ROCK 'N' ROLL: The Bangles
I am employed as the warm-up comedian in a vast, echoing dinner theater with a vaguely Bavarian theme, one of a number of artists wandering amid the trestle tables telling jokes, juggling, performing magic tricks and trying to hold the audience's interest. The crowd seems intent more on their food than on any of the entertainment, though.
Then the headliners come on: the Bangles are playing tonight. I break off my act and stand in front of a dark, rough-hewn wooden column, watching the show.
The band has some weird video concept going. Female backup singers in aluminized suits dance around in the background. Each singer has a huge helium balloon, like a false head, attached by a chain to the collar of her suit, and at strategic intervals the singers pull their chains so all the balloons bob up and down at once.
One singer's chain catches on something, and her balloon doesn't go up until everyone else's is coming down. What's worse, the chain makes a horrible <CLANK>ing noise that echoes through the high-ceilinged hall.
The band comes to a total stop and leaves the stage. I do my best to continue my act, but nobody's interested. The audience is extremely angry, and I can't really blame them.
The Bangles have evidently called off their concert entirely. They come out, sit down at their reserved table, and order dinner. I take it upon myself to go over and talk to Susannah Hoffs, the bass player (at least in the dream; I don't know what instrument she plays in life).
I tell her how important it is that, no matter what happens, whether it be a broken string or your drums falling off the stage (which happened once to a band I was in), or a backup singer's faux pas, an entertainer should never stop. Never. No matter what. Because if you stop, then the last thing the audience will remember of you is your failure, but if you keep going your momentary lapse will fade in the audience's memory, and be seen as only part of the larger context of your show.
I think Susannah listens. At least, she courteously hears me out, without bringing up the obvious point that I'm stopping my own act just to give her this kind of reassurance.
DRUGS, and ROCK 'N' ROLL: Stage Magic
The best times I had in my hometown were at night... Even an ugly small town can turn to spangles and gold in the darkness.
The band is called Stage Magic--accent equal on both words, please. They trundle up the center of Third Avenue, a four-lane, one-way street close to the college, in a huge fire-engine-red stage that rolls along on small pneumatic tires. It looks like a great big upright piano. All the edges are alive with running marquee lights that blink and flash in ever-changing patterns.
The stage comes to a stop in the middle of a block, right in the middle of Third. It must be at least 2 A.M. There is no traffic, of course, this late at night--not in my home town.
The band is nowhere in sight. The roadies, of whom I must be one, pile out of the rolling stage and rush over to the sidewalk, where we hunker down in a tight circle. One of the roadies, a tall blond guy named Kent, pulls out a baggie half-filled with pot, the golden seeds very evident amid the flaky leaf. It's really seedy weed, not very good from the looks of it, but at least there's a lot.
Kent shouts out, "All right, doobidge!" and proceeds to hand each of us a pinch. I'm squatting there, wondering why the hell he didn't just roll a joint and pass it around, when a couple of foot patrolmen come round the corner and start towards us.
We scatter and run. My pinch crumbles away in my hand, leaving me with nothing. My last thought before the dream ends is relief. At least the cops will have nothing on me.
We are on board my yacht, floating in the beautiful blue harbor of the city or country of Ya' (pronounced "ya-ey" or even "yah-hee"). It is a grey, overcast morning, but the shallow waters of the bay are clear and I can see all the way down to the blue stones, turquoise and others, that line the bottom and give the harbor its famous color.
There are three of us in the spacious stateroom: the blonde, the brunette and I. The two women are about the same height and weight, both in their mid-twenties, only a year or so between their ages.
We are trying to decide whether to follow the itinerary that has already been laid out for us, or stay here, or perhaps strike out on our own.
I'm a little nervous about sailing the yacht alone, without the other boats around in case something goes wrong, but it's possible that the flotilla has already left, so I feel no urgency about deciding.
What I do feel urgent about is sex. Suddenly desire for these two women fills me and I call them to me.
They're wearing nothing but panties. They crawl onto the wide bed with me and lie down on top of me, one on each side. The sensation of their four breasts pressing against my chest is very clear.
The blonde is somewhat reluctant at first, but soon becomes enthusiastic. The brunette has been excited from the start, kissing and licking my chest before the blonde has even started tonguing my lips.
I urge the brunette's head lower. She resists at first, before she understands what I want her to do; then she slides down me eagerly. The trail of her nipples, the kinesthetic sense of her skin slipping over mine, leaves me tingling. As the blonde continues kissing me above, the brunette begins pumping my cock with her soft mouth and tiny hands, but almost as soon as she starts I come...
Original content on this page © Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.