When the going get weird, the weird turn pro.

I was the head of security at the Paradise Performing Art Center for the Hot Tuna show last week. Like a crack addict who can no longer be satisfied by the ordinary, I cannot simply get a ticket, sit in my seat and enjoy a show. After working a thousand concerts, I am constantly thinking of ways to improve the quality of a performance, and so, happily, I found myself backstage, wearing a badge that said PPAC Security.

I tend to wear all black in these situations it makes me look more ominous. Whereas most of my duties have very little to do with being a threatening presence, there is ALWAYS the possibility for the kooks to arise. And sure enough, there in the little senior retirement town called Paradise, the weird surfaced in all its quirky glory. Call it the Hunter S. Thompson Law, but when there's a chance for the weird to emerge, it bubbles up like Nessie in Scotland.

I was commandeering an impressive battalion of World War Two volunteers, who reminded me that they were from the VF, not the VHF, nor the WWF. Curmudgeon Bob Anderson, decked out in his war memorabilia told me a few classic lines. "If I catch anyone smoking pot, I'll toss them through the door," was oft repeated through the evening. But it was his mentioning of his experience at Auschwitz that sobered my perception of him and renegotiated my respect. I positioned Bob by the Green Room with the Paradise Post, hoping nobody would be foolish enough to spark a bowl, but of course the fools abounded. Of the Post, Bob remarked, "I wouldn't even line my birdcage with that paper."

I found the Hot Tuna tour manager. "Are you Harvey," I inquired trying to secure my perimeter. "Yes, I'm Harvey," Harvey said. We talked for a few minutes and I left to complete other tasks. About 15 minutes later, a man appeared on stage with a silver-hairdo mullet cut. He was about 52 years old, five foot two, 195 pounds, George Hamilton tan, Sammy Davis gold chains and rings. He wore a Star of David solid gold medallion, encrusted with diamonds and rubies that was as big as a pancake. "What the hell is a DNA," he yelled in his Brooklynese slang. "I'm a DNA and I'm in charge of security, who are you?" "I'm a Harvey, and I just talked to some guy backstage that said he's DNA! What the fuck is going on here!"

I ran backstage, puffing up my skinny frame and found the imposter. It was the guy who told me that he was Harvey. "What the hell is your deal pal," I said. "I'm friends of the band." Behind him were members of Box Set, who were shaking their heads "no" and pointing at the guy making "he's crazy" gestures. As I led the chameleon to the door, I thought about letting Bob get a few punches in, but instead I asked, "you from Paradise?" "Yes," he squirmed. As the door hit him on the ass, and the bitter cold caught his nose, I said, "welcome home."

Box Set hit the stage after the promoter gave a stilted boring speech. Being a promoter myself, I have found that there are two types of people who get into putting on shows. Well on one side you have people like me, who love bands, musicians, the smell of the crowd, the roar of the greasepaint. We tend to be poor businessmen or women, and often lose our money on shows, but we just can't stop. Pathetic, but good-natured. Then there's the other type, like the guy who was on stage blathering about god knows what, and spent the whole show holed up in a little room counting the money. He was oblivious to any of the needs of the band once the door receipts came in. So the little schmoe was a greedy bastard, but he could really provide a great backstage banquet, and while Box Set killed the audience with their super-tight vocal harmonies, pickin' and funny banter, I circumnavigated Bob and stuffed my face with some chow. Yeah, I was grubbin', but I wasn't getting paid goddamit!

I walked by Jack and Jorma's dressing room and heard some funny stories about John Lee Hooker "always being the man," but I had to keep on the prowl, and so didn't really have any time with two of my Rock hero's. I did learn, though, that Jorma is coming out with his own line of salad dressing and BBQ sauce. Thank God. I am getting really tired of Paul Newman and his endless line of products. What's next, Paul Newman rubbers? "Cool Hand-job Luke," for the working man.

And so friends, I had a great time, got to interview Box Set, which will appear on Jambands reeeaaalll soon and saw Jack and Jorma just rip it up (in an acoustic way). God I love being alive! Hope you all have a safe holiday and happy NYE. Peace. Out.