drunk in the heart of texas, pt. IV

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CHAPTER IV

Needless to say, the Wal-Mart show was a huge success, leaving thousands of concertgoers highly satisfied... both with our performance and the store's astoundingly low prices! From our opening number, Motorhead's "Bomber," to our encore finale, KISS's "Detroit Rock City" (changed to "Austin Mariachi City" for local flavor), our mariachi covers of classic metal songs had the audience caught up in a bona fide orgiastic frenzy!

MoM Saw A Million, If Not Hundreds Of Faces At The Austin Wal-Mart, And Mari-Rocked 'Em All

Afterwards, Texas Kelly went to collect our fee from the store manager, and my bandmates and I moseyed back to the official MoM tour bus to start a well deserved post-gig celebration. But as we neared our communal ride, a strange man with a ghost puppet on his hand leapt out at us!

"Boooooooooo," he said in an eerie voice, speaking from behind his puppet. "My name is Gho-o-o-o-stie! Wo-o-o-o-n't you sto-o-o-o-o-p and talk to my friend, The Muffin Man?"

"Er, maybe," I said, sensing danger. "Where... uh, where is this Muffin Man?"

"Oh, hello," the man said again, this time in a thick -- and obviously fake -- Cockney accent. "That would be me -- The Muffin Man, at your service." He extended his non-puppeted hand, clearly expecting me to reciprocate. Which, given the way he introduced himself, is not something the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 was keen on doing. I mean, just look at this geek:

From Right: The Muffin Man And His Sidekick, Ghostie

"Let's go, Hombre muy Extraño!" Paulo urged me, tugging at my shoulder. "This guy -- he plum loco!"

"Yeah," I said, "I think you may be right, Paulo..."

"Oh, your little friend is right!" squeaked the Muffin Man, dropping the accent. "I am crazy -- crazy about your sound, baby! I have to commit it to vinyl! I wanna be your producer, baby, your producer!"

"Commit it to... Listen, no offense, but you may want to consider commiting yourself! I mean, Jesus! What's with the weird ghost puppet?"

"It's..."

"And the bowler hat?"

"I..."

"And all those freaking pens?!"

"Um..."

"'It's...I...um!' And you want to produce our record?! You are a textbook case, man -- a textbook case!"

At that point, I recalled a lesson taught to me by my former sensei, the late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski.

"Listen, Wart," he had said, reclining on his cot in a hot Vietnamese hotel room, shortly after vomiting into a nearby bucket. "Never bust a crazy guy's balls. They go nuttier than a bull goose when you do that."

"Okay, Sensei," I had said.

"Good boy," he had said back. "Now, go fetch me an ice cold beer. And a few of them local whores. Chop chop."

The Late Haiku Master Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

Man alive, he sure would be mad if he knew I'd forgotten that one -- not to mention its countless companions. Still, probably not as mad as the Muffin Man was now.

"You dirt-eating, flower-sniffing, city-loving son of a son of a son of a bitch's bitch!!!" he shrieked, pulling violently at his own hair. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! Every last one of you bastards! Every last one of you!! Ah-haha! Hahaha! Haha-hahahaha!! Hahahahahahaha!!! Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Then, he calmed down and we all had dinner together. Just kidding -- he went nuts, pulled a giant meat cleaver out of the back of his pants, and attacked!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. V---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. III

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CHAPTER III

Friday morning came fast and ugly, gentle readers, thanks in large part to the healthy doses of mescal and whiskey that intertwined MoM's late night practice session. That didn't stop our manager, Texas Kelly, from letting out a startling bloodcry as he jumped off the room's only bed.

"C'mon, li'l doggies!" he hooted. "Y'all's gig's in thirty minutes, and I don't reckon to be late!"

My bandmates and I rose from our less than comfortable sleeping positions on the floor, all the misery of the world etched in our faces. I had vague recollections of things getting out of hand the night before... and I'm pretty sure my "sacriligeous reverend" persona had surfaced at some point, as my Universal Life Church minister credential was lying on the ground near my head. Sadly, this picture tells me more than I want to know:

From Left: MoM Fiddler Rudy And Lead Vocalist The Haiku Master Get Crazy At Thursday Night's Practice Session

"Christ, my head," I muttered. "Feels like someone's been kicking it!"

"Heh heh heh," Paulo chuckled nervously. "Sí -- you were kicking it! Like old school! You drink too much, Hombre muy Extraño! Too much, too much!"

"Yeah, I suppose that's it..." I said.

"Enough of that!" Kelly roared. "C'mon, we gots to go!"

Within moments, we were loaded into the Masters of Mariachi tour bus, with Kelly's henchman, Dubya, at the wheel.

"Dubya drive," the lackey grunted. "Dubya drive fast. We get there real soon, you see. Shock and awe!"

I certainly wasn't going to argue with the bearded freak, and took a seat at the back of the bus. The ride to the Austin Wal-Mart was uneventful, though I was put off by this seemingly innocuous road sign:

The Brotherhood Of Catfishermen Rule South Austin With An Iron Fist

"Sweet Jesus!" I gasped. "The Brotherhood is here? In Austin? For how long?"

"Ages," said T.K. "In fact, they're backing today's gig. But let's drop that subject -- they have spies everywhere, and I'd just as soon not piss them off."

"'Nuff said," I agreed, as the bus pulled into the massive Wal-Mart parking lot. Thousands of eager mariachi fans awaited us with baited breath. And why not? They were, after all, about to get Mari-rocked!!!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. IV---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. II

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CHAPTER II

After landing at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, I was greeted by Texas Kelly's lackey; a wild-eyed brute who smelled of aerosol cheese and clove cigarettes, and bore a distorted resemblance to our nation's leader. He introduced himself as Dubya.

Dubya

"Like the president," he grunted, hoisting my bags on his shoulders. "Now come. Master Kelly waits."

He led me to a slick Mercedes convertible in the airport garage, and we were soon underway. Dubya drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic at a fantastic rate of speed until we arrived at our destination -- the Stuart Beach Inn in Austin's Hyde Park area.

"Good, looks like the boys are already here," I said, noticing the official Masters of Mariachi tour bus parked outside our place of lodging.

The Official Masters Of Mariachi Tour Bus

"Yes," said Dubya, retrieving my luggage from the trunk, "they come last night. Very drunk. Very loud. Master Kelly have to detain them."

"Detain them? What do you mean, detain them?"

"You see. We go there now."

I was led up an exterior flight of stairs to room 222, where Dubya knocked out a stacatto take on "shave and a haircut."

"C'mon in!" Kelly shouted from inside.

We entered... and walked smack dab into an international incident in the making! There, in the middle of the room, was my band -- hog-tied in a circular formation, with thick slabs of duct tape wrapped 'round their mouths!

"Sainted mother of Nixon!" I gasped. "What in the hell is going on here?!"

"Aww, shucks," replied Kelly. He was sprawled out on the room's only bed, cradling a giant bag of Lay's potato chips. "Them little buddies of yours were all hopped up on mescal when they got here, caused a real ruckus. Had to mace 'em down and tie 'em up after one of 'em started waving a nasty switchblade around."

Texas Kelly

"Oh, all right then. As long as it's not some kind of weird Abu Ghraib sex game thing."

"Never in hell," he assured me.

Catastrophe averted, I untied Paulo and the boys before changing into a fresh ascot and smoking jacket. Then, it was on to a long night of intense band practice -- after all, those mariachi fanatics at the Austin Wal-Mart weren't going to rock themselves, now were they?

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. III---

drunk in the heart of texas, pt. I

Click For Larger Image

***
CHAPTER I

Stand fast, thrill-seekers! It's me, The Haiku Master, here to regale you with the true facts of my savage journey into deepest Texas for SXSW 2005!

It all started when my once-trusted agent Paulo and I gave up on our dreams for an American cockfighting league, diverting our energies into making it big as professional musicians, instead. Within days, we'd assembled the most rootinest, tootinest mariachi band this side of hell -- Masters of Mariachi, a.k.a. MoM -- and our manager, Texas Kelly, had landed us a gig at the world's most prestigious music festival.

Masters Of Mariachi (From Left): Rudy, Paulo, Sanchez, Jesus, And The Haiku Master

"The Austin Wal-Mart?" I shouted into the phone upon hearing the news. "During Sixsew? You have to be kidding me, man!"

"Not at all, H.M.," T.K. assured me, "but it's pronounced 'South by Southwest.' World-class exposure, plus two-hunnerd cash and all you can drink from the store's soda fountain. Do we have a deal or don't we, pardner?"

"Do we ever! Wait'll I tell the boys -- they're likely to shit themselves in glee!"

"Sounds great. Yer first gig's Friday morning, so why don't y'all meet me in Austin on Thursday afternoon? We'll be staying at the Stuart Beach Inn."

"Beach? There's a beach in Austin?"

"Naw, some dude from Florida owns it. See you there."

Next, I contacted the band via Haiku International's Mexico office, and gave them the details. I then made my own travel arrangements...by buying a vintage prop plane from one of Russia's frequent black market military surplus sales!

The Haiku Master Prepares To Board His Latest Acquisition: The Haiku Plane!

That's right -- no more low-rent public transportaton for the Sultan of Syllables, and it's all thanks to the tireless work of H.I.'s Minister of Defense, Oswald Carver! (Thanks, Oz; there'll be a little something extra in your Festivus bonus this year.)

One speed-read of Flying for Dummies later, and I was Texas-bound. The die had been cast, loyal readers... but if I'd known then what I know now, I'd have insisted on best two out of three. At least!

---CLICK HERE FOR 'DRUNK IN THE HEART OF TEXAS' PT. II---

a dream come true

Slay the fatted calf and get ready to kick out the jams, mother$%#@ers -- it's me, The Haiku Master, and I just found out I made the cover of an upcoming Tiger Beat special!

Look For Tiger Beat's The Haiku Master Special At Finer Newsstands Near You

That's right! At long last, the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 will take his rightful place amongst Eric Estrada, Donnie Osmond, Scott Baio, Peter Jennings, and other luminaries who comprise Tiger Beat's galaxy of hunky heartthrobs! And frankly, the timing couldn't be better -- I've had a bit of a dry spell of late, dating-wise, but this issue is sure to have me beating the ladies off with a stick once it hits the stands!

Which will be a nice change of pace, let me tell you.

Okay for now, gentle readers. Be sure to call your grocer today and reserve a copy of Tiger Beat's The Haiku Master Special; tell 'em The Haiku Master sent you!

Best,

ever get the feeling you've been cheated?

Welcome back, 'ku believers! The above words were once spoken by Johnny Rotten at the Sex Pistols' last-ever live show.* But now it's me, The Haiku Master, who's speaking them, and I'm saying them to you -- 'cause I'm back a day later than originally promised, and there's not a thing on earth you can do about it!

Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-HA!!!

Alright, enough gloating for now. If you must know, the Pharaoh of 5-7-5 has been extremely busy over the past couple of weeks, including these nail-biting assignments:

* Casting the tie-breaking vote in the recent election of Pope Benedict XVI;

* Helping the World's Greatest Football Team, the Miami Dolphins, with its NFL draft selections;

* Foiling Haikunestro's latest jailbreak attempt; and

* Cataloging my extensive collection of Guy Lombardo memorabilia.

As you can see, it's not as if I've been taking her easy while you good people have awaited my next missive. Better still, I have high hopes the Texas adventure will finally be completed come this weekend! Until next time, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars -- so sayeth I... The Haiku Master!

Best,


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* The Sultan of Syllables is a Pistols purist, and therefore doesn't count their latter day, post-breakup performances. Primarily -- and this is just between you and me -- because they really suck in their modern incarnation.