> Sam has good reason to be concerend.
> All the talk about "honoring Dave" is just the way he talks. He's not
> the best with words, what I take from it is that Sam is looking forward
> to being able to publicly show is respect for the classic line up, with
> words and probably actions. Sam has stated publicly he would love to
> see a classic Van Halen reunion, what animosity could he possibly hold
> at this point?
> It's all perspective. What Hagar's saying isn't egotistic, it's on the
> money. We all know what happend last time Eddie and Dave showed up in
> front of an audience. Hagar is above it, he's not the one playing road
> side carnivals trying to get back with Van Halen for a reunion tour,
> he's has no interest in Van Halen anymore.
Yeh right, his last album sold less than 20k. Hed jump through hoops to be
back in Vh, youre fooling no one.
And no, Roth isnt playing 'side carnivals' (this is what you call 'hate
speech') while Sammy is a superstar.
Remember, Sammy sold less than 20k and dont forget his Dixon May Fair show,
with REO and Joan Jett, the closest thing to a 'road carnival' as it gets:
http://www0.epinions.com/content_2670895236
I touched Sammy Hagar! Seriously, smell my finger!
Jun 01 '02
The Bottom Line Avoid Dixon, California like the plague, unless it's May
Fair time, when you should avoid it like an anthrax enema.
If you live in or near Sacramento, you know that May is a special time of
year, because May means, above all things, the Dixon May Fair, baby!
Dixon is a small, vile little town just across the Solano County line from
quaint college suburb Davis. If you visit the city?s website at
http://www.ci.dixon.ca.us/, you?ll be warned that the site, much like the
city, its inhabitants, and its culture is ?underdevelopment? (one word).
Well, that?s not even really fair, because at least the website exists. The
same can?t rightly be said about Dixon?s culture, which is limited. It?s the
place where the rest of the country sends its young, impressionable bad
haircuts to learn how to grow into full fledged Billy-Ray Cyrus mullets. The
place is a veritable mullet farm, boasting award-winning mulletude as far as
the eye can see, the way other towns boast uniform, glorious fields of corn,
wheat, and maize, the food of our forefathers.
And nowhere are those mullets on prouder display than at the annual Dixon
May Fair, where they sit, perched high atop painted-on stone-wash jeans,
which, in other cultures might enhance the visibility of male units. But
here, some strange genetic deformity caused the inhabitants? thighs to
expand outward, then inward again, such that the front of the thighs appear
to come together about two feet in front of the big, pewter belt-buckles.
At the Dixon May Fair, all these stone-washed weebles scoot along from
carnival ride to carnival ride, food truck to food truck, and pig contest to
cow milking booth in an environment so thick with insects that it is
pointless to even pretend you won?t be drinking some if you intend to buy a
beer. Gnats, flies and other swarming things bump against your face with
such frequency you begin to feel like a truck grill on a lone Mississippi
highway. You just know when you stop at the next safe place you?re gonna
need to hose yourself down. Plus, I kept finding little black squiggly
things crawling on my arms ? nasty, leeching nematodes that fell from the
trees and tried to steal my ice-cream.
And speaking of nematodes, this year, the May Fair featured REO Speedwagon,
Joan Jett and Sammy Hagar & The Waboritas.
I?m not entirely sure what a waborita is, except that it sounds like one of
those Mexiglish items you see on Taco Bell menus. Which makes sense, because
pretty much all the food offered at the various trucks and stalls at the
fair were odd, hybrid Amerisomethings. Like eggrolls on a stick. No kidding.
One truck sold nan with meat and tomatoes as ?Indian Tacos?. My mother, who
had been jonesing for a Philly cheese steak, made the mistake of ordering
one at the fair. She was greeted with what appeared to be roast beef
remnants on a hotdog bun, slathered in lukewarm nacho cheese dip and served
in a french fry basket. On the other hand, one place served barbequed turkey
legs ? and nothing but barbequed turkey legs ? so we were treated to the
site of dozens of mulletized rednecks strolling the dirt and doing their
best Henry VIII.
So whatever a waborita is, there were lots of them, I think, up on stage
with the Red Rocker on the night I attended the Dixon May Fair. Also up on
stage were two of my sisters, along with forty or so other folks who
(presumably, like my sister Fluff, had business with the fair) were granted
seats on a bleacher behind the drummerita. My mother and I ? she in her faux
Channel suit, me in my coat of nematodes ? passed on the opportunity to sit
with them on stage in favor of elitist anthropological research (We wanted
to walk around and make fun of people, and leave the show after ?I Can?t
Drive 55.")
And make fun of people we did. We made fun of the big fat guy with the
stringy wet hair and the circa 1982 ?Red Rocker? t-shirt with the arms cut
off who kept spilling one of his beers on his belly while lifting his other
beer in the air over and over yelling ?SAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAY, WOOOOOOOOOOO!? We
made fun of the chick with the wedgie sitting atop her boyfriend?s shoulders
who fell over and brought down an entire row of seats that were tied
together with garbage bag fasteners. We made fun of the 35 year old twins
with the boobs packed into the tight red tank tops who kept trying to get
closer and closer to Sammy to get him to sign a license plate. But mainly,
we laughed at Sammy, who in all his hoarse, bloated glory could not remember
for the life of him where he was. And in those few instances of between-song
banter when it was clear that somebody had whispered into his earpiece that
he was in Dixon, it was equally clear that he had only a vague idea that
Dixon is in Northern California.
When Der Hagar finally sang ?I Can?t Drive 55" as the fifth song of the
evening, my mother and I headed for the gate. But on the way out, my mother
glanced back at the stage, then asked me ?What happened to the singing man??
Sammy had disappeared from the stage.
?No doubt he?s making a bee-line for Fluff,? I said.
And sure enough, when I got up on my tip-toes to peer over the nests of big,
blonde hair in front of me, I could see Sammy, pushing his way through the
mass of dancing bodies in the bleachers. With single-minded focus, he headed
directly to the furthermost top corner to find Fluff, to whom he gave a big
sweaty Red Rocker embrace.
?She would have been very upset if we?d missed that,? mom pointed out.
?Maybe we should stay for when she gets pulled down to dance with him on
stage.?
?He?ll save that for the encore. Let?s go get a meatsicle or bungie jump or
something.?
Pardon the tangent, but last night, I sat in a bar watching the Lakers beat
the Sacramento Kings. Next to me sat a 19 year old couple from East
Sacramento. He wore some kind of denim coulats, she wore a tight black
t-shirt with KINgS spelled across the chest in rhinestones. Like a couple of
Jerry Springer guests, they explained to me that her mother had paid for
them to stay at a ?resort hotel? for the night (the Fisherman?s Wharf
Sheraton) to celebrate her having earned her AA that day from what I believe
I heard as Eel River Junior College. ?But she?s startin? as Chico in
August,? the boyfriend added. I think it?s nice that a mom would get her
daughter a head-start on the Chico way of life by paying for her daughter to
have a name-brand place to get poked.
When I told the couple that I had recently been out their way, at the Dixon
May Fair, they kind of smiled, and said, ?Dixon is kind of, um, white, um,
trash, isn?t it??
?Well, yes,? I responded, ?It kind of, um, is.?
My point is, Dixon is the kind of place white trash calls white trash. And
maybe it takes a place like that to come up with a particular innovation we
came across at the May Fair.
Every 60 feet or so, along the dirt walkways of the fairground, stood a
molded plastic high-chair with a little metal footrest just big enough for
two small shoes to rest in. ?FOOT MASSAGER 25 CENTS? proclaimed a sign on
the side of each chair.
My mother had been complaining about her feet for a little while. Her
thin-soled shoes were not offering her much protection against the bumpy,
gravelly surface of the walkways. So I told her to give it a try. And she
did. A quarter in the slot started the little footrests vibrating and moving
in tight, fast little circles.
Thing is, a thin plastic base isn?t exactly device to absorb heavy
vibrations, or limit them to the one thing that?s supposed to be vibrating.
A thin plastic base absorbs vibrations, amplifies them and diffuses them
throughout. By the look on my mother?s face, the thin plastic base was
amplifying the vibrations a lot!
Her eyes kind of bugged out, and a look of confusion and dismay overtook her
face.
?Uh... son??
It was too late. I already knew.
?What do you want me to do mom? Shall I leave you alone? Do you want more
quarters? What??
?I think I should get out of this thing, but I don?t think I can.?
The chair continued to vibrate, as people walked by, and the look on my
mother?s face ... changed. Then it changed again, and I began to feel kind
of, well, icky.
After 3 minutes, it stopped. I helped my mother out of the chair, gave her a
cigarette, and we walked silently back to the Sammy Hagar show, which we
hoped would continue loudly for a long time.
I hate you Dixon.
