to cast and, for some unknown reason, he let go of the rod and the very expensive rod and reel splashed into the lake.

“Mike,” grumbled my Dad, “go in there and get that!”

Mike dutifully went over the side and into the water.

Fully clothed.

Wearing heavy military boots.

It was the boots that gave my brother his biggest problem. Mike was my little brother, but he had grown to be one inch taller than me at 6’3” and a half and out weighed me by about 50 pounds of solid muscle. He and I were both excellent swimmers, but the heavy boots kept pulling him down in the water which was only a few inches deeper than Mike was tall.

“Dad!” he yelled, splashing around frantically, “Hand me an oar!”

My Father grabbed one of the oars and swung it over the side of the canoe.


The blade end of the oar hit Mike on the side of the head so hard the sound of it echoed off the wall of trees on the other side of the lake. Dad and I were frozen in shock watching my brother’s arms frantically flail, trying to get his head above the surface and, when he did, he was spitting water, coughing…and laughing.

Suddenly, the weight of the entire nightmare of a trip hit me, and I started laughing, which got my Father laughing. Still, my brother was drowning, so Dad lifted the heavy oar back out of the water and swiveled it over to my brother.


Dad hit my brother on the head with the oar again. This left Dad and I in hysterics, and Mike was now in deep trouble. I wanted to jump up and leap into the water to save him, but I was drunk and laughing so hard, I FELL into the water.

Now, there were TWO potential drowning victims, dead from drowning, extreme hilarity, and bad weirdness.

The lake was cold, and even under the surface I was laughing and beginning to choke on the intake of water. I reached over and grabbed my brother and could tell as I wrapped my arms around him to get his head above the surface that he was still laughing uncontrollably while simultaneously taking water deeper into his lungs.

I managed to get behind him, get my arm around his chest, and haul him up to the surface, and, as I swam a few strokes to get back to the canoe, Mike and I were coughing up water, taking deep breaths of life sustaining air, and still laughing.

Later in the day, Dad caught a bass big enough for us to gut and fry up that night. It would be the last meal we would have in that God forsaken place.

On the fifth day, when the Death Plane deposited us back at the airport in what passed for civilization, we immediately went into the bar, ordered up a bunch of beer and some burgers and fries. The food was cooked by a tough looking woman; a woman who seemed to have seen a lot of life in her life: maybe she rode with a motorcycle gang in her youth. Maybe she had even helped stitch up wounds suffered during a gang rumble. She looked like she probably had a fantastic figure back in her day, but now her life was making the greasiest, most gut busting hamburgers for starving survivors of the fishing “expeditions” while selling bait to smarter guys who just fished local lakes and rivers.

Without washing her hands.

The fries were droopy. The burgers were gross.

To us though, it was Nectar Of The Gods.


Word And Concept For The Day

Neologism: autosatiriasis

Autosatiriasis noun

1. a condition of having consciously orchestrated a persona ridiculously at odds with the concoctions, inventions, delusions, that compose it.

2. a condition of actively, persistently, obliviously, subjecting oneself to humiliations generated by one’s own predilections, conceits, lifestyle.

(Anyone indulging in either practice is – ipso facto – an ‘autosatirist’)

Of the first definition, think… ‘the id offs the ego and superego and, finally unrepressed, dedicates itself to masturbatory Zen’.

Of the second, think… public exhibitions of onanism.

Everybody’s Doing It

Malcolm Muggeridge observed, while editor of Punch Magazine, some 60 years ago, that modern life’s absurdities had made the satirist’s role redundant. Oh Malcolm, you sharp sharpshooter.. but if you could but see us now!

Here, a prime example of an absurdity being presented as ‘insight’, a decade ago. In a Sunday NY Times column, resident monger of trite insight, David Brooks, extolled a crisp crease of a pant leg as all the curriculum vitae necessary for the office of President of the United States. The clubhead had time, plenty, to dwell on it and conclude, as any normal person would, that the line was vaudevillian comedic shtick, and had no place in declarative reasoning. But the oblivious knucklehead opted to lampoon himself –hence – ipso facto – autosatirist.

The advent of President Husseiny brought out self-inflicted buffoonery by the barge load. Chris Matthews had a publicly televised orgasm on CNN, reveling in the tingle up/down(?) his leg, which was reverie, which was fantasy, which was Husseiny. Any normal man would have quit his job and lost himself in Malaysia rather than live a public life with that humiliation as his signature moment on air – but not the autosatirist.

Barry, Barry, Bo Barry, Banana-nana, Low Faerie… Barry!

The nonpareil autosatirist in all human history, to the best of my historical knowledge is Barry Husseiny Obama. You doubt it? Perhaps this will convince you. Before proceeding, let me acknowledge that others had played a role in the making of Husseiny, but Husseiny took to it all like a loon to water.

Imagine twenty years ago a satirist, of some repute, say… Chris Buckley, were to write a satirical novel in which the following sad sack of ever replicating cells was the “protagonist”:

Barry Barack Hussein Soetoro Obama is a Kenyan. He is born to a peripatetic White woman and indeterminate Black ‘y’ chromosome donor. The mysterious and fay Husseiny takes up the ‘down low’ life in Chicago. He is baptized Christian in Rev Wright’s Church Of Latter Day Hates. He ‘marries’ a ‘beard’ with not only twice his Y-chromosomes, but also doubly hunky. Of the odd couple, the Black hulk, “he-she-it’, the wifey, the better half, was, also, the bigger man.

As a Harvard matriculate, Husseiny is presented with a JD magna cum laude and becomes besotted with himself. Neither the JD nor the self-infatuation is merited. Neither is Husseiny’s Nobel Peace Prize, announced October 9, (2009). The date is unofficially recognized as the day satire died.

Though Constitutionally ineligible, Husseiny beguiles the uppity class with Marxist bromides in millenarian tones, and… they buy it! So enamored was the MSM with Husseiny, they would squirt their drawers without having to drop trou. Husseiny is elected (POTUS), along with his teleprompter (TOTUS), as the first affirmatively-actioned black/mulatto, fuzzy-muzzie-crypto-pseudo-neo Christian president. And… …the crowd roared… and celebrated among Greek Dorian styrofoam columns. Husseiny turns the presidency into his own personal sinecure; rules like a potentate; vacations like a Saudi playboy prince; plays more golf than Tiger Woods; and plays host to Hollywoodie queer as camp, skank Uranians, cruising the White House for some “guy on guy” action. ‘Hail To The Chief’ got a new meaning.

I mean… WTF?! …Really! WTF?!… HTF?! is that not satire, epic satire – Grand Opéra Bouffe satire? And it’s not a novel, it’s – none of it – fiction!

The Golden Age

The autosatirists will be the totems for our time, for we now embark on the Golden Age Of our collective national humiliation.

Here’s another spud that, though not in Husseiny’s rarified air, deserves a blue ribbon in this category… the otherwise, and by any standard measure, unremarkable Anthony Weiner. It’s news to the youngsters, a recap for the oldsters:

Anthony Weiner, a New York Jew, marries a BrotherHood Muslima – Huma Abbedin. Mrs. Huma Weiner, not unexpectedly, prefers to go by her maiden name.

Anthony, being both a metro and a cosmo sexual, Tweets his tackle all over the worldwide net, angling for sweet young things, in the mistaken belief his junk is to young ladies as chum is to game fish. Found out, he resigns his office under duress but without humiliation. Putatively rehabbed, loyal trophy wife in tow, new trophy digs for show – $3.3 million Manhattan digs (owned by a wealthy Democratic donor) – Anthony announces a run for mayor of New York. In tracking polls, he leads all candidates until it becomes evident… again… Tony still has two heads and only… no brains. To date, his only accomplishment is to have been twice an inspiration: once for aspiring autosatirists, another for the phrase ‘one prick tony’ – possibly a dyslexic malfunction – more likely a meticulous assessment.

I mean… WTF?! …Really! WTF?!… HTF?! is that not satire, epic satire – Grand Opéra Bouffe satire? And it’s – none of it – fiction!

The Golden Age of autosatirists includes Alexandria Octavio-Cortez, Hill & Bill Clinton, Joe Biden, Maxine ‘The Mouth’ Waters, Beto O’Rourke, Abilio James Acosta, ‎Louis Farrakhan… They are becoming legion.

The autosatirist is most often found on the political Left*, though political emanations from anywhere in the middle also contribute. Autosatirists are not to be taken for fools. Fools are easily and universally recognized as such. Autosatirists are taken seriously by a generous portion of ‘we the people’ who vote.

Welcome to the Zeitgeist.

Hark! The Herald Halls Did Ban Me

In the 1980’s, in Colleges and Universities across this great nation, you would’ve found two types of people: Idea People, and People Who Would (usually) Drunkenly Cry: “THAT’S a GREAT IDEA! LET’S DO IT!”

I am an Idea Guy. It’s a role that I am most comfortable with: sitting contentedly in the shadows, just outside of the outrageous and the scandalous goings on, with a drink in my hand, sending suggestions for even more bad behavior into the huge pile of human stupidity before me; like a coach on the sidelines of a football game. If the coaches were allowed to drink during the game, and if “football” were more like having some drunken idiot throw an empty keg through a closed third floor dorm room window.

Not to say that I haven’t actually participated directly in my fair share of depraved comportment, as any loyal reader of this blog would know.

In fact, the story of how I got banned from a major American University for life should, as it is often said, start with the words: “One day, I was drunk and…” because no great story ever starts with: “One day, I had a salad and…”, but in fact, the story begins at the beginning: I made a bad decision.

I graduated early from high school. I had all the credits I needed halfway through my senior year and decided I was done with an experience that had been, on the whole, a screamingly tortuous twelve-year Hellscape. The morning after I got my diploma in the mail, my father who had, over the previous few years, grown sick of my nonsense, woke me up and said, “I don’t care whether you get a job or go to college, but you CAN’T STAY HERE!”

Fortunately, I had made some contacts playing underage in bars and strip clubs around the area, and I received an invitation to play on a tour of blues clubs in New York and all along the East Coast with Big Pete Pearson and The Detroit Blues Band.

I was on the road for the better part of the year after that, and when the tour ended, I came home to find my father “worried about my future”, as fathers are inclined to do.

“You need a back-up plan, son,” he said. “You need to have something to fall back on if this music thing doesn’t work out for you.”

Higher Education, he proclaimed, would fix all of my problems: it would give me a career path, a way through the dog-eat-dog world to an island of success where food was plentiful and drinks were served everyday by scantily clad girls wearing…

What was I talking about?

Oh yes: College. Fortunately, I had graduated high school with a 3.89 grade point average (it would have been a straight 4.0 through three and a half years of high school if it wasn’t for my grades in Gym classes and one explosion in the Chem lab…), so I qualified for a couple of scholarships and, with funding secure for the first couple of years of College, I enrolled.

Of course, this was complete folly. The LAST thing I wanted to do was sit in classrooms again, listening to some fart huffing educator drone on with the effect on my consciousness and attention span of an Ambien Daiquiri. I had been out in the world! I had played clubs in Harlem with Big Pete where I was probably the only white face for blocks, with an audience of people who were, at first, upset a kid like me was on the bandstand. Upset, that is, until we started playing.

Big Pete tipped me $100 that night, after the gig.
That was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Immediately, there was trouble. I had enrolled in the music program, much to the consternation of my father, and being a guitarist who had endured a bit of classical training, I wanted to audition for the school playing an Andres Segovia arrangement of Torroba’s Sonatina, but the Dean of Music rejected this outright; claiming the guitar was not a true classical instrument. After much angry gnashing of teeth, I auditioned and won a place in the music program by playing the piece on guitar anyway, and then banging out Moonlight Sonata on piano.

Then, I found out that I could not live off campus. School rules forced me into the dorms for the first two years of my college experience, ostensibly to gain a sense of camaraderie, focus, and “school spirit”, things which filled me with the urge to wretch.

Also, I was not allowed to have a car the first two years I was there.

Indeed, after twelve years of school, I was to go out into the world as an adult only to be caged in a prison made of forced prolonged adolescence; obligated into a living situation with rules, people to enforce those rules, and no way to escape.

I was put into a dorm room with a roommate that turned out to be a rather devout Muslim from Turkey, who wore silk shirts and frequently smelled of cheap cologne and lamb kabobs. I made friends with two guys down the hall who always had weed and had a huge hooka in the middle of their room; it was the entertainment center of our floor, and my roommate’s hatred of me increased as he dutifully faced Mecca and prayed the four or five times he was required while I sat in bed smoking huge joints for breakfast and blasting Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix music.

But the war REALLY started between the dorm floor’s RA and I. A resident adviser or ‘RA’ is an upperclassman who is available to college students living in dorm rooms and resident halls. A resident adviser is a person who those living in the dorm can supposedly go to who may be more comfortable to talk to than an older adult in a sterile on-campus housing office.

The RA, or “Resident Assistant”, was a guy named “Steve”, a big, smarmy, sweaty jock type with a crew cut and an overly eager and condescending attitude. We instantly took a dislike to each other. In the first of what would turn out to be MANY “consultations” regarding my attitude about dorm life, my loud guitar playing, my constant use of obscenities, the unending smell of marijuana coming from my room, the complaints of my roommate, and the one night I came in late past the dorm curfew and took a piss on the door of his room, I told Steve outright that I wanted him to kick me out of the dorms, so I could live like an adult in off campus housing.

He refused to kick me out, however. “I want to see what makes you tick,” he said.

A-HA! The gauntlet had been thrown down!

I was subjected to a heart-to-heart counselling session with Steve and two other Resident Assistants, and I confessed all. I told him that I was a compulsive bed-wetter, had an unnatural sexual attraction to pumpkins, and that I had been abducted by aliens when I was six and taken to another dimension where I learned Great Universal Secrets. I started walking around the dorm floor naked. I superglued Playboy centerfolds to the walls of my dorm room, which of course thoroughly disgusted my roommate.

Still, I was caged, treated like a child.

In the meantime, the war raged with the Dean of the Music School. I had started a band by then, and was put on academic probation for sneaking the band and its equipment into the music building after classes and holding rehearsal on the stage of one of the performance rooms. Forced to play piano in the rehearsal rooms, I would loudly bang out “Chopsticks” over and over again, or play some Fats Waller boogie-woogie piano number which would send the Dean into an apocalyptic fit. I once turned in a five-page paper seriously arguing that Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 23 was written by the composer as a celebration of his penis.

I stopped going to classes and started playing the clubs in town with the band. I would put up flyers advertising our next performance all over the music school; all of which would immediately be torn down.

Meanwhile, back at the dorms, my stoner friends on the floor started having Theme Parties. We had “Come As The Person You Most Hate”, where I jimmied Steve’s door, raided his closet and came as him. We had “Zombie Celebrity” night, “Come As Your Favorite Virus”, and the infamous “Steve Is Pregnant-Baby Shower”. It was during THIS party that the empty keg was thrown out of the window, though not by me. I just told the hulking drunken dorm mate that it would be a good idea to get rid of it out the window while the new keg was being tapped.

It wasn’t MY fault the idiot didn’t see that the window was closed…

It was the “Underwear Party” that turned out to be the penultimate disgrace in my college career. Somehow, a soccer ball was found. In the middle of the madness of drunken male and female students prancing around the floor in their underwear, the inevitable alcohol fueled fornication, and the general degenerate madness, I sat in my chair at the edge of the hormone infused, thoroughly liquored throng wearing my special “Kiss Me Here” boxer shorts and suggested that it would be fun to get a soccer game going in the hallway.

That little proposition ended up costing almost ten thousand dollars of damage to the dorm hallway and a couple of the rooms before the police showed up to break up the party and it earned me notification by an angry and red-faced Steve that I would be put before the Dean of the College and the student court two days hence.

Then, the next night, I was drunk with a couple of friends on the top of the parking garage that had been built next to the music school. It was getting dark, and I needed a piss. I decided, after taking a quick look over the side and seeing no one there, that I would piss over the side of the parking garage just to see how long it would take for the stream to hit the ground. Unfortunately, there was time passed between me checking no one was walking below me, and me actually getting ready to relieve myself. Unbeknownst to me, the Dean of Music came out of the Music building. He had been working late, probably gathering notes on his various complaints about me to be presented the next day at my “hearing” when he felt…a sprinkle…of liquid…on his head.

THAT was the final nail in my educational coffin.

The next day, I stood before The Dean Of The College, members of the student body Senate, and my parents; whilst wearing a dark blue suit with white sneakers and a tie that had a naked woman painted on it. The file Steve threw down on the table before me was two inches thick. The Dean of Music was apoplectic, as was my Father. My Mother, on the other hand, who understood my desire to quit this College nonsense and go out to California to find success making the most of my musical talents, found the whole event humorous, and she even chuckled a few times as the long list of my outrageous acts perpetrated on the hapless RA and my antics antagonizing the Dean of Music were read out.

But even she was a little mortified when it was revealed to the gathering that I had, in fact, accidentally pissed on the Dean of Music’s head.

That was it. Banned for life. I was never to be allowed to step foot on the campus again.

I left for California two days later.