The Limping Dogs Debut at Lamplighters (But First, a Word on Their Origins)
I'm in my basement trying to coax my mutant, mentally handicapped chihuahua out from under the couch so I can go to a rock concert. Typical drama in this household: it's 6 p.m. and I'm due at Lamplighter's in Palatine for the debut of an exciting act, a once-in-a-lifetime assemblage of musical talent and sensibility. And some serious balls, too--this is a trio of trend setting rock stars (if "trend setting" is a euphemism for "aging, irate drunkards who will play for beer pretzels") that are making their mark tonight. I have observations to record, quotes to obtain, Colt 45 to chug and beer pretzels to procure.
But my dog, bless his stupid little heart, is making marks of his own. Since I'm in a hurry to leave, after having dozed off in front of the TV and after he's gotten himself comfortable, my mutt with the brain of a fruit fly has decided that now would be a pretty good time to take refuge under the couch so as to trap me at home, swilling vodka and neglecting my journalistic responsibilities.
"Come here you little rodent," I growl in my most threatening voice (which usually sends hardened study hall delinquents into hysterics) and fishing at him with a broomstick. "Get out from under there or I'll popsicle you with this thing."
Batman sneers at me and lifts his leg threateningly. From past experience, he knows full well that the most violent act I'm capable of committing against him is a wagged finger in his face. Even that is rare--Batman tends to snap at anything he thinks might be food, and I need my finger. I love my finger. For reasons I will not get into here.
"Put that leg down," I warn him. "I told you--save that for when the band is here. They're not. They're at the bar and I've got to go cover them."
Batman growls, farts, and squeaks out a bark. The subtext is clear: Fuck the band. Stay at home and let me bathe your elbow with my tongue.
It's no use. I'm trapped. I don't dare leave him in the living room--he'll systematically tear every cushion in the house apart, and then pee on the remains. For Batman knows. He knows the power he holds over me, over the band, and over contemporary rock music overall. While I'm chasing him around, working up a sweat and wondering aloud whether or not I could make a good pair of gloves out of him, Chris Dewey, Bryan Park and Kim Laibach are taking center stage, howling their greetings and flashing three-fingered devil's signs at a crowd of adoring fans. The Limping Dogs are ready to rock.
A legend has been born.
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It all started when Batman stubbed his toe.
I'd taken him duck hunting yet again, which was proving to be somewhat troublesome. Someone once told me chihuahuas are from the desert, don't handle water well and don't know dick about duck hunting, but I figured that was hooey. Every time my dogs so much as heard a geese honk, they were off running, barking their fool little heads off. So I figured they must be naturals. Oh, true, I had second thoughts the first time I put Batman in the marsh and he sunk up to his eyeballs and I had to fish him out and clean mud out of his mouth that he'd eaten in an effort to escape. But never let it be said that my dog's slow start is any mark of my own skill as a teacher.
This time, though, I'd dropped my duck hunting gun in the water, and since it was unable to fire, I'd resorted to using it as a club on any ducks within reach. Of which there were none. Besides, Batman was being a dick, insisting on avoiding the water and preferring to be carried in my flak jacket, grunting all the while. The one duck I
did manage to get close to bit me on the hand, and it was then I decided I'd better go home and see what Kim, who is, after all, a doctor, could do about it.
When I came home, I found my wife-to-be at her drum set, with Dewey on the guitar, Park on the bass and Chris Tso blowing notes out of a hooch jug. This setup had become quite common over the past year and a half, as the four of them experimented with several kinds of music and talked idly about ditching their spouses, S.O.s and pathetic day jobs in order to rock the suburban open mic scene. I'd tried to be supportive by stepping around Dewey's gyrating guitar solos while doing laundry, or agreeing to experiment with LSD with Park in the backyard. But truth be told, this time I was in no mood to be accommodating. The duck bite was starting to fester, and the world was dipping and swaying alarmingly as I stepped up to the band. At the moment, Dewey was performing an electrifying guitar solo on a Fender Stratacast, Park was belting out Primus riffs, Laibach was doing a Keith Moon solo and Tso was weeping frustratedly on a nearby chair, jug dangling from his girlish grip.
"It just...it's just not coming out right," he sobbed.
"It's okay, man," Dewey said, making a halfhearted gesture of reassurance. "You've only been playing for four years."
"We need to start thinking about a schtick," Laibach announced, twirling a drumstick with one hand and stuffing a fig bar into her mouth with the other. "Something radical. Original. Groundbreaking. Moneymaking."
"How about we use old Celtic runes and do some songs about Tolkien and Arthurian legends?" Park suggested.
"How about we paint bats and what not on our faces and stick our tongues way out?" Laibach offered. "Also, we could set Tso on fire."
"I think we should do a hard-core Satan worshipping act," Dewey said. "It's what the kids are into these days, right?"
"I can't play this thing," Tso cried, chucking his jug into a corner and retreating into the kitchen to sulk by himself.
There was a lull in the conversation at this point, which is when they noticed me. "Hi," I mumbled. "You're all still here. Good."
"Who's he?" Dewey asked Kim absently.
"What do you want?" Laibach demanded. "We're really busy."
"Where's that roast duck you promised?" Park asked.
"My dog didn't retrieve it," I lied, putting Batman down on the floor. "All he did was stare at the duck, bark at a squirrel, run on the docks and poop." Batman, taking umbrage at my criticism, ran back towards me and peed on my shoe. I swore at him and made as if to kick him.
"He's limping," Laibach observed, taking a long pull from her bag of trail mix.
"He stubbed his toe on a duck that was already dead," I said. "Which reminds me. I got bit. Do I have anything to worry about?"
"How the hell would I know?" Laibach retorted. "I don't know human medicine."
"Well...it
was a duck."
"Well I'm sure it'll be all right." Laibach squinted at Batman, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. "He's limping," she repeated.
"You're right," Dewey said, his own gaze narrowing on Batman. "He
is limping."
"I'm only asking because this duck was foaming at the mouth," I interjected. "Can ducks get rabies? I mean, I don't want to sound like a wimp or anything, but..."
"A dog...a dog that's limping," Park muttered quietly, his eyes riveted on Batman's trek across the floor in order to continue dribbling on my sneaker.
"He's a dog," said Laibach.
"A limping dog," agreed Dewey, catching on. "My God, that's too stupid
not to work."
"He's a Limping Dog," Laibach announced. "And so are we."
"I think my hand is infected," I sulked.
"That's brilliant, Kim," said Dewey. "I mean, aren't we
all Limping Dogs deep down inside?"
Park spun his bass in his arms and cracked open another one of my beers. "To the Limping Dogs!"
"Call an ambulance," I begged.
"To the LD's!" yelled Laibach.
"To the Limping Dogs!" announced Dewey.
"I got my hand stuck in the jug!" Tso yelled from the kitchen.
And thus, the legend began. No, really. For real.
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Of course, I'm not at the concert to enjoy it. The debut performance drew a crowd the likes of which Palatine had not seen since the Michael Richardson poetry slam of 2007. The earth moved. Records for standing ovations were broken. The Dogs managed to seduce an entire demographic with retro folk songs and Dewey's unbounded contempt for the crowd, sandwiched in between sets in the form of rambling, drunken monologues. And while Kim received three marriage proposals (seriously considering only one or two, she later assured me) and Park had a urinal memorialized in his honor by the bar owner, I was surrendering to the band's six-pound, blob-like namesake.
"Look, Batman, there's a bunch of crotches for you to sniff at the bar if you come out of there," I plead with him. "I've got a deadline, okay? Just come on out."
Batman bares his tooth at me and dribbles on the nearby remote control. "All right then," I grunt, utterly defeated. "You win. Animal Planet: Late Night Confessions it is."
Batman yips triumphantly and beings doing victory laps around the sofa.
"Help!" I hear from upstairs. A whiny, defeated tone to rival even my own. "Now I got my
dick stuck in the jug!"
And thus, another legend was born. But seriously, the hell with that one. Go try your luck with the last legend--the Dogs are playing a bar near you soon, and the beers are going for half price.
The mighty Batman rests up after an exhausting afternoon of doing nothing. In front of him, the Limping Dogs perfect their opening number: "My Dog Hunts Ducks but My Man is a Dick."
