Fun was had by all, especially Greg's son Seth, who got to show off his drum chops before our set on Hoagie's kit. Seth also handed me the "Gabba" sign during "Pinhead." The guys who drove through the adjacent alley also enjoyed the set, giving us the thumbs up as they passed in their rusty pickup. The hosts (thanks and congratulations, Noel and Candace) and attendees all were super sweet, and the party itself was super mellow. At least as mellow as a party with a bunch of faux-Ramones wailing away in the yard can be. But that's not the real story.
The real story begins the Tuesday before the party. We were sitting around Hoagie's living room discussing potential future shows when Greg noticed an unfamiliar gal walking up the stairs to the front door. About two steps from the door, she turned away, walked back down the stairs, and headed down the street. It seemed odd that this random chick, who had obviously seen more crack than Kirstie Alley's gynecologist, just showed up, then split. We figured that in her haze she went to the wrong house, realized her mistake, and moved on. We chalked it up as a totally random occurence, and finished our conversation.
So we went downstairs, plowed through the set, and went home. We had toyed with the idea of playing a round or two on Hoagie's new foosball table, but Dan and I declined in favor of watching a bunch of wannabes try to become the new singer for INXS. Incidentally, I'm rooting for Ty.
The next day I got a disturbing call from Hoagie, saying the previous night someone had shot a bunch of holes in his already dead Vanagon (dude, seriously - lose that fucker already) and that a few bullets made their way into the side room with the foosball table. If we had stuck around and played a few rounds, one of us might have been hit! I guess you could say reality television saved our lives. But then you would be a douche bag.
I wondered why such a thing would happen. Maybe one of his old house mates was a target? I can't think of anyone Hoagie could have pissed off to the extent they would shoot at his house. He's usually the life of the party, with a laugh that sounds like a coked out chimpanzee. Not a very hateable guy, that Hoagie. Maybe it had something to do with the random cracky chick?
Regardless, we assumed that whatever the reason for the gun play, it was over with. We practiced Thursday, and did the party on Saturday. Sunday night, bullets once again flew - this time through the living room windows. By now Hoagie is really freaked out. Who wouldn't be? How would you feel if your house suddenly went from totally chill to being shot up more than Keith Richard?
Hoagie needed to get away for a while to clear his head, and left town briefly. One problem - he didn't tell anybody. Hoagie sightings, one plentiful, now sparked wild speculation by their absence. It even got to the point where Atilla and I went to his house to check on his well being. He wasn't home, but his girlfriend's car was in front, and his car was missing. We were, however, greeted by a makeshift sign in the yard, fashioned from an empty drum head carton and a stick. It stated that none of the previous house mates lived there any longer, and pleaded "Please stop shooting at my house."
Thankfully, I heard from a still intact Hoagie later that day. He seems pretty sure this all has something to do with Crack Whore Barbie mistaking Hoagie's place for the Malibu Dream House. Apparently Gun Toting Drug Dealer Ken has some issues. Or maybe its that bitch Skipper. Whatever the case, we hope this ordeal is over, and are thankful our drummer doesn't resemble a sieve.
Good thing we decided to take August off, wouldn't you say?