Everybody thinks they can do what I do, including me. That's because everybody thinks they're funny, including me. Which is why I keep working on impersonations of Al Pacino and Christopher Walken, cause most people don't think they can pull off impersonations (including me).

Even my buddy Chip Tait, owner of Lovejoy's Pub in Austin ($2 pint specials every night) thinks he can do what I do and has often threatened to prove it. One night he collared me at the bar and told me he had followed through on his threat. He had just published an article called "Doomed" in a local underground 'zine called "The Austin Rocker," and now he wanted to rub my nose in it.

"I think this shows I've been paying attention to the Jasperian style," he said.

He handed me the magazine and I read the article right away for two reasons:

1) Anyone who emulates my style is paying me the highest compliment possible and wins my instant attention.

2) Back when I worked for Chip as a doorman, he kicked me in the nuts as we attempted to escort a violent customer from the Lovejoy's premises. Although he still claims it was an accident, I can never be sure when he might strike again.

Here's what he wrote for "The Rocker" (and just to cover my ass, Copyright 2000 by Chip Tait or "The Rocker" or whoever sues first).

Doomed

"Barkeep, turn up the jukebox."

 

The big man with the large, fuzzy head had finished his second bottle of Dry Blackthorn and was now treating my hangover to a dollar's worth of The Melvins. Business was already better than I wanted it to be that day; seems no city employee felt like manning his cubicle. Last thing I needed was a fifteen-minute mini concert from those little bastards.

"It's up as loud as it's going to get this time of day."
"Come on, barkeep. Can't hear it."

I'm not necessarily a religious man, but I do believe our lives are sometimes affected by powers outside our control. I'm often the victim of Instant Karma, or maybe it's called Murphy's Law. When I act outside my personal moral code of learned moderation, retribution is swift and acute. Last night, I got brave on half a keg of Guinness Stout and shouted 15 rounds with my 19-year-old ex-girlfriend. Today I get Wade.

 

"Do you have any bar snacks, barkeep?"
"There's peanuts in that little machine by the door"

 

Pattsy was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen that would have anything to do with me. She had a smile that belonged on a Colgate box, thick cascading hair, pale brown eyes and no gag reflex. She was an eager and adventurous lover, owned an extensive wardrobe and loved to dress up for me. She played the violin professionally and loved Larry McMurtry novels and dry martinis, with or without ice. She also knew exactly how to bring me to fury within seconds.

She could push all my buttons with the precision of a Jewish diamond cutter. After living with her for a year I finally gave up, but that wasn't enough. I occasionally felt the need to get together again for dinner or maybe for a drink, only remembering the good times. Last night was one of those occasions. Things started off reasonably enough, but faded quickly once the effects of the alcohol settled in. Once I realized I wasn't getting laid I started in on the old "everything was your fault" trip, but she wasn't buying any of it. She then unsheathed her greatest weapon -- her cunning wit -- and proceeded to cut me to ribbons.

I went to bed drunk, disgusted, disheveled... and most definitely alone.

 

"I've got this band you should book in here. Sometimes we play inside a bubble I make myself. I wear pasties"
"It's very rare we book music here."

 

It was Maggie's day off so I manned the bar by myself. I wasn't quite finished setting up when the guy with the large, fuzzy head was banging on the door. Normally I try to ignore anyone who wants in before 4 p.m., but experience told me this guy doesn't go away, so I'd have to work around him. There was product to shelve, shitters to clean and chairs to arrange, but everything was not going to get finished today. I needed Advil and three more hours in the rack, but that wasn't going to happen either.

Fuzzy Head inserted a set of Bubba Teeth he'd scored at a truck stop in Bastrop.

"Boy, I tell you what. I got some posters here for a show. Got any tape?"
"I'll have to get it out of the office."
"How about turning up the jukebox, barkeep?"

 

Is there a point when we've lost the capacity to learn? I know the axiom of old dogs and new tricks, but it's common these days to pick up the paper and read about the 60-year-old grandmother just awarded her bachelor's degree. Maybe some folks retain the ability to learn throughout their lives, while others never learn much after leaving kindergarten.

I've booked live music on occasion, with mixed result. Some things go over well, most don't. This place just isn't thought of as a live music joint. Screaming guitars and howling vocals usually chase away the regulars and the folks who are attracted to that sort of thing can be a bit of a bore. Bong Donkey regularly fills punk clubs across the country; they cleared my joint in less than 15 minutes.

 

"Barkeep, aren't the pool tables supposed to be free today?"
"Yeah, I'll open them up in a minute"
"How about turning up the jukebox?"

 

Irish Coffee contains all four food groups: alcohol, sugar, fat and caffeine. It's also the only known cure for a proper Guinness hangover. My advice: Two Irish coffees, then a pint or water, no ice, followed by a shot of Jameson, neat, then a pint of Guinness. See, it's becoming clearer now. The Melvins aren't so bad; I guess a little volume won't hurt. Neither will another pint of Guinness, maybe with a shot on the side.

 

"So, tell me a little more about this band you've got."
"We've had 22 drummers over the last 12 years....."

 

I wonder what Pattsy is up to tonight?

 

Sonofabitch. The fucker kicked me in the nuts again.

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.