Don't Stop Me If You've Heard This One: Statler and Waldorf and Warren Zevon Meet Honest Abe at the Portland City Hall Auditorium

I don't know why we got there so damn early. But there we were, looking around, saying ''hellooooo'', to apparently nobody and waving our tickets. So after a few minutes of this. we said screw it, ripped our tix, left the stubs there on the counter and made our way to our seats. And took a couple boxes of Ju Ju Bees with us.

Wait. Let me go back a bit, for exposition sake, and fill you in on some important details before we get to the main story. What does Statler and Waldorf have to do with Warren Zevon?  And Abe Lincoln?Why are we at Portland City Hall. Well back in those days, there was nothing WE liked better than being together, crammed down in the front at a big rock show, getting a face melt from a wall of Marshall speakers. In this story, WE refers to me and my best pal Hugh John Flye."Those days" refers to the early/mid 80's, in our natural prime in our glorious 'salad days'. Tonight's show was a little less in scope and volume than we expected. Seminal song writer, piano man and 'excitable boy, Warren Zevon. He was, this time around, playing solo, without his band. No Waddy Wachtel. No Leland Sklar. No nobody. Just Warren, a grand piano, and an Ovation accoustic guitar on a stand. But it didn't matter, as we were to find out. And it never mattered anyway.  Me and old Spot were on for adventure. Wherever we were, that's where the party was, as far as we were concerned. We were young, good looking, and charming, funny, smart, hip. Actually wherever we were WAS where the party was at. Eventually, in years, we would eventually age into our more authentic boring old selves, like the two old heckling Muppets, decrepit 'ride or die' mates for life, same sex heterosexual life partners getting coffee at Dunks and going to the dump for excitement. But not tonight. 

 

What you needed to know about old Hugie, young OR old version. Never trust the bastard. 

And usually also do not believe a word of anything he says. I loved the guy but he was about as reliable as a Magic 8 Ball full of Fortune Cookie fortunes. People never believed me when I told them things like, ''Oh he's never going to show up'' or "well, that's not exactly true" or "I think he may be pulling your leg''. I don't mean this in a bad way. Believe me. I love the guy like he was my brother. Hell he was my brother. But he was a trickster. Yeah! Trickster! That's it. He was more like the Lakota Coyote-god Sungmanitu. Not a liar per se. Or evil or a bad guy. More a mischievous mirror to humanity's own foibles. A clever embodiment of the duality of human nature. Often greedy and lecherous, prone to being foist upon his own petard, but just as often heroic and always clever. Don't be a hater. Don't hate the player; hate the game, if you must. Sounds like Spot. A genius actually. AND personality goes a long way. And in all honesty, I would laude myself with the same traits I attribute to my 'bestie' Lil' Hubie. I was just as mischievously nefarious as he was. And neither of us were the kind of friends that would hold each other to account. We were more like enablers. More likely to dig each others' holes deeper than digging a brother out. Down the rabbit hole M***F*** 's . Hey, if you want the truth, make up your own story.

"You got a pig that good, you eat him really slow''.

As I said, I don't remember why we were so early to the auditorium. Maybe we had no cash. Or just enough cash to gas up the Deathmobile, but not enough to get a dinner or drinks. You never know. Planning things out was never our forte. Plus we could make our own fun smoking and joking and talking about adventures past and present. It didn't seem to worry us that no one was there to check us in to the show. In any case, we made our way to our seats all by ourselves. Front row center Balcony. After the initial excitement wears off and conversation wanes, Hugie longs for mischief. There is some other human action

 building up, as it is getting close to actual showtime, but it is still pretty quiet. My pal has an idea. He proposes sneaking behind the stage area and finding Mr. Zevon's dressing room. I try to talk him out of it, admiring the idea but not wanting to get kicked out before the show started. But he was determined and slinked off without me. He comes back about ten minutes later, very excited. He had apparently
 found Warren's green room and had heard him in there talking to someone from the theater and a few other folks. He wanted to come back and get me so we could both...?...I don't know, pesterize the poor bastard, ask for an autograph, jam with him? We hadn't thought that far ahead. So, I go along with him, you know, just to make sure he stays out of trouble. We get to the front of the stage, stage left and are just about to skulk back stage when Warren Zevon himself, with a small entourage, suddenly comes out from behind the curtains, sees us, stops, turns and looks up to the large ornate private opera box seats up on the wall, and without missing a beat declares to the assembled group, ''Seat Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln

up there please". Hiyoooooooooo! You are cor-RECT sir! Good one Mr. Zevon...

So that gets the conversation started, and we get a chance to meet Mr. Werewolf of London for a hot minute, joke around, and, with the blessing of the theater staff got to stay and  listen to his sound check, if we'd promise to stop sneaking around back stage. Hughie even got invited up on the stage as Warren showed him a Kieth Richards song he'd been working on. ''Before they make me run''.

The rest of the night was excellent. ''And his hair was perfect''.

You kinda had to be there. And Hughie and I usually were.