Day 17: Stealing the Show
The next day began as any normal day would in a house of four 20-somethings. Everyone woke up early, staggering throughout the house like a group of zombies as they tried to shake the deadly combination of an early morning alarm clock and too much partying the night before. And, of course, the bathtub became a geyser, because everything in that house is becoming more and more likely to just destroy itself for no good reason. I mean, what kind of showers and baths are these people taking that cause the tub to do this?
Before long, Josephine arrived to perform her maid-ly duties. However, it soon became apparent that she had not graduated at the top of her class at maid school. Dishes were collecting on the tables, counter tops were growing that other-worldly green sludge, and the hamper had long since ceased accepting any more clothes, leading to an even greater mountain of textile refuse just in front, because dammit, they hired a maid, so they would be damned if they would pick up their own stuff for a change.
There was no time to pull Josephine to the side and calmly explain to her how to do her job. It was almost noon, and Masochistic Murder Llama had a gig to play. After a quick lunch of grilled cheese, it was time for the performance, and so the gang piled into Pete’s 1972 Plymouth Valiant (which will from here on out be referred to as the Murder Mobile) and once more drove down to the local watering hole for their next (hopefully) successful show. Unfortunately, I misread the day of the gig, and so the band arrived to a bar that had no idea why they were there. The gig was the next day, presumably causing an awkward few moments as the group entered the bar chanting their pre-show warm up routine. As I firmly believe in making the most out of even the direst of situations, I sent the band up on stage for an impromptu jam session, not wanting to waste a potential opportunity, no matter how small and low-key it might be. What followed was pure magic.
That’s right, it became a meet and greet of sorts, with random people filling in around the band and chilling while MML played their hearts out. At one point, one of the onlookers pulled out a guitar and began to strum along. Whether he was playing the same song or not is currently unknown, but no one seemed to mind at the time. Almost 200 Simoleans in tips were collected, which was definitely not too shabby for a spur-of-the-moment jam session. The band’s continued practice was also seriously starting to show, as the music graduated from the high-school band level to something you might hear out of an upper level garage group. There were harmonies between the guitar and keyboard, drum solos, and I even heard a distinctive base groove (for just a few seconds, of course, but it was better than nothing!) Of course, like many great things, the performance came to an end when Robi decided his need to pee outweighed his dreams. Soon after, it was time to head back home. Masochistic Murder Llama had a busy schedule ahead of them, with two new gigs in as many days (I double checked this time). But, as they discovered, the celebrity life doesn’t end when they go to bed.
Midnight interruptions aside, the rest of the night saw the gang resting up for their upcoming gigs, presumably dreaming of the big time that was now just over the horizon. Indeed, the feeling of great success was almost palpable, even through the computer screen. It was no longer a question of whether Masochistic Murder Llama would make it big, but simply when. Time would only tell, but I had a feeling that moment of clarity would soon arrive.