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Mick's Strange Brew | |
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No trip through the 70s is complete without Fleetwood Mac. So for Ad/Vance readers everywhere, I trekked down to a local restaurant / nightclub thinggie called Fleetwoods, owned by the drummer himself, grotesquely tall Mick Fleetwood. And what a day I picked! That day was a live radio broadcast with a 1970s song contest. Needless to say, for once all my pointless knowledge came in handy and I walked away with three t-shirts. And not only that, but the big man himself, Mick F., was on hand to say howdy to the crowd. Obviously impressed by yours truly's stunning grasp of the trivial, Mick came over to congratulate me. Well, that's what I thought originally. After I complemented him on how cohesive I thought the Fleetwood Mac boxed set was (I lied), he said thank you and started talking to my two female companions. In fact, he was so enraptured speaking to them about Anchor Steam ale and crazy old women who appear on crazy old Fleetwood Mac albums, that he managed to block my view of my companions and instead gave me a view of his ratty 70s-rock-star brocade coat which, not surprisingly, smelled of marijuana. Frankly, I was amazed that I didn't see any flecks of cocaine in his beard (but then, I wasn't looking that closely). As if that weren't bad enough, the big event of the evening was going to be a concert by the Wolfman Jack band. Because you had to pay extra for that, we skipped it. Damn! If I'd known he was going to croak three weeks later, I'd have shelled out the eight bucks. But then again, how many people have you caught saying, "I miss the Wolfmeister!"? I suppose I was better off buying shots of Maker's Mark and watching the groupies-turned-grandmas with their sagging breasts (still outfitted in slinky tube tops) sitting near me, drinking their Rolling Rock and watching the sun set over the Potomac. (circa 1994) |
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