Gus Hate Me

Friday night I had the pleasure to sit in with a friend's band at a nice 
room in the old section of Prague. Our first set was sitting down, playing 
acoustic - doing some Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Jimmy Rogers stuff. 
Great fun. After that, we cleared the chairs and took a quick break before 
coming back amplified with the horn section, etc. Rather than carrying my 
chair from the crowded stage, high over my head to avoid the drums and 
keyboard rig, I instead lowered it to the dance floor, figuring someone 
would pull it over to their table to accomodate a friend. Oops.
After the break, we played a pretty strong second set with the full band, 
ending with "Sweet Home Chicago." About halfway through, Gus appeared. You 
know who I'm talking about. That's right, the dreaded Gus, complete with 
drunken stagger, "blues guy" hat, and crusty harp. He swayed below me on the 
dance floor, waving a harmonica. I just looked down and nodded "nope." It 
wasn't my gig, I was just sitting in, so I wasn't about to let Gus come on 
stage (actually, I'd never let him up, even if it was my gig). But I'd 
forgotten about that chair I'd left down there. Before I knew what was 
happening, Gus used the chair to climb onstage, right in front of me, 
blowing like a madman (one who can't play). I stood up closer to him, trying 
to crowd him, to block him from advancing on one of the vocal mics. So he 
cut to my left, trying to go around me. Seeing how easily he could knock 
over my little amp, the keyboard, or one of the guitar amps, I grabbed him 
by the arm - hard - and kept nodding NO. The harder I pulled, the harder he 
pulled back. He broke free and darted finally to the vocal mic. Pissed that 
security was nowhere to be found, and not wanting to make "too much" of a 
scene, I just grabbed his "blues guy" hat and tossed it into the crowd. One 
of the sound guys finally appeared and had to strong-arm Gus off the stage. 
As he did - in the words of Tennessee poet Charlie Daniels - I just couldn't 
resist the fun: I planted a size-9 wingtip right in his ass. Gus added to 
the ambiance of the moment by remaining on the dance floor, cussing at me in 
Czech, showing me his middle finger, and blasting as loud as he could.
As I said to the rest of the band backstage, why the hell is it always the 

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