Joe the Neanderthal

Oh to hell with the patience thing. The archaeologists have the right idea: faster and deeper is the way to go. “Good evening my fellow Americans! I cannot impress upon you enough the importance of doing one’s gig. It’s what made America great! That’s what I want our President to say sometime soon.” The bar crowd broke into rowdy applause. Bowing deeply like a Japanese yakuza, I punched my hand into my fist presidentially, and paused to take a shot of Absolut. You see, by then, I’d licked my wounds and retreated to the hotel bar. I’d had more than a few, lots more than a few. That was my reward for being Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot. The sting on my scratched forehead was receding fast, but I knew it would return in the morning with even greater ferocity. However, the new focus of my attention was the house band which consisted of a short nervous-looking bass player, a spindly hot babe singer, a butch girl guitarist who cranked out searing riffs a la Jimmy Page on her fire engine red Gibson Les Paul, and…and…and that was it. There was no drummer, just a rhythm box --- a programmable beat box whom I’ll call Ziggy. I guess it’s force of habit, but I give every beat box the name “Ziggy.” I loved it that the threat to Ziggy’s continued existence was a drum kit tucked neatly away in the corner. If Ziggy had even a megabyte of artificial intelligence at all, at that moment he was, like a sparrow cringing from a hawk, mindful of the kit --- leery and somberly respectful of its devastating power. It was too bad that, for whatever preposterous reasons, the otherwise talented band here had decided on enlisting the services of lame little Ziggy. This depressing situation pissed me off to no end. I wanted to smash him into a million pieces… So begins Joe the Neanderthal’s stint as the timekeeper for a reality show rock band of the near future.