I understand that some people, from time to time, indulge in alcoholic beverages - like me, for example. I will usually indulge in one or two of those fruity malt-beverages that come in bottles on those rare occasions that I do go out, which is maybe three or four times a year. I am a firm believer in the concept of moderation, as I believe are most people who drink. You know who doesn't understand moderation? Erasersaurus.
I am reminded of an incident that occurred three or four years ago, when Erasersaurus won two tickets to see Peter Cetera and Richard Marx double-headline the VFW. When Erasersaurus asked me if I wanted to go, I was initially very impressed with his generosity, until I remembered that he is banned from public transportation and thus needed me to give him a ride. Even though I knew what his motive was in asking me along, I accepted because I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing these two legends live. I knew I would have a wonderful, magical evening. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Arriving at Erasersaurus' doorstep that night, I was appalled to find that he didn't have any pants on. Now, he doesn't have legs or feet, but he usually has a napkin or paper towel wrapped around the base of his stick, for modesty's sake. Not tonight, however. Asking him what on earth he was doing without any kind of covering was pointless: he simply snickered and said "you know how many ladies a Cetera/Marx jam is going to draw? And I'm not going to show off what I've got?" Bear in mind that Erasersaurus has no job, no car, no money, is frequently late, forgets to flush, and can't cook, and you'll see why this is such a ridiculous notion on his part. Also he's a disembodied plastic dinosaur head on a stick who both eats and wears miniature novelty erasers - not exactly eHarmony material, know what I mean?
After this initial crisis was resolved by using apathy, we set off. The VFW was, simply, packed. There had to be five hundred people there, all clamoring for a taste of these two icons of adult contemporary radio and certain shopping mall restrooms. At the back of the large ballroom was a bar, staffed by old men with short-sleeved button-down shirts and tinted eyeglasses and blue slacks and terrible post-traumatic-stress-disorder: vets! Erasersaurus suddenly hopped toward the bar, leaving me standing by myself near the stage. I didn't care; the less I saw of him and his creepy naked stick the better.
First up was Richard Marx. After rockin' through "Don't Mean Nothin'" and "Satisfied," he brought all us gals to tears with "Right Here Waiting." He left the stage after forty minutes of pure magic and pure "sax" appeal, if you know what I mean! I mean there was a saxophone player in the band.
After a brief intermission, during which I met some of my fellow concert goers (all secretaries named Cathy with boyfriends named Irving living next door to cats named Garfield, oddly enough), Peter Cetera took the stage and ripped up "Along Comes a Wooo-mun" and the Cathies and me were feeling pretty good, when suddenly Erasersaurus appeared next to me, swaying and reeking of booze. "Ugh, Erasersaurus," I shouted over the opening strains of "Next Time I Fall" - one of my favorites - "what have you been drinking?"
"I make pepmint snaps," Erasersaurus mumbled, plastic eyes half-lidded. Shaking my head at him, I turned my attention back to the music. Erasersaurus seemed to somehow get drunker as the show went on, drooling a little and occasionally belching loudly. Cetera's incredible set had nearly reached the end when suddenly, to my utter horror, Erasersaurus began shouting up to him from our place at the front of the stage.
"Play 'Glory of Love'! PLAY IT!" he bellowed. "Play the shit out of that Karate Kid song! It's my birthday, wooo!" People stared at us - Cetera had already wowed us with an amazing extended "Glory of Love" jam, and Erasersaurus was incredibly loud. As the band started in on "After All," Erasersaurus did the unthinkable: he hopped onstage and charged Peter Cetera. Cetera's security team scrambled into action, but not before Erasersaurus managed to yell "I am a man who will fight for your honor" into the microphone. It was awful. Security took him down and dragged him backstage. Instead of getting to watch the amazing finale of the Cetera/Marx show - in which they actually DUETED on "Twenty Five or Six to Four" - I was forced to sit in the parking lot, waiting for Erasersaurus to be thrown out once the show was over. That's right: I was kicked out of the Peter Cetera/Richard Marx concert at the VFW thanks to having been spotted walking in with my "friend" Erasersaurus.
When he finally staggered out and got in the car, I was too angry to speak to him. On the way to his place, he vomited three times and defecated once. The next day, as I hosed out the interior of my car, my cell phone rang - it was Erasersaurus. He wanted to tell me that I was welcome for the free ticket.
Unreal. Simply unreal.