GETTIN' RIPPED, GETTIN' DIZZY

My Friday morning Two/One/Zero-Two was very pink and filled with rejection. No, I didn't expunge the unsettlings of Franken Berry Moo Juice or a Tastes Great Pepto Shake. Rather, the talking 1987 Chrysler New Yorker (AKA -- "Kitt Too" in certain sections of Norfolk), which has faithfully driven its own Michael Knight Who Works For The Foundation Of Law And Government from point Arby's to point Be-Lo for nearly a year, opened its wiper-fluid tear ducts upon being stuck with the circle-and-slash decal. XTC would never be crazy about this particular "Pink Thing." Likewise, the New Yorker did not speed a hundred heartbeats high outta Paul's Auto Service's inspection bay. Instead of the usually helpful car-to-owner counsel ("Don't forget your keys," "Please fasten your seatbelt," "Your door is ajar," "Your fuel is low"...all points-of-assistance followed by "Thank you's"), Kitt: Part Dos was under an extremely bad Speak 'N' Spell ("F-U-C-K...I didn't pass because of a goddamned window," "S-H-I-T...they got me on an insignificant bullshit back light," "A-S-S-H-O-L-E...Why've you been puttin' that cheap Wawa piss in my tank?"). Man, Kitt The Sequel -- I only went there for the free sliced sandwiches and cold coffee. You know I wouldn't serve my Kittie Kat anything less than sweet ninety-three octane from Tex-E-Coh or Bee Pee. So, be mad all you want at that mean inspection man, but please don't lash out at your best buddy in the whole world. OK, Kitt pal? Look, I know you hate hospitals, but this operation on your driver's side glass is a must if you want us to hang out again. When you recover, I promise to coat your exterior in gold paint and line your insides with furry trim just like that ex-Navy, wanna-be pimp daddy's Kitt we saw in the unsanitary Hardee's parking lot on Kempsville Road. 'Til then, keep your engine cool and curb the exhaust fumes. By the way, there's a cute little German Beetle in C103. You didn't hear that from me, though. Be strong, Kitt Kar.

Because Kitt was being prepped for surgery later that evening, transportation and I were unfamiliarly distant from one another. Sure, I could've rented a car from Enterprise or called Beach Taxi in order to go see some new entertainment. But I didn't want the guerilla-war struggle. Plus, I hate the smell of stogies and freeze-dried ejaculate. Nope, I needed a driver servant who would keep his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel, and, most importantly, his mouth from mentioning the tragic events of Nine-Eleven. Luckily, I found a stickered advert on a wastebasket lid in front of Baker Street Fun Food Drinkery. It read: "jOhn A's Lim-O-Zeen Service -- If I Don't Know You, Then Fuck You." Muy perfecto! I had met Mr. A once at West Beach Cafe's open-mic night. He told me that the stuffed wolf in a glass enclosure near WBC's entrance was the finest one he'd seen in the Tidewater area thus far. Before I could respond, jOhn interrupted, "Oops, a dispatch. Welp, nice knowin' you." Since we were on speaking terms, I punched in the necessary seven digits. "Hey, Mr. A! Look here, I know you and all. So, could I get a shuttle to the Oceanfront?" I asked the limo dude. "What the fuck I look like -- Cape Canaveral? But, since I've met you, I'll come and get you," jOhn answered in the most-Danny Devito of ways.

As I waited in the icy-cold temperature of the night's air (OK, I lied -- it was actually an unseasonably warm fifty-five degrees), a 1978 (?) Toyota Corolla station wagon with a permanently lodged "Stars On 45" cartridge in its 8-track player stopped at my feet. "You the guy who needed a lift?" the Corrola's driver screamed. When I peered into the car, I instantly recognized Mr. A's face. "You call this a limo?" I queried the "chauffeur." "You call that a flannel? That thing looks like something my grandfather would lounge in after his once-a-week bath," jOhn quickly retorted. "Look, could I still get a lift?" I venomously questioned. "Where? To the moon? Oh yeah, you want a shuttle to Cape Canaveral...BLAST OFF! Well, whatcha waitin' for? Hop in, before I pull over and take my in-between-shifts sleep," Mr. A sternly commanded.

Surprisingly, there was another passenger who had decided to fork over the fare. Her name was Holly or Molly or Dolly. She was also en route to La Playa De Virginia Oceanfront. For most of the way, jOhn's Corolla was as hushed as a LPGA gallery. Things got interesting, however, at the point where Virginia Beach Blvd. turns into 17th Street. "Goddamn Checkpoint Charlie! And he ain't crackin' a smile. It's been no laughing party driving all these murder miles. Only takes an itchy trigger; one more little, one less Mr. Biggers," Mr. A sorrowfully stated. "What was all that about?" I verbally wondered. "Folks, it's like this. My business license and insurance-certification papers are back at the office. I've been cited with too many damn infractions as it is. Don't really feel like going to jail tonight. So, if y'all can bear with me, I really need to run that there checkpoint. After I do, feel free to go about your business. Oh yeah, the fare's on me," jOhn addressed in a down-on-his-luck tone. Agreeing with his law-breaking scheme (Hey -- free ride!), Holly or Molly or Dolly and I tightly grabbed our seat cushions as Mr. A sped past twenty or so police cruisers. Safely outta harm's way, jOhn pulled into an establishment called St. Pat's On 17th (about a mile from the Protectors And Servers set-up). He bade us both good night and told us to be cautious out here.

Noticing the look of an emotionally drained man, Holly or Molly or Dolly and I, though complete strangers at the time, decided to abandon our planned Friday nights in favor of treating the Lim-O-Zeen man to a pick-me-up. I walked back to the Corolla and saw Mr. A with head in hands. "Hey, Holly or Molly or Dolly and I were talking about what'd just happened. We think that you deserve a break from life and all of its dealings. So, would you like to go inside St. Pat's, have a drink or two, and see the band?" I motioned to jOhn with great concern. Not having a better offer, Mr. A resigned, "OK. Ain't like I have anything better to do." Thus, jOhn, Holly or Molly or Dolly, and I entered St. Pat's needing some tonic-and-tunes remedy.

"Thin Lizzy? Since when did they get back together?" Mr. A curiously pondered. "No! No! No! The band's name is Rip Dizzy," I corrected. As painful strains of rapcore and other forms of radio rock permeated inside the bar, a waitress came to the table asking us to pick our poison. jOhn, technically still on-call, ordered a rum-and-coke sans the demon. Holly or Molly or Dolly went with a Budweiser draft in a tall glass. At first, I was gonna join Mr. A in his sobriety slam. It had been 46 months since cold brew had passed through my lips. On a regular night out, I would've kept my edge and downed beer comma root or ale comma ginger. However, irregularity was the order of the evening. Thus, I told our serve-and-volleyer, "I'll have what she's having." With that first sip, there went my streak of approximately 1,380 days without alcohol. Cal Ripken, Jr. and A.C. Green can now protect their records, cause I'm no longer a threat to shatter those marks. You know what's better than drinking one beer? If an answer is necessary, perhaps you wouldn't understand Holly or Molly or Dolly or me or our unofficial game of Drunk-A-Duel. As we were gettin' ripped and the band was about to get dizzy, Holly or Molly or Dolly built a 2-.75 lead in our draft dousing.

"'Move along,' says a cop to me," sang Rip Dizzy in their Buddy Holly-out-for-a-stroll-near-the-checkpoint blast, "She's The One." "Charlie would've told me to come along, had I played by his rules," jOhn defiantly bragged in an I-fought-the-law-and-I-won confident air. "I'm Still Waiting" attracted like early Elvis (Costello -- who else?) with its brains-and-brawn bouncy beat. Among other things, the Dizzy were in line for the government, president, record label, and paycheck. Holly or Molly or Dolly, on the other hand, was more direct. "I'm still waiting on another beer," she cleverly quipped, post-song. "One Emotion" diffused from the poppier side of "The Only Band That Matters" a la "1, 2, Crush On You" or "Groovy Times." Mr. A clapped palms together vigorously for this gem, one-upping the cut's title by giving us the range of his (then dejected, now elated). "Sex, Drugs, And Rock 'N' Roll" sucked (like you would a breast or 1,999 other female parts) 'n' snorted this-year-model's narcotic chemicals in Joe Jackson-got-the-record time. Definitely ticked ticked ticked in my head. Scoreboard: Holly or Molly or Dolly - 3, Me - 1.65. "Punk Nouveau" had to rank up there with the greatest songs-under-30-seconds (hear SST alumni Black Flag and Descendents for others) I'd ever lent my ears to. "Lean on me/When you're not strong/And I'll be your friend/I'll help you...DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!" I'm kidding, people. In fact, Dizzy's vocalist was incredibly affable throughout; taking time many times asking, "How's everybody doin' tonight?" So far, so great -- Thanks for inquiring. "Bonfire," a dark 'n' connecting ballad from their self-titled dee beaut, was given a (take yer pick, pardner) hoe-down/bluegrass/western swing/speed country reshufflization for the honky-tonk Irish cowdudes and cowdames in attendance. Nothing tastes better than Murphy's Stout and bacon-and-cheese biscuits cooked outdoors. Pass me that checkerboard hanky -- Dems were some good eats! At the twenty-minute ticker, Holly or Molly or Dolly still clung to a 3-2.25 advantage.

CBS -- Cover Bands Suck, so the expression goes. Sensible gentlewomen like Holly or Molly or Dolly and gentlemen like jOhn A Lim-O-Zeen and myself would wholeheartedly agree with that directive. I mean, why would someone want to hear Hardcover bushsplunker "Everything's Zen" ("Don't believe that Elvis is dead"...No, he's not. The guy just hasn't made a top-to-bottom consistency since "Get Happy"), Grindstone soar with the "Free Bird" (An upcoming local band, whom I promised not to name, will soon clip that ole buzzard's wings), or Powerhouse get caught by "You Really Got Me" ("We're gonna play some Van Halen for you now..."), when he or she can just feed quarters to the juke or cruise the road in a Kimnach Ford and hear the originals? However, when a band who primarily writes their own material decides to throw some choice bones at us music-lovin' dawgs, we can't help ourselves from digging into the marrow. The Dizzy gave us plenty of reasons to bark on this Friday night turned into Saturday morn. According to the Gang Of Four, the worst thing in 1954 was the bikini. Soon, I'll ask mi madre if she agrees. Did you know that New York City really has it all? Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah...though Mr. A looked at me as if to say, "Whatever, Joseph." What's so funny about peace, love, and understanding? "Plenty, if it comes from the mouth of one Richard Gere," Holly or Molly or Dolly retracted. The bravest selection was unquestionably "Everybody Wants To Rule The World." Holly or Molly or Dolly flashed me a glance that facial-expression translators would've posted, "Why do I feel like it's 1989 and I'm at Rogue's or Peabody's dressed in WRV betty-wear watching a shore-break set from Locals Only?" Personally, I prefer Sowing The Seeds-era Tee Eff Eff, but that one from the big chair brought back memories of stolen bikes, two-week restrictions, and other happenings from my eighth-grade prison term. Now, I'm making the most of my freedom.

After Dizzy's set, I handed the drummer a fiver for their latest No Room To Dance cee dee, thanked him, and finished the remainder of my hops 'n' barley. Final tally: Holly or Molly or Dolly - 3, Me - 3. It seemed so calculated. But she had a calculator.