Eduardo flew me out to LA, where I was introduced to the other guys who had been chosen: Grant, Duro, Chad and Angel. Grant was the oldest at twenty-two; he was from Little Rock and had been in some kind of rockabilly band. Duro acted all mysterious and suave, like he was a gypsy or something; looking back, I probably should’ve known he was a bad seed. Chad and Angel were twins and had been the stars of a public access show in Rapid City (I saw a tape of one episode – all they did was sing these lame folk songs, stuff about the blossoms of your soul and horses running wild and free, shit like that). They had okay voices, I guess, but I maintain that those boys got picked purely for their looks. None of us had the slightest idea what the hell we were getting into.
We were immediately thrust into a frenzy of makeovers: hairstylists, designer fashions, facial peels – the whole nine yards. Grant and the others took to it better than I did (all the poking and prodding made me feel like a fruit), and because of that, Eduardo stuck me with being the "wild and spontaneous" member of the group. I thought it was cool at first (I had a couple tattoos), but then he made me dye my hair lime green and told me my stage name would be "Jester." Can you believe that shit? Jester.
After we had our respective looks down, we began rehearsals. Eduardo and his partner Mu’nche’e had already written a stack of songs, so all we had to do was learn the dance moves that went with each one and decide who was going to sing lead (it was always Chad or Angel, of course). In no time flat, we had sixteen tracks laid down and a contract with Capitol Records (Eduardo had a lot of pull back then). Our first album, Lov’N Coast 2 Coast, was due to hit record stores in June, and we had only been together for five weeks.
Eduardo decided the first single would be "Girl Keep It Next 2 That," a slow jam with funky beats. A guy named Gregory Dark was hired to direct the video – I was a fan of Dark’s because of the porno movies he had directed, so it was something of an honor to work with him. He came with up with a great idea – we played thirties-era gangsters and there was this whole star-crossed romance where Chad was in love with the daughter (a smokin’ hot Playboy model) of the G-Man who was pursuing us. It was like Bonnie and Clyde, but on the hip-hop tip. Once that was in the can, we were off on a whirlwind promotional tour.
Those early days were the best, when all we had was potential. It didn’t last long. I’m not stupid – I knew the whole teen-idol thing was a nowhere road; I just wanted my slice of the pie, like anybody else. And that particular pie – sprinkled as it was with a buttery topping of tasty teenage girls – was just screaming for me to sink my teeth into it.
We started out like most of the bubblegum acts: playing at malls for crowds of worshipful teens. It was weird, going from being this lonely guy sitting around watching TV every night to suddenly having hundreds of cute girls grabbing at me and screaming my name (okay, they were screaming "Jester! Jesterrrr!" but the effect was the same). Eduardo put an end to the mall shows, though, after a bunch of Cholos tried to start some shit with me and Duro when we were leaving the stage in Oxnard. Security stepped in before we could give those punks what they were asking for, but afterwards somebody fired a couple shots into the back of the tour bus as it was pulling out of the mall parking lot and Eduardo about flipped.
There wasn’t much in the way of money yet – the album hadn’t been released – but we more than made up for it in other ways, I can assure you. Those girls... I don’t know what it was, but something about them seeing you up on stage made them open to suggestion, and I had plenty to offer. Sure as hell made up for any lost time (and they were all at least eighteen, I swear).
It got weird, though – life on the road. Even with all the attention and the easy sex, I still felt lonely, adrift, even disoriented. One night at a Motel 6, I ended up in a room with Chad and Angel. Jesus, I’m not sure why I’m revealing this; I guess just as an illustration of how the touring life can get to you – but anyway, Angel had gone off to a bar with the other guys, leaving me and Chad alone. Chad was obsessive about bathing and wanted to shower right away, while I felt kind of grumpy and didn’t want to be around the rest of the guys for awhile. I was watching "Green Acres" when Chad came out of the bathroom, totally naked and toweling his hair. He stopped in front of the TV to laugh at that pig (what was his name? Arnold Ziffel?), and his bare butt was right there in front of me, beads of water rolling over the curves, cheeks bobbling as he laughed. Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I swear, if you could’ve seen it: he had a rump on him like a thirteen-year-old girl. Pink, hairless, spankable as all hell. Not that I’ve seen any thirteen-year-old ass, mind you. And just for the record, all we did was watch TV.
"Girl Keep It Next 2 That" hit MTV near the end of May. It didn’t exactly set the world on fire, but on the strength of Chad and Angel’s looks the video made it onto TRL (at number 10) and we were lined up for a personal appearance.
It was around this time that Duro started to lose it. It was subtle at first: he’d have a couple more beers at night, keep to himself on the tour bus, act cranky with the other guys. By the day we were scheduled to appear on TRL, however, he was talking crazy shit about his mother and he kept insisting that we ask him where his cat went. Nobody wanted to, so I guess you can say we ignored all the warning signs.
The minute we arrived on the set, I knew things were going to get screwy. Duro started out by insulting Carson Daly, giving him hell about breaking up with Jennifer Love Hewitt, stuff like that. Carson understandably got pissed (I think he was already so fed up with the boy-bands that he didn’t have much patience left for any bullshit), so the whole deal was tainted before we ever hit the airwaves.
When the time came, Carson, the consummate professional, introduced us to the studio audience of screaming girls. We did the friendly banter, talked about likes and dislikes, all the standard stuff, until Duro grabbed the mike from Carson and – on live TV – accused his mother of being "the devil’s whore" and claimed that his penis spat flames when he came.
I’m sure you can imagine how this went over with the audience, but it only got worse when some frat boy broke the horrified silence with a cry of "Korn rules!" We all had a stack of promotional copies of our CD to give out, and Duro starts whipping his at this frat boy like they were Frisbees. Never got one near the kid, but he buried the corner of one in the forehead of a sixteen-year-old girl, knocking her out cold and sending her to the emergency room for thirty-seven stitches.
There were the expected public apologies, of course, but that was the beginning of the end for Gett Bust’N. We finally found out where Duro’s cat went when the bus driver noticed an unpleasant odor while we were stopped at a rest area in West Virginia: Duro had crafted a little crown of thorns for the kitty and crucified it on the transaxle. After that, Eduardo shipped Duro off to the bughouse for an extended stay (last I heard, he had been released and is now working as a counselor at a summer camp in Iowa, teaching music to blind kids). Funny thing is, I didn’t know he had a cat in the first place.
Our video dropped off TRL like a stone (rumor had it that we had actually been banned for life from MTV, although they denied it) and as far as I know, the single never received any radio play.
Eduardo started booking us into malls again, since we couldn’t get any of those sweet gigs opening for Britney Spears or Mandy Moore. Truth is, we couldn’t get a real gig at all – we did one show opening for a band called Rotten Astronaut, but the lead singer (this really hot chick who looked like Dana Scully on The X-Files) had booked us as a joke and just tormented the hell out of us, making fun of our clothes, our dancing, everything. We were laughed offstage like a bunch of chumps.
It was starting to get really goddamn depressing. Eduardo thought if we rushed a new album out, tried to re-invent ourselves without the blemish Duro’s freakout had created, we might have a shot. The whole nightmare had taken its toll, however: Angel had gone all spiritual and embraced some religion I’d never heard of and Grant was making serious remarks about heading back t
o his rockabilly roots. I was a little uninspired myself, but Chad’s enthusiasm for the idea carried the rest of us, and within two months we had recorded Giv’n Up the Goody-Good. The cover featured a picture of the band walking down from Heaven on a silver ramp (Angel’s idea), and Eduardo made me dye my hair purple for this one.
We hit the road again, headed for our first gig: Fayette Mall in Lexington, Kentucky. We arrived the night before the show and went out to a bar to drink a toast to our big "comeback" (since we had never amounted to a damn thing, though, I wasn’t sure what we were coming back to). Unfortunately, Trouble – faithful traveling companion of Gett Bust’N – was just around the corner, and this time, I started it.
I got shot down by a chick with thick ankles. I mean, nowadays, thick ankles are fine by me, but back then I was used to the parade of tender, lean girlies that had made themselves so readily available to me, and this chubby, middle-aged souse blowing me off sent me into a spiral of bitter depression. I switched from beer to scotch and before anybody knew what was happening, I was in my cups and trying to pick a fight with a big guy at the bar. This proved to be an especially bad idea, considering that the big guy in question was Kentucky’s favorite son, Billy Ray Cyrus, of "Achy Breaky Heart" fame. A word of advice: if you meet the guy, do not insult the mullet. That good ol’ boy kicked the ever-loving shit out of me and left me lying in the parking lot atop a pile of my own teeth.
But the show must go on, right? We went onstage at the mall the following afternoon, greeted by raucous cheering. Due to my extensive facial injuries, I could only mumble along and shuffle painfully through the dance steps, but we ably performed three numbers before the show was rather savagely interrupted.
As usual, Eduardo was grinning at us from his perch off-stage. I think Grant was the first to notice the guy moving in, but in any case, I turned to shoot a thumbs-up at Eduardo just as he was jumped by a half-naked man. The two went ass-over-teakettle into the audience, sending girls screaming in every direction. The attacker was biting and clawing at Eduardo like an animal as we scrambled from the stage and tried to intervene. Grant finally got a chokehold on him and yanked him off, but the psycho came away with a mouthful of Eduardo’s face in the process.
That was when I got my first good look at the man: greasy, stringy hair hanging over his wild eyes, blood running down his chin and neck to pool in the puckered dimples of the massive, half-moon scar that engulfed the right side of his torso. You’re probably way ahead of me on this one – it was Jip Henningson, of course, former lead singer of Lonely Bull. I’ve seen plenty of them on the Discovery Channel, but seeing the results of a shark bite right there in front of you – well, I haven’t gone swimming since. As the cops dragged Jip away, he screamed over and over that Eduardo "tasted like weasel."
And that was the end of it. When he got out of the hospital, Eduardo retired from the music biz and moved to Italy with Mu’nche’e. The rest of us drifted apart soon after that; Angel took off for Sri Lanka or some damn place, Grant made good on his threats and started a rockabilly band that I hear is big in Japan now, and Chad became a model (your magazine actually ran a photo of him in a feature on the new spring line from Tommy Hilfiger).
Me? Inspired by Donnie and Marky-Mark, I tried my hand at the acting thing, but didn’t have much success. Made it into a couple direct-to-video flicks and a Sci-Fi Channel Original Movie, but nobody paid any attention. Now I work the night shift stocking shelves at the largest bookstore in New Mexico. I always wonder how things would’ve gone if somebody other than Duro had been chosen for the group, but you know what they say about hindsight. Anyway, my mom’s glad I live nearby.
Yours,
David "Jester" Andrews
Albuquerque, NM
I wrote All the Freaky Live Things with the hope of selling it to BOY'S LIFE magazine. After they rejected the story, I realized that the two main characters are completely incompetent — not exactly Scouting material — and it was no wonder BL didn't want it. I rewrote it, made the fellas slightly older, added a shapely young lady to the mix, and sold it to BUTTMAN magazine. I've always kind of liked that original version, though, and that's why it's here.
ALL THE FREAKY LIVE THINGS
There was a kind of exaggerated silence when Wes fell off the cliff, as if the entire forest held its breath for a moment. Then I heard him crashing through the underbrush, twigs snapping beneath his tumbling body. I just stood there in the dark, frozen, until the racket died down. For some reason the only thing I could think of was how we’d probably end up on one of those reality TV shows – you know, Incredible Rescues! (or worse yet, Incredibly Dumb Kids!).
When I ran to the edge and played my flashlight around, I saw that the cliff only dropped off for a few feet, then sloped down to where Wes was hung up on part of an old barbed wire fence. Somehow, I managed to get to him without doing any damage to myself in the process. He wasn’t hurt – just a few scrapes and scratches – but he sure was mad.
We had decided to spend a couple nights in the woods after seeing some stuff about Bigfoot on an old TV show called In Search Of, hosted by Leonard Nimoy. New Mexico isn’t exactly the heart of Bigfoot country – there’ve only been a few sightings here – but we figured if we didn’t find Bigfoot, we’d at least turn up a Chupacabra or something. It took some doing, but we convinced Wes‘ dad to let us take the camping gear and the old pickup (Wes is sixteen and has his driver’s license). After practically signing contracts for our moms promising we wouldn’t do anything stupid (like fall off a cliff), we high-tailed it into the Jemez Mountains outside Albuquerque.
We parked the truck and packed into the woods, figuring that anyplace we could get to in a vehicle wasn’t deep enough to put us near Bigfoot. I don’t think either of us really believed we’d see – or cared that much about seeing – the mythical hairy beast; we were just excited about being on our first parent-free camping trip. After a couple hours, we found a small clearing not far from the stream and set up our tent. We ate a dinner of beef jerky and trail mix, listening to the water rush by and feeling like men of the world.
As the evening wore on, Wes found new and varied ways of injuring himself – he somehow managed to cut his knee breaking a piece of firewood over it, then burned himself trying to see the wound by the firelight. Jumping back in pain, he tripped over his pack and fell on the tent, tearing it down and scraping his elbow in the process. It was like camping with Jerry Lewis. The darkness made it a tough job, but we got the tent back up, even though it was obvious it would never be the same.
I’ll tell you something – and why I never noticed this on earlier camping trips is beyond me – once it gets dark, you hear some crazy sounds coming out of the woods.
"I think we should investigate," Wes suggested.
"Investigate?" I snorted. "At night, in the forest? What’re you, nuts?" But I guess I was even nuttier, because I went along with the idea and we set off into the woods, flashlights blazing. We had covered about twenty yards when Wes fell off the cliff.
He hung there like the Scarecrow of Oz while I wrestled his clothes loose from the barbed wire, his griping interrupted by yelps of pain as some body part or another found its way onto one of the tiny spikes. I think he was more angry about the fact that he kept hurting himself while I remained relatively uninjured than he was about his torn clothes or the cuts and scrapes he’d received in the fall. The only thing I’d done so far was get some trail mix in my eye. He didn’t want to hear it, but Wes was actually pretty lucky – if he hadn’t hit that chunk of fence, he would’ve kept going for another fifty yards or so.
Despite his aches and pains, Wes wanted to continue exploring. We made our way down the hill, since it was easier than climbing back up to the trail we had been on (and Wes was complaining enough already). The woods there were much thicker, the canopy of trees shutting out nearly all the moonlight. It was impossible to tell how far away we were from camp. If there was Bigfoot country at all in these parts,
we were in it.
"We forgot to mark our trail," Wes nervously pointed out.
We stopped, shining our flashlights back the way we had come. There was no sign of our passage; it was as if the trees had grown up behind us as we moved through them. "We haven’t been hiking that long, have we? If we start marking it now, I’m sure we can find our way back from here," I said hopefully.
Of course, neither of us really knew what to mark the trail with; as we moved on, we made little arrows from twigs and rocks, but the ground was so heavily littered with such things that, in the darkness, our markings were instantly swallowed up. I tried to talk Wes into using strips of his torn shirt, but he didn’t think that was very funny. Hesitantly, we picked our way through the forest for another fifteen minutes or so, trying to joke around so things wouldn’t seem so creepy.
Then we heard it. A mournful, echoing groan.
Bigfoot. Sasquatch. The Skunk Ape. It had to be – no other creature could make such a freakish sound. And it was close.
Wes grabbed a handful of my shirt and wouldn’t let go. Something was making its slow, plodding way towards us, snuffling and wheezing as it trudged through the dense
undergrowth. I heard what must’ve been a small tree falling, pushed over by massive, skull-crushing hands.
I raised my flashlight just as the creature burst through the trees in front of us. A glimpse of wet, devilish eyes and matted fur – then my flashlight tumbled from my hands and I took off running. Wes, still clinging to my shirt, practically tripped over my heels as he followed, shrieking the way I would have if I could’ve forced a sound out of my constricted throat.
I could hear the beast right on our tails. Risking a glance over my shoulder, I saw the dark shape gaining on us. Oddly, it wasn’t running upright like a Bigfoot ought to; instead, it was galloping along on all fours, snorting and raging.
Tales of Misery and Imagination Page 6
