Time has a way of softening things. Of tricking you. Lulling you into complacency. Time is like a slow rising tide. Not a tsunami. It takes the edge off things. In the Eighties I would have musicians and A-List celebrities over for slumber parties and corn roasts. They were always such horrid affairs. Horrible and brilliant at the same time. The last slumber party I hosted, Mick Mars drank too much wine and just complained ad nauseaum about the trappings of fame and how he can’t meet a girl that loves him for just being ‘him’, and not the notorious bad boy Motley Crue guitar-slinger. It was an eclectic gathering. Keith Richards was there cursing at Chuck Berry who rolled up in his own Cadillac and brought his own corn in the trunk. Chuck Berry, if anything, is a very giving cat, but man, he will pistol-whip you in a second if you cross him. Lita Ford was there with her big hair. George Carlin came with his overnight bag. Van Morrison ate so much corn he fell asleep in the basement wearing a fedora. There was only one rule - take off your shoes if you go in the living room. Sounds reasonable, right? But no one did. They ruined the carpet. That was the last straw. I stopped having celebrities over to the house ever since.
Since humour is tragedy plus time, I figured: what the hell. Maybe was time to have another celebrity sleep over. I have a close musician friend who is a bit of a rock star. His name is Ben Folds and he plays an ass-kicking piano. Yeah, piano players can be rock stars. I have another close personal friend who is a bit of a rock star. His name is Adam Duritz. He plays an ass-kicking piano and has dreadlock extensions. Then there’s Nick Cave. He’s extremely suave and cool with undeniable street credentials. Kind of dark and cynical. He’s also a writer, an actor, and a wonderful chain smoker. We’re not friends though. I wish we were. To be honest, I don’t know Nick Cave at all, but I’m sure we could get along okay under the right circumstances, like driving balls-out through the great Australian outback in some type of rusted out beater. Nick Cave always makes me smile.
Last weekend when regular folks were doing whatever regular folks do on a weekend, Ben Folds and Adam Duritz came to sleep over here at Chez Lily, deep in the heart of fabulous downtown Mattawa. Having them over for the night was a big deal for me, not because they’re rock stars, but more because it was the first sleep over since the carpet fiasco of the Eighties. But this time it was going to be different. We now have hardwood flooring in the living room.
My wife was working nights at the hospital and my kids were out scheming - or whatever it is kids do when they’re teenagers, so for the night the house belonged to me, Ben Folds and Adam Duritz. Before my wife left, she warned us: “Now, not too late you boys, and remember, if you have any pop make sure to use the coasters, and Kevin, not too much cheese if you make nachos. You know how cheese binds you up.” With that, she kissed me and waved at Adam and Ben who were busy looking themselves up on You Tube.
The evening started off slow. Around seven Adam said he wanted to take a shower, which seemed a little odd, a little out-of-the-blue, but who the hell am I to talk anyone from having a shower? He always seems to have excess energy. While he was scrubbing, I coaxed Ben into teaching me the chord progression to Jesusland on my Hammond Organ. Then we all watched Jeopardy. Collectively, we scored a decent score of 36 (one point for each correct answer, 2 points if it’s a Double Jeopardy) but Ben never answered anything in the form of a question, so I wasn’t sure whether to dock points from our total. Ben told me Trebek is not the boss of him. After Jeopardy Adam wanted to watch the DVD I made from a whack of Counting Crows concerts. Ben wanted to watch his own DVD filmed in Perth with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra. They were both getting a little pissed off. To help mediate, I suggested we watch my DVD of Nick Cave’s God is in the House, which they were cool with. Then around eleven, we went out for a few drinks. No driving. Everything in Mattawa is within walking distance. On the saunter back home Adam took a leak against a big rock by the beach. He burped a terrific burp and it echoed off the Laurentians. Then, as a joke, Ben took Adam’s iPhone and whipped it into the Mattawa River. Then a pack of feral street kids began taunting us, more so Adam because of his funny hair. Ben told the kids to not rag on him because he was in fact a celebrity. Ditto with Adam, but these kids were ruthless. One kid took a run at Adam with his bike. Then it was like something out of West Side Story. It was full on gang fight. I remember something my father said at my Christening - he said “never bring a knife to a gunfight.”
Everyone had knives. Adam. Ben. The gang of young hooligans. Bryan Adams may have been there for a few minutes. It was pandemonium. Chaos - beautiful chaos. I have never seen so many knives. No one thought to bring a gun. So I called my dad.
After we got home we watched a few episodes of The Larry Sanders Show then had a quick pillow fight. Adam started bouncing on the sofa. We did some crafts and used magnets to stick them to the fridge, baked pretzels with a recipe Ben found online, and then played some pool. Adam went through my CD collection and was pumped to see a live Frank Sinatra at the Dunes. I started yawning. We put on Das Boot but I knew I would fall fast asleep well before the end. My eyes kept shutting. I’m not as young as I was in the Eighties. Is anyone? The last thing I remember seeing is Adam putting his can of Pepsi on the coffee table without using a coaster. Shit. We’re gonna be in big trouble.
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