"THIS IS OUR LIFE," exclaimed Mario, waving his bottle Dom out the window toasting the shiny ladies on Hollywood Blvd.
Indeed, Mario, indeed.
Seventy-two hours prior were we pumping gas at Remy's Gas'em Up and complaining about the cold. Since High school Mario and I played in bands. Our latest group, the Wee Belows, was a duo featuring Mario on accordian and me on drums. We'd played about a hundred open mics and scattered gigs over the past two years. There were some people who liked us, more for our kitchsy covers of well known pop songs than for our own material. But honsestly, we were going nowhere, slowly. That Thursday I was planning to tell Mario that I quit. My buddy's post rock band had just lost their drummer and I'd been a fan of their instrumental cerebral music for sometime and I wanted to join up with them. That didn't happen.
About two weeks prior we'd played a gig at Rollo's Shit Hole (actual name of the bar equipt with a neon sign and all) for a drunk crowd of mostly annoyed working class types and the rowdy girls soccer team from St. Lucy's College. Yes, the rowdy girls team. Our version of Hit Me Baby One More Time sent the muddy ladies into overdrive. There was table dancing and Mia Hamm top dispensing. The sport bra clad troupe caused quite a stir. There was video taken, our music the soundtrack. It went viral quick. We knew nothing about it until with got a call from Jake at Diamond Eyes records.
It happened that fast.
We pulled up to the Igloo where the company had set up a reception for us. I tossed my keys to the valet and jump slid over the hood Dukes of Hazard style while Mario chugged the rest of his champagne. We wore matching electric blue shark skin suits. The flashes were blinding. Some one grabbed my wrist from behind.
"You only get five minutes now, not fifteen," said the disheveled pretty blond boy with a black eye, clad in a wrinkled and stained seersucker suit.
Security tackled him but not before he stared me down.
"YOU ONLY GET FIVE!"