So, we're hanging out, trying to get drunk as possible, and some Rumpleminze promoter-babes come in. Free shots, thank the Lord. We achieved drunkenness. Ramsey won me over some more by saying he's into the Supersuckers, who totally rock. Silvertide took a break, and there was some chitchat about SOLEILMOONFRYE playing a few songs. I began to get nervous. None of the band seemed into it, and Apey actually left the club. When I asked what was up, no one would tell me the deal. Sitting next to Johnny the manager and Bob, I overheard them saying how disappointed they were in AP, and talking about the possibility of cutting him loose after their tour wraps in October. But, you know, it's the original line-up that everyone wants to see. Silvertide took the stage again, and at the urging of Sutton, said that "VH-1's SOULCRACKER would not be playing because their bass player is a pussy." Then everyone in the club was encouraged to yell, "AP is a pussy!" Everyone did. Ramsey said to me that they usually don't drink before they play, but hey. It would have been a perfect moment to play the national anthem, of which they have a good version worked out. But noooo. AP is a pussy.
Then I parked it at the bar between Sutton and the sound guy, where we talked about the terrorist disaster and shared our theories. I finally asked the sound guy and Sutton what they would do if their country needed them to make a contribution. Sutton said, "I wouldn't fight. I wouldn't fight." I said, "Okay, that's what you wouldn't do. What would you do?" Silence. The gears inside his head ground slowly to a halt. I offered, "You could entertain the hypothetical troops," and he said, "Yeah. I'd entertain." Then he dropped his head onto my shoulder, rolled his face sideways, and started nibbling on my arm. He nibbled me like an ear of corn. If there had been butter and salt nearby, I might have feared for my life. I excused myself to get my purse and sweater, and when I returned Sutton tried to slip his arm around me. Now, I'm no member of MBTV's Pimp-Slappin' Posse. I wasn't even tempted to give Sutton a hard time. When guys are that drunk and have that much rooster hair, and they totally lost a stupid rock-and-roll game show even though they tried their hardest, you just can't hate them. Well, if it were Beastie, I might have asked him what the fuck he was thinking. But then again, I wouldn't be talking to Beastie. Besides, it was so last call.
Because we were in Philly, and because Johnny the manager knows what is up, he suggested we go get cheesesteaks in South Philly. We piled into two cabs and made it there in moments. Bob said he was going to let Sutton order a steak, then steal it and eat it. "He won't even know what happened." Classic Bob. Sutton peed behind an SUV, then stumbled up to Geno's and got himself a cheesesteak. Ramsey and Julie and I abstained. Bob hovered by Sutton, waiting for him to stop chewing or lose interest, and it just didn't happen. As Sutton weaved towards the fixings bar, looking elfin in his long army shorts (short army pants? I never can tell) and scuffed combat boots, I said, "Poor Sutton." Bob was incredulous. "Poor Sutton? Poor Sutton!?" The sound guy made a hilarious play for a blonde in a car, who continued to eat her cheese fries disdainfully and shot him down. Ouch! But hey, all in a night's work for a band on the road.