I was just bitten by a dog.
Truthfully, not 20 minutes ago when I went to pick up a piece of gear at somebody’s house.
When I pulled into the driveway, an unholy spawn of a late night dalliance between Benji and the Geico gecko waddled over to me, growled, then bit me on the f***ing ankle.
I screamed like a five year old, which somehow triggered the garage door to open and spew a teenage girl carrying the gear I was there for.
“This yours?” she piped. “Your dog just bit me on the f***ing ankle,” I squeaked. “”Really? Sorry…” She froze with a look on her face that indicated she was now invisible and I should leave wondering where’d that girl go?
Needing more satisfaction I called the owner of the house.
“Hello?”
“Your dog just bit me on the f***ing ankle.”
“That dog’s 13 years old, he’s never bitten anyone.”
“Oh. Cool. Never mind then.”
“You sure?”
“Hang on a tic, let me make sure my portable morphine drip isn’t on high. Nope, machine’s good… the f***er definitely bit me”
The vicious dog attack left me sulking about the hound’s total lack of fear and respect for me. Then I got mad at myself for sulking about not being feared by an arthritic Chihuahua. Skillfully, I managed to cram in a 30-minute session of bi-polar self-loathing and admonishment in the time it took to drive from the scene of the assault to our bus.
It suddenly occurred to me, as I stared down at the dog sticking out of my jeans, that this was a fitting coda to the four-week tour de absurd that I and the rest of my crew had just endured. During the preceding month, 90 percent of the production vendors we had met had attempted to convince us they alone were not bound by the fundamental rules of reality.
To prove this point, they had taken our advance phone calls, listened carefully to our requests, sagely reassured us all would be well… then rolled us over and tried to bite us on the neck when we showed up. Same deal as the dog. They looked us up and down and figured they could take us.
Act 1
Me: “Hey, how wide is this box?”
PA prestidigitator: “205 degrees for the long throw, 365 degrees for the downfill.”
Me: (Knowing it’s general admission) “OK.”
Act 2
The setting: a large field with bands of disgruntled raisins milling arrogantly about.
A2: “We’re ready, my lord. We are prepared for you to communicate with the magic box and give us the array angles for the sound system.”
Steak sauce: “I have spoken with the machine. It gives no advice today. You must have done something to anger it. Go now, butcher the factory program and burn the fatted DSP as an offering. Leave me.”
A2: “My liege, the troubadours will be upon us soon… Can you offer no wisdom for us to assuage their FOH knight?”
Steak Sauce: “Tell him…tell him… the sound will emerge crooked if you angle the speakers. Tell him flat… Yes, flat is best. Threaten to rub petroleum jelly on him and burn him as a witch if he questions you.”
A2: “You are indeed the wisest in the land.”
Act 3
Production manager motioning to four speakers hanging from swing chain flown with the aid of two winches off the front of a quad runner.
PM: “What da hell is that?”
Local vendor: “EV X-Array.”
PM: “No it’s not.”
Local vendor: “Yes it is.”
PM: “No it’s not.”
Local vendor: “Yes it is.”
PM: “No it’s not.”
Local vendor: “O.K., no it’s not. I bought an X-Array box and copied it.”
PM: “You mean EV X-Line. You copied X-Line.”
Local vendor: “Yeah, the big EV box. X-Array-Line.”
PM: “O.K., just so we’re clear…you pirated something from EV and call it X-Array.”
Local vendor: “Yeah. Sounds great too. Wanna see our V-Disc wedges?”
