Saturday, April 6, 2013

Ollie Stench's Finest Moment

Here's how I remember it:  A few years back, on the weekend of the opening of football season, myself, Patti, and Leon decided to take a long weekend and follow Jeff Dahl and The Trash Brats around. Patti was going to film the bands for a documentary she was making, and Leon and I thought that was a good enough excuse to go to Chicago/Green Bay/Milwaukee. I had met the Trash Brats in Detroit a few years earlier, and had been corresponding with Mr. Dahl for some time as well.

We piled into Leon's car and headed to the Windy City. Taking our time to stop at some key truck stops along the way (the last great American institution!) we made it to Chicago with plenty of time to find the club, meet the up with bands and get some dinner before the rock started.

The Chicago show was at a bar called The Olympic, which I had never patronized before. We all helped load in the band gear and the film gear. Rock was performed and filmed, and after the show Leon and I found someone to crash with whilst Patti, Dahl, and Dahl's band mates and the Trash Brats crashed somewhere else.

Leon and I arose the next morning (afternoon?) and headed out on the highway in search of Green Bay and The Concert Cafe. We made very good time and bummed around Madison for a few hours. This was opening day of the NFL season and the Vikings were playing the Packers. Needless to say we got a lot of glare from the natives when they spied our MN plates. We then went to the Concert Cafe only to realize that they didn't serve hooch there. Luckily for us there was a bar called The Speakeasy not dissimilar to the Triple Rock adjoining the venue, along with a strip club a mere block down. Obviously with time to kill (it was about 4:30 pm) we hit the strip club and looked at some of Green Bay's best female college students in various states of undress. While in the club a pair of bikers came up and started shooting the shit with us, and after awhile offered up a business card with the clubhouse address on it and an invitation to come party with The Pagans whenever we were in town. Half an hour later one of The Pagans came and asked for the card back, saying it probably wasn't a good idea for us to party at the clubhouse. With that Leon and I went back to the Concert Cafe to see if Patti and the bands had arrived yet. No sign of the bands meant that the two of us planted ourselves in the Speakeasy and waited.

Inside the bar there were 4 people not including my travel companion and the cute bartender and her room mate. The bartender was wearing a Vikings sweatshirt, so we told her we were from Minneapolis, and the she offered us up a free round. I put in an order for a bottle of Hardcore, Leon a bottle of Bud. We were sitting there talking to each other and the bartender, sporadically checking next door to see if the bands had shown up. By 8:30 there were still no rock stars, but there was a throng of people waiting to get in to see the show. The promoter kept coming in and asking Leon where the band was, assuming somehow that we were with the band. He just shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his Budweiser.
When I put in an order for another Hardcore the cute bartender informed me that she had only had half of a case, and I had drunk it all. She asked if there was anything else I wanted, to which I replied that about the only other thing I drank was Jagermeister. She dug around in the cooler and pulled out a half-empty 750mL bottle and poured me a shot. I offered up some cash and she said "For $8.00 I'll just leave the bottle there." The last thing I clearly remember is handing her a $10 bill and telling her to keep the change.

There are very hazy recollections of the night; sitting in the alley for 10 minutes puking (it was really almost an hour from what I was told), I vaguely remember seeing some rock bands play. Most of all, though, I remembered seeing flashing lights thru my closed eyelids. I assumed that I had gone into the show and blacked out, but oh was I wrong...

I awoke the next afternoon with cat hair in my mouth and completely unaware of where I was. I was laying on a floor fully dressed, using my jacket as a pillow. Leon was a few feet away from me, and was the only thing I recognized. I kicked him in the gut and told him to get the fuck up, that we were totally fucked. He begrudgingly got up, looked around and told me that we were at the bartenders' house. We then went out looking for some caffeine. It was a nice crisp fall day, made even nicer by the 4 foot long skid mark from Leon's tire, and the fact that his rear passenger tire was up on the curb. When we got caffeinated and started our walk back to the bartender's house Leon explained what the flashing was that I vaguely remembered. Evidently after the bottle of Jag was drained I decided that I had to "take care of some business" in the bathroom of the Speakeasy. After I had been in there for about 1/2 hour Leon came looking for me. He found me passed out on the toilet, pants around ankles. Stall door open. Bathroom door open. Like the true friend he was he called to anyone in the bar who had a camera to come and capture this Kodak moment for posterity. Then he woke me up and told me to pull my pants up and go back to the bar.

I still haven't seen any pictures, but I'm told that on the wall of the Speakeasy in Green Bay, Wisconsin there hangs a picture of some crazy Minnesotan who came in and drank a case of cider and a full bottle of Jagermeister, and then passed out on the shitter.

Oh yeah, Milwaukee rocked and I got to see Wanda Chrome and the Leather Pharaohs as well.