“When you see the flames lick the guitar, you should point the nozzle and shoot, understand?” said Nathan, my boyfriend.
His band had guaranteed the nervous owner of The Pelican Bar that after their guitars had been doused with lighter fluid and lit for the holy ceremony of the last solo, a female associate with sunglasses would come on stage and quickly blast the flames into a wispy dust. It would be over in seconds, and everyone would head to the bar and pound PBRs.
One problem with Nathan, and there are many, is that he trusted me. And the problem with that trust is that it hinged on my capacity to take tequila shots with my plaid-wearing friend Melissa, break the extinguisher’s safety pin and shoot carbon dioxide in the general direction of guitar flames.
After the firemen left, and after Nathan was hauled away with second-degree burns, Melissa and I sat on the beery floor and came to the sweeping conclusion that rock is indeed dead.
Photo: Ian Diver