Got A Machinehead Better Than The Rest, Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Play The Drums.

Last night I dreamt that I had tickets to see Bush. I’m not talking about the corrupt asshole who shit all over the world for eight years — I’m talking about the post-grunge band. The post-grunge band formed by those guys from London. The post-grunge band formed by those guys from London who gave us “Glycerine,” a beautiful song of poetic proportions…

It must be your skin I’m sinking in
Must be for real ’cause now I can feel
And I didn’t mind, it’s not my kind
It’s not my time to wonder why…

…and “Comedown,” a song rich in symbolism, and…rhymes…

No one knows never will
Mostly me but mostly you
What do you say do you do
When it all comes down

…and “Swallowed,” a beautiful song about…something…

Warm sun feed me up And I’m leery loaded up Loathing for a change And I slip some boil away
All right, so lyrics were never Gavin Rossdale’s strong suit. The question of “Nirvana or Pearl Jam?” will never expand to become “Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Bush?” Never. Likewise, the question of “Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder” will never expand to become “Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder or Gavin Rossdale?” However, if the question were, “Would you rather spend the night with Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder or Gavin Rossdale,” I gotta say, plenty of people would answer….

“Wait, who’s the last person? His name sounds familiar.”
“The lead singer of Bush.”
“BUSH! Oh my God, I remember them! That guy was hot! So wait, what was the question?”

In my dream last night, Bush was playing in someone’s backyard. (Perhaps that was my unconscious’ attempt at wit?) A couple hundred people were in attendance. There was some BBQ action goin’ on and everyone was really laid back and cool. I think I was there by myself, actually, which is odd, because I don’t know how the Hell anyone could say, “No” to, “Hey, wanna come with me to see Bush perform at a backyard BBQ?”

I was hangin’ out against a white picket fence, eating and drinking and chatting, when the beautiful Englishman himself approached me. He said, “We need someone to play drums for us tonight. You wanna play?” I said, “I don’t know how.” He said, “It doesn’t matter. I like your vibe.”

The sound check started, and Gavin Rossdale and I got to talking. He was very nice, and as our conversation went on, I began to develop a bonafide crush on the guy. Gwen Stefani was nowhere to be seen, and, figuring she could have very well played drums that night, I jumped to the dream conclusion that she and her hubby were no longer together.

Sound check ended and Gavin Rossdale went to get some food. He said, “I’ll be right back.” Ya know, to reassure me that he wanted to continue our conversation. I sat down on the ground and leaned against the white picket fence and waited for him to return. Suddenly, a tall man in a white suit approached me. I looked up, and Holy Shit, it was Michael Jordan. He said, “Hello, there.” I said, “Hi…Michael Jordan…”. Suddenly, all the Bush fans became quiet and turned to watch the interaction between Michael Jordan and me. Also, the backyard was no longer a backyard, but a gymnasium.

Man, that Michael Jordan has a filthy mouth!

Michael Jordan wanted me bad — so bad he was willing to say the dirtiest, freakiest things to me to persuade me to ditch Gavin Rossdale. Now, in real life my dad once told me that the golfer Phil Mickelson and his wife were swingers, and that Michael Jordan had once had a playful evening with Phil’s wife. When I heard this, I wasn’t sure if my dad was referring to the basketball legend or a golfer by the same name. I said, “Wait, Michael Jordan? As in…”. My mom, God bless her, chimed in and said, “Michael Jordan. The basketball player from the Bugs Bunny.” Yes. She literally said, “From the Bugs Bunny,” implying that my only exposure to Michael Jordan had been through the movie Space Jam.

Anyway, in the dream I remembered the bit about swinging, and I got very nervous. I thought, “Shit, if he’s really into that stuff then he’ll stop at nothing!” I did my best to hide my nervousness and stuck to saying things like, “I’m flattered, but I’m having a great time here and I don’t feel like leaving just yet,” and, “Ya know, I can’t ditch these guys just yet — I have to play drums.”

I don’t remember exactly how I got Michael Jordan to leave me alone. He did, eventually, walk away, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone asked about what Michael Jordan said to me, but I didn’t want to repeat any of it. T’was too nasty.

I waited around for Gavin Rossdale to return. I waited. And waited. And waited. And that bastard never came back to me. I didn’t get to play the drums, I didn’t get to have my night with Gavin Rossdale, and I didn’t even get to hear “Machinehead.”
Oh well. In the end, I’d say it was an interesting evening.

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