With friends like these … you know the rest

I’m going to use my friends’ real names in this column, since there are no innocents to protect. These jerks are all guilty as sin and have it coming.

Don’t get me wrong, the four guys I’m about to write about here are like brothers to me and I love ‘em. I also hope they all develop painful, embarrassing skin eructations moments before meeting the girls of their dreams.

 I play music with these knuckleheads most every weekend in bars, clubs and outdoor festivals across the state. Like most aging rock and roll musicians, they’re emotionally stunted, egocentric, easily offended and frequently childish. In other words, my kind of people.

So why am I trying to curse them with complexion problems? Lemme tell ya.

We played over the Fourth of July weekend at Val du Lakes, up north. It’s a good gig. Big club, good crowds, free drinks.

My new girlfriend, Lori, accompanied me on the trip, kind of a working vacation. For the most part, we had a good time. Except for Friday night. Just before the start of the show, Lori and I had a little quarrel. 

Now, it doesn’t matter who was right (me, definitely ME, more innocent than gently falling snow on Christmas morning or the face of a newborn baby) or who was wrong (Lori, Lori, Lori! Queen of unreasonableness and overtly hostile mannerisms). The point is, we had a minor spat.

And for some reason, my band buds — Rocky, Calvin, George and Bird — seemed very interested in the conflict. I didn’t notice at first, but as the evening progressed and Lori continued to refuse to abjectly prostrate herself before me in supplication for forgiveness, I couldn’t help but notice the guys were all watching our mini-Cold War with more than casual interest.

I noticed the covert glances, the muttered comments shared when they thought I wasn’t looking, the score cards being passed back and forth. It turns out (as I learned after I finally apologized to Lori for addressing her by my ex-wife’s name, that my good, good friends had weeks earlier started a betting pool on how long Lori would last before she grew sick of my nonsense and dumped me.

If that had happened Friday, Calvin would have won; his bet was three months. George was kinder with a guess of six months. Rocky — arguably the only real “adult” in the band — was most charitable; his bet was nine months. Bird (curse his cynical, black heart) opted out of the pool entirely because they wouldn’t let him bet on anything shorter than one month.

You can see why I hate these guys.

Yes, I have had a few relationship “issues” in the past 30 years. Especially if you count all my former wives. But people grow, they get wiser, more mature. I expect Lori and I will last a lifetime. 

But, just to be on the safe side, I’ve placed my bet in the pool at 16 months. I want that jackpot.