A Rat Ate My Spaghetti

Last weekend, my friend and former client Ramsey was in town. He manages Bang Camaro, and they were in LA for an appearance on Jimmy Kimmel. Bang Camaro also had a show at the Viper Room, and Ramsey offered to put me on the guest list. Hell, yeah.

Online, it said the show would start about 7:30. I factored in two opening acts, and got ready to walk out the door at about 7.

I was just about to pull on my helmet... when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a black streak zoom from the corner behind my fridge to the corner behind my pantry. I didn't get a good look - it was more of a sense of motion than anything else - but I knew what it was, nonetheless: I had a rat.

I didn't flip out. Shit, that's life in the big city. But it's not like I wanted a roommate, either. So I took a look behind the pantry, and... yep, the wood between the pantry and the wall had been widened, just a little bit. I threw any food I'd left out in the fridge, and took out all my trash. I figured... he's here looking for food and, if there isn't any, he'll go away. The end.

I hit the dusty trail and get my ass over to West Hollywood. Now, a bit of backstory: when you get a motorcycle, it's like you've joined a secret club, membership in which gives you cheap gas and insurance, and free, non-hassle parking... under most circumstances. I have abject loathing for the parking patrol. They have fucked with me at length both here and back in Chicago. I like the sight of a rat more than the sight of these wretched souls.

Anyway, ordinarily I can just slide the bike between cars on the curb, or even dump it up on the sidewalk. Not so, Saturday night in West Hollywood. I found a side street just a block away from the Viper Room. I was backing up the bike to park between a couple of parked cars... and one of these parking patrol assholes pulls onto the street, stops and sits there, staring and waiting like a goddamn vulture. I knew the moment I got off that bike, I was officially "parked," and he'd slap me with a ticket. So, like any other civilian, I pulled it up to a meter, and shoveled in two bucks in quarters for two hours. Fuck it, better than the alternative.

The Viper Room. I get to be a complete Hollywood douchebag and walk up to the bouncer and say, "I think I'm on the guest list." Whaddaya know, I am. Stamp on the wrist, and in I go.

The first opening act is already playing. The guitarist is fantastic. I look around for Ramsey, don't see him in the dark. But I know dude's working, so I just find a place at the bar and grab a beer, watching the acts and waiting for Ramsey to walk past.

The first opening act leaves, the second comes on. They remind me of the Black Crows, and make a big deal out of being from South Carolina. Halfway through their set, I spot Ramsey on the other side of the room, wander over to say hi. The bands still playing, so it's a loud-bar conversation, as in: "HEY MAN!" "WHAT?" "I SAID, HEY MAN!" "OH! HEY!" "HOW YA BEEN?" "GOOD!"

As the Black Crows from South Carolina wrap, they mention a third opening act... one more band before Bang Camaro. In the relative quiet (as in: it's still loud as fuck, but at least a band isn't playing live twenty feet away), I tell Ramsey I'd better feed the meter and come back. No problem.

I duck down the street. Bike's still there, no tickets. I throw in another two bucks. Luckily, I've got a bunch of quarters on me.

I head back to the Viper Room, give the bouncer my guest list speech and show him the stamp on my wrist. He says, "Sorry, dude. No in-and-outs." I'm like, "But I'm on the guest list." No dice. "No in-and-outs, for anybody."

I'm pretty sure if I were Bruckheimer, I could have gotten back in. Though I don't have that level of juice... yet. I could have called Ramsey on his cell to see if he could help me out, but I didn't want to create drama. Also: I was kinda pissed about the parking and now this, and knew I'd be in a shitty mood the rest of the night. Fuck it, I split.

As I was riding home, I thought about the rat. He was probably gone by now, right? There was no food out for him to get at.... waaaaaait a minute. I remembered I had half a package of spaghetti in the pantry. It'd been sitting there for a while - I've been laying off the carbs - and I'd totally forgotten about it until right then.

I got back to the lair, went straight to the pantry, threw open the door... and yep, the package had been dragged to the back of the pantry, and it was empty.

A rat ate my spaghetti.