Toledo, OH – “The Stupid Game” – Bottle Rocket – July 16, 2000
When it comes down to it, “The Stupid Game” was all Kyle’s fault. We were sitting by The Bottle Rocket bar waiting for Delucchi to ring out the monitors* when Kyle grabbed my right hand and engaged me in a tableless arm wrestle. “My brother and I used to fight like this, holding each other’s hands, when we were little. Whoever let go first, lost.”
“So if you let go now, you’re a loser,” I said and thus, The Stupid Game was born. It’s a battle of egos that neither Kyle nor I was willing to lose so we stubbornly walked around, connected at the wrist for an hour and forty-five minutes. When Kyle got called to stage to sound check his drums, I went with him. When I had to go to the lady’s room, he held my hand outside of the stall. Finally, when it was time to do a full band sound check, we made a pact. We’d both let go at the same time on the count of three, “1-2-3,” and surprisingly we both released our then, overly clammy palms.
Unfortunately, The Stupid Game did not end there and has since evolved into a game where the the first to release is “the loser,” only until he/she clasps hands with somebody else, yells “Stupid Game” and continues the match. It’s truly a stupid game —fueled by ego, pride, and sheer stubbornness. It’s not even fun, there are no ‘winners,’ only ‘losers’ and no one’s getting a prize at the end. Nonetheless, I’d later invite the audience at the Bottle Rocket to participate. This was a stupid idea. Not only did their clasping one another’s hands prevent them from dancing or clapping, it also made CD signing near impossible at the end of the night.
But let me back up. When we arrived in Toledo, the streets were BARREN save for some loud seagulls overhead and a couple of street sleepers who might have done better to move into one of the 10,000 vacant, boarded-up buildings linning the city. The sky was clogged with high, dark, murky clouds that refused to drain and we kicked around litter in the streets outside the club until Dave, the owner showed up to let us in. He was a stellar guy with a cigarette, a look of subdued glee, and a bright pair of red shoes that lit up the dark neighborhood like little firecrackers. He led us upstairs to the joint, up 32 elevatorless steps winding around a narrow, rickety stairwell painted in striped pastels. Load-in was a bitch.
I kacked* out on the black and white cowhide bench beside the bar, underneath a phone that kept ringing. At 8:30 we went down the street to the only other place open, a local watering hole called Union Station, and grabbed some chef salads. Our waiter was also the establishment’s chef and bartender so our food took a little longer than we’d allotted. We ended up forcing dressing-filled bites of lettuce down our throats, getting most of the ranch coating on our cheeks and chins and running back up the 32 steps directly onto the stage.
We’d planned to play and then get out of town immediately in order to get some sleep before the 8-hour drive to Buffalo but what with The Stupid Game in full effect, it was hard to literally detach ourselves from the gig.
When we managed to disentangle and pile in the van, one of us (who shall remain nameless) was still missing. When he finally appeared 20 minutes later, we wanted to be angry but he had such a pathetic, sad pout on his mouth we motheringly loaded him into the van and asked what had happened.
He’d been talking with some cute little nursing student, he said, trying to convince her to spend the night with him when she produced a coin.
“Heads twice and you come home with me. Tails twice and we exchange numbers and call it a night.” She said.
“Tails!! Damn it!!!!”
Now we’re off to Holland, OH for an abbreviated night of sleep.
Footnotes:
*Ring out the monitors: To check the stage sound for bad frequencies that might feed back during a show.
*Kacked: Took a nap.