I Can’t Remember Anything, But Boy Am I Sore…

A night to remember. Lollipop Magazine, Daddy Long Legs and some extremely heavy drinking equals a very groovy time!

by Daddy Long Legs

Let’s start on the right foot. In the beginning there was Lollipop, somewhere in the middle of that nonsense, there was a Lollipop party, and in the end, there was me, passed out on the roof of the Lollipop building, unable to remember most of the night, except for drinking a lot of free beer (what other kind is there?) and hooking up with a gaggle of… well it may have been the sofa, but who cares? What do I remember of the long strange trip? Let me see, (blurry dream sequence) I remember most of the night before. We (The Bloodhound Gang) were playing at The Rat. I recall seeing two things – this hot chick in blue corduroy pants and this crazed guy right up front. He was a monster, a regular mad man, holding more than his own in a mosh pit the size of… well there were at least 4 or 5 other people besides him, (a small angry mob). The nut was none other than Lollipop‘s own Associate Editor, Lex Marburger. After the show, he managed to make his way through hundreds of adoring fans (2 or 3 actually), to personally invite us to a Lollipop drink-fest-O’-rama.

I was broke, stranded in Boston with nothing else to do, other than going down to Harvard Square and trying to sell myself as a sex slave, so I thought it would be an ideal way to end a bad couple of tour dates and kill off some more pesky brain cells. Besides, there was going to be free beer! A day later and a few subway stops away, I found myself lost in Davis Square. (Oh no! I’ve given away the secret location of the Lollipop fortress of) After choking down some Chinese food, I finally tripped over it. Woohaaa!!! I walked in the office door and found a room that was, well, loud, smoky and smelling of a wacky smell. Kids, I have no idea what that smell could have been. (Rhymes with snot) Present were an assortment of people, most of whom seemed as uninterested in me as I was in them, and then, my eyes set upon the holiest of sights, the keg! Pushing my way through the mass like a steroid-induced quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys (jock reference), I lunged toward my goal as if it were a matter of life and death. I managed to get myself a seat near my shinny little beer pumping pal. All night we talked, I babbled gibberish to him (all beer kegs are male) and my pot bellied pal answered by spitting cherished golden brown liquid into my cup. (No, I’m not a alcoholic.)

After a few dozen beers and a couple shots, I was ready to hunt me down some booty. Instead, I found myself setting things ablaze with an equally drunk Scott Hefflon (Editor/ Publisher) and new found friend/love slave, Lex Marburger. Using promotional matchbooks and non dairy creamer, we planned Boston’s first Towering Inferno. (fire+drunk=bad) Next, I witnessed a demented Mexican hat dance performed atop Lollipop‘s office furniture – bottles flying, a kicked keg and more liquid on the floor than in my belly, it was time to head home. It was a night to cherish, I just wish I could remember more… Thanks for the spanking.

Habba Da Gagie.