Niacin leads to the harder stuff
(How I took down Pup 'n' Taco)
Me and Jerry M. If you asked
someone
from my old high school who had a chance to make it
in show biz, the
answer would be me and Jerry M.
And Barry B. I should mention Barry
since he actually made it. Sort of. He's a TV
weatherman in Sacramento,
last I heard. The public perceives him as being a
journalist, but since
I'm a phony journalist myself, I know better. He's
in show biz.
He's a fuckin' weatherman, for
crissakes.
But Jerry M. and I were the only
ones who
had the balls to move to Los Angeles and take a shot
at the big time.
Except for Barry B. He also moved to LA. (Can we now
agree that he
doesn't count? Thanks.)
Jerry wanted to be a famous actor,
but he
made most of his money modeling. He did get a chance
to act in a sitcom
pilot -- "All That Glitters," a Norman Lear
production. Back in the
'70s, a Norman Lear production ("All in the Family,"
"Maude," "The
Jeffersons") was as good as gold, but unfortunately
this sitcom only
glittered. Too bad, cause the show's premise wasn't
half bad: Women
hold all the power in the world and the men either
perform menial labor
or perform as boy toys for the women. Jerry had a
role as one of the
boy toys. Needless to say, he was a very
good-looking boy.
If only I could use his looks to my
advantage.
Jerry entertained a fantasy about becoming a rock
star (a common
failing among actors) and I figured if I could use
him to front my
band, it would lead to the fame and fortune I so
richly deserved and
the fame and fortune I was sure he was going to get
one way or another.
With his face and my talent, how could we lose?
I called him up.
"Jerry, let's hang out. Let's get
together
at your place and jam on guitars all day."
He was into it.
I drove from north Hollywoood to
his digs
in Venice Beach, just two houses away from the
coastline (models make
good money, I think). The 65 Chevy Nova looked a
little incongruous
among the Vets and Masseratis lining the roads of
Venice Beach, but
that only added character to the neighborhood.
I walked up to the door and
knocked,
looking back to perv on the beach babes who posed
half nude on the
strand. Jerry answered the door and gave me a big
hug (very awkward...
we weren't that close in high school and my mom's
from New York).
Inside, the house reeked of late-60s decor, which
included a "Stoned
Again" poster taped to the wall and a large tapestry
pinned to the
ceiling. Very hippie. Very LA. Very dated.
We pulled out the guitars and tried
to
jam. Man, he looked good playing the guitar. The
record companies would
eat him up. Unfortunately, he sucked so badly on
guitar I could almost
hear a slurping noise. He made Rick Springfield look
like Dylan
(musically, not physically). He brought fire,
passion, enthusiasm,
drive and charisma to the act, but he couldn't play
for shit.
Bummer.
Frustrated from trying to teach him
the
proper way to play a G chord, I excused myself and
went to the
bathroom. A dozen pill bottles sat on the counter,
vitamins
unfortunately. What the fuck, I could use a health
boost.I started
pumping pills -- C, E and B complex. I spotted a
bottle of niacin. I
didn't know what niacin was, but I figured it must
be good for you
since I once saw it listed on the back of a Wheaties
box. I popped
three pills and returned to the living room, where
Jerry struggled with
the chords to "Gloria."
Couldn't play for shit, man. I
mean.
We were halfway into "Feeling
Alright"
(only two chords) when I felt a rush pulsate through
my veins. My skin
burned like Ben Gay and my heartbeat rose to
orgasmic proportions (I
really shouldn't use gay and orgasmic in the same
sentence). Jerry
noticed.
"Mike, you're turning red. You all
right?"
"Not feeling too good myself. I
swallowed
some of those vitamins you've got stashed in your
bathroom and I'm
having a bad reaction. You better take me to the
hospital, man. I'm
losing it."
Jerry and I jumped into his Austin
Healey
(very James Bond) and cruised to the closest
hospital in Venice. Since
it was only eleven in the morning, I got in right
away. The shootings
don't start until nightfall.
"What seems to be the problem?" the
doctor
asked.
"I don't know. I took some vitamins
and
suddenly my heart rate increased and my skin turned
red."
The doctor looked at me closely.
"Did you
take any niacin?" he asked.
"Yeah, three pills. How did you
know that?"
He gave me the
you're-a-rhesus-monkey
look. "You just took too much niacin. Easy enough to
fix. I'll be right
back."
He came back 20 minutes later with
a small
vial of a clear, colorless liquid.
"This will make you vomit. Drink it
and
I'll be right back."
I spent the next half hour puking
my guts
out.
Before the hospital released me, I
took
several gulps of water at the drinking fountain.
Unfortunately, the
doctor forgot to tell me that water worked as a
catalyst, so every time
I took a drink I'd puke my guts out five minutes
later.
Bummer.
Jerry and I headed back to his
house,
taking the main drag on Venice Boulevard. Halfway
home, I felt nauseous
again.
"Jerry, pull over. I have to puke."
"What?"
"I'm serious. Pull over or I'm
going to
throw up in the car."
He caught a red light at the next
intersection and I staggered out of the car,
straddled the sidewalk and
puked like a frat boy in front of Pup 'n' Taco. At
lunch time. While
businessman looked upon me with disgust and dumped
half-eaten hot dogs
into the trash bin. Across the street at the Taco
Bell, I could see the
smug stares from nine-to-fivers satisfied with their
fast-food decision.
Today, Taco Bell remains a thriving
franchise, fronted by a world-famous chihuahua with
an anthropomorphic
penchant for chalupas. Whereas, the mascotless Pup
'n' Taco couldn't
overcome its reputation for attracting junkies and
falling-down drunks.
The company went out of business during the late
70s. See? It's all about appearances.
Bummer.
* * *
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.
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