Toxic Butt Sludge: Earth’s Greatest Band

Part I: Swan Songs and Throngs

From inside the green room of the American Spirit Arena, the audible sound of thousands of adoring fans is transformed into a bass-laden rumble like rolling thunder. The cinderblock and wall insulation have canceled the high and mid-frequency from the screams of multi-generational ticket holders made to wait in anticipation. An eclectic playlist of rock classics blares through the house. James patiently sits in a make-up chair in front of a large well-lit mirror where countless super-stars have sat awaiting their own night’s performance. There’s a wall covered with hand-written signatures of distinguished guests from years past in his peripheral. His, too, was somewhere in that black and white shrine to the famous ones.

Cradling his shiny black practice guitar, James is picking away at a blues scale, doing his best to mobilize the tendons and muscles and blood into operation. The guitar solos he wrote years earlier were effortless. Now, the wear and tear of hundreds of concerts are taking their toll. He stares at himself in the mirror. Time has its way—the wrinkles on his leathered face deepening. His long beard is now a salt and pepper gray, to corroborate. The reflection of an old man.

There’s a knock at the door. Before James can respond, it opens. “Hey Pops, five minutes,” the woman says, wearing an intercom headset. “You need anything?” she asks.

James sets his guitar down, so both hands are readily available to help lift his aging body from the chair. “No, Sam. Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat of emotion. “How are the boys?” he asks.

Sam smiles. She loves that Pops’ only concern before a concert is the well-being of his bandmates. “They’re fine. Eli is about to walk on stage, and Tyson is close behind. I heard him banging on walls and doors along the way.”

“What would I do without you?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes, “It’s another sold out show.” The door closes.

James looks at the mirror one last time to inspect his greased back hair. Not as thick and wavey as it used to be, but not so bad for an old man. He slips on an old and tattered jean jacket contoured to his medium build physique. He reaches down to his pant zipper. “Check,” he mutters. There’s nothing more embarrassing than playing in front of 50,000 people unzipped.

––––

James makes the long walk to the backstage entrance. He’s beginning to hear the mid and high frequency coming from the auditorium, alerting him to the humanity of the evening’s event. The classic rock playlist has concluded, and Eli is beginning his pre-show ramp-up to heighten the anticipation. Over the years of playing together, Eli evolved from a timid musician to a highly skilled singer and bassist. He is now a charismatic frontman who knows how to get the horde on their toes.

Booooooom, the five-string bass rumbles. Booom Booom Booom. Eli is turning up the hysteria all the way to 11. Roadies, sound techs, stage managers, and producers are hustling, each respectfully greeting “Pops” along the way. He returns their gestures with a half-cocked smile. Quiet and deeply personal, James is still intimidated by large crowds. With each step toward the awaiting throng, trepidation mounts.

“You ready, Pops?” another stagehand asks.

He nods.

Now he hears the kick drum in sync with the fingerpicking of the electric bass. Tyson is at his throne; the designation drummers granted drum stools since the beginning of time. James smiles. Since the garage days, James has always loved hearing his sons play together.

The crowd is now morphed into insanity mode. They know Pops is about to enter the stage. James walks up to Sonny, his loyal guitar tech and keeper of James’s guitars. Living in the harem is Peggy, his handmade go-to six-stringed axe. Named after his beloved wife, Peggy is kept under strict lock and key until the beginning of each show when, Sonny, the keeper of the key, gently removes the guitar in preparation for headbanging brutality.

“Here, Pops,” Sonny says with a cigarette hanging between his lips. He hands over the candy apple red instrument with its dents, chips, and scratches—something James and Peggy have in common. They’ve both been played hard for many years.

“Leave ‘em with a lisp and a limp!” Sonny says. A customary pep-talk before James enters the stage.

James winks, picks up the strapped guitar, and places it over his head to rest low and extended in front of his body. The boys continue playing a melodic combination of long-drawn-out notes.

The house fades to black. Eli slaps the B string one last time, granting the audience a long-sustained grumble felt deep within their chest cavities. Tyson is tapping on cymbals, slowly increasing the syncopation of each kick of the bass drum. Eli steps up to the microphone giving a menacing glare to his fans. They have given themselves over to him. He owns them.

“Friends,” he says in a low, slow growl.

They answer with a shriek.

“Friends!” he says again.

They answer his call with an animal-like howl.

He pauses for dramatic effect. The effect has its effect.

“I’m Eli!”

Immediately a mosh pit forms only feet in front of the stage. The fans refuse to wait any longer. They need some way to burn the adrenaline coursing through their veins.

Eli chuckles in the mic.

“Tyson?” Eli asks, “You here?” Tyson stands on his throne and points to the sky with both drumsticks. The room now becomes a deafening roar that’s likely to shake the building off its foundation. The music abruptly stops. James secretly walks onto the dark stage without fans noticing.

“And,” Eli breathes in one last breath and screams, “You here, Pops?” signaling the lighting and sound techs to begin the greatest show on earth. The lights flash, blinding the audience. Pyrotechnics explode from hidden locations all around the stage. The three-piece band is now cocked, locked, and in position playing a series of notes. E, pause. D, pause, A, pause. E, pause.

Then, with one final deep breath, Eli screams, “We. Are. Toxic Butt Sludge!”

Pandemonium breaks out all over the arena. It’s a tumult. Mosh pits appear everywhere. It’s a sea of living flesh flailing to and fro. If not for the yellow-jacket security guards’ anarchy would ensue. James plays a heavy riff that sounds like a train chugging on its tracks up a steep hill. Eli pounds his bass guitar so hard that bruises are beginning to form on the palms of his hands. Tyson hits the drumheads with a perfectly timed beat that sounds like machinegun fire coming from every direction.

James, still not looking upon the crowd, turns attention towards his two sons. He gives in to another smile. How did we get here? he thinks to himself, never taking for granted what’s transpired over the last 20 years. He finally looks at his fans for only a moment, then back towards his progenies. We had to fight for this.

Between guitar riffs, James glances at the backside of his guitar, where he permanently affixed a small note into the clear lacquer varnish of the hand-built instrument. Written years earlier by Peggy’s shaking and emaciated hand, it reads, “I’m so sorry I won’t be there. But you will.” She had scribbled it on a small piece of napkin in the hospice facility moments before dying, carefully placing it next to a photograph of Eli and Tyson. James had missed her final moments. Had he been there, perhaps she would have mustered the strength to say them. Instead, she wrote them, never to be forgotten.

Part II: Flaming Chicks and Guitar Licks

“I only ask two things. When I get home, have your homework done and clean the kitchen. That’s it! Everything else is icing on the cake. Cleaning your room? Icing. Flushing the toilet after you pee? Icing. Mowing the yard without me pleading? Icing. I only ask two things, and you can’t even do those,” James lamented.

“I get no respect! Do I beat you? Do I starve you and make you wear sackcloth?” he asked rhetorically. It’s a classic psychological treatise right out of the parenting playbook. It goes something like this: when all else fails, guilt them into submission. Statistically, this only works thirty percent of the time. But it’s all the stamina James had in his reserves after a long day at work.

James could see that his parental play was having its desired effect on Eli. Tears were pooling in the bottoms of his eyelids. Tyson, on the other hand, silently stared at his father with a face of contempt that conveyed, I’m not buying it, old man. Try again.

James sighed, “I’ll make a deal with you.” Tyson’s demeanor changed. He knew his dad was calling an audible mid-game. Transitioning from guilt to bargaining was a good sign. “Get your homework done, and I’ll do the dishes. Then, we go out for wings.” James believed this was a fair negotiation in a moment of weakness and exhaustion.

Tyson and Eli won. Half their chores were forgiven in exchange for hot wings. This wasn’t only a great bargain; this was the teenage equivalent of the Treaty of Versailles. These monsters will live to bring terror another day.

Later that evening, James held up his side of the deal. Flaming Chicks specialized in hot wings and scantily dressed waitresses. James felt embarrassed the first time he introduced his boys to Flaming Chicks. But over time, the delicious hot wings and first-rate service outweighed the embarrassment. They each ordered their usuals and did their best to recap the day’s events.

“So, Eli, what else did you do?” his father asked. Eli had a potato wedge lodged halfway inside his mouth when he responded, “Nothing,” chewing his food while talking. That was Eli’s established response. One word. Nondescriptive. Eli wasn’t a conversationalist. He was a thinker. Analytical and private, he processed everything and never felt the need to regale his listeners with hyperbole. He was at peace being last in line; the last kid picked for dodgeball; and the last one to talk in class.

Tyson was Eli’s antithesis.

“I’ll tell you what he did! He stood up and read out loud in front of the class. At least that’s what I heard from Luke.” Tyson was expressive and energetic. He loved to ask questions and talk about anything that crossed his mind. James described it as “verbal vomit.” Two years younger than Eli, they attended the same high school and shared friends. As brothers, they were thick as thieves.

Earlier that day, Eli’s school assignment was writing and presenting a poem in English class. By way of credible sources, Tyson discovered that his older brother’s prose was a cut above the rest.

“You write poetry now?” James asked with a confused look.

“Really?” Tyson asked. “Don’t you know anything about Eli? He’s like a modern-day Shakespeare. But Eli’s stuff is interesting, unlike Willy’s. And Eli’s fiction? Better than the audiobooks you listen to on work trips.”

Tyson flipped the playbook on his dad. Now James was feeling guilty.

“Son, I’m sorry.” James began to inch his hand across the table towards Eli’s hand. Eli recoiled.

“Can I read it?” James asked.

“Dad! Oh my God!” Tyson exclaimed again. “You don’t ask to read another man’s musings.” Tyson was acting as a literary book agent between his brother and father.

“What?” James asked. “Why not? He just read it in front of the whole class.”

“It’s not the same. Eli trusts his class. It’s not like you.” Tyson said.

Now James recoiled, “You don’t trust me?”

Eli began to squirm. “Well, I…I mean, it’s not really that as much as I don’t want you…well…I don’t want you to think I’m weird…or…I mean, I don’t want you to worry.” Eli often fumbled his words. He struggled to articulate thoughts and ideas into cohesive utterances.

James sank into the booth and sighed, “Eli, I would never do that.”

“Dad, you can’t say that.” Tyson quickly retorted, “You haven’t read his stuff. It’s deep. I mean, like, super deep. He uses words you probably wouldn’t even understand. Do you know what feckless means? I don’t either. But it’s in there. I’m telling you, he’s a modern-day master, just like the guy who wrote all those poems mom used to read about kids in the bathtub.”

“Shel Silverstein?” James asked with a puzzled look.

“Yeah, that one. All the kids in the bathtub at once. One washed the butt of another by mistake,” Tyson said, laughing.

James had a flashback of Peggy lying in bed with Eli and Tyson on each side as she read to them. It started with children’s poetry, like Where the Sidewalk Ends and Light in the Attic. Then graduated to Maya Angelou, Milne, and Frost. James began to wander off into old memories. The four of them. All together. Then, he heard her words, I’m so sorry I won’t be there. But you will. James shook his head to reengage in the conversation.

“Eli, I would love to read your work if you would let me.”

Eli chomped on a hot wing. “If I do, you can’t freak out and think I’m crazy. I write about stuff you wouldn’t understand.”

James formed a look of concern on his face, “Why would I think you’re crazy? Do you write about hurting yourself?”

Tyson reinserted himself into the conversation, “God! Dad, it’s not like that! He writes about the universe, why we exist, and why people do the things they do. He’s asking the big questions: Is there a God? What do girls really think about us? Who invented chores, and can we kill him? This is serious stuff!” Tyson was defensive but comical. It was always hard to know when Tyson was being serious.

Then, Eli reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. He laid it on the tabletop and slid it towards his dad. James began reading.

It was eight short lines. He wasn’t even sure what it meant. Tyson was right. There were a few words he didn’t understand. But somehow, they sounded perfect. And it flowed like a river as he read it.

James finished, then looked up at Eli, “Good use of feckless. Son, this is amazing. To be honest, I’m not sure what I just read. But it’s beautiful.”

Eli allowed himself a small smile. Tyson snatched the paper from his dad and, with an air of arrogance said, “I told you, Dad. Better than Willy Shakespeare.”

­­––––

Leaving Flaming Chicks, they walked past the same music store they had a dozen times before. James stopped mid-step. Eli and Tyson kept walking. Hearing Peggy’s words in his head a few moments earlier, he needed a way to be present with his sons. They had so little in common, as evidenced by Eli’s lack of trust. James silently stood looking at the store front.

Then…

Every once in a great while, an idea is formed that changes the world. It’s not often, but it happens. It’s like a lightning bolt to the brain. Like the exact moment, Einstein formed E=MC² in the recesses of his mind. Like the day John asked Paul to join the band. Like the moment Da Vinci dipped his brush in paint. Or when an apple fell on Newton’s head. These are life-altering moments in history, not just for the individual but for all of humanity. The preverbal eureka. James, too, had a moment of divine wisdom.

“Hey guys, you want to check this place out?”

“Why?” Tyson asked as he kept walking. Eli stopped and turned towards his dad, looking up at the sign.

“Jassler’s Music,” he read out loud and shrugged.

“Hmm,” Tyson said, “Maybe they sell records.”

Inside, father and sons inspected the store. There was musical gear of every kind: brass, woodwinds, stringed instruments, drum kits, wires, mics, soundboards, and a glass cases with pedals, picks, and expensive price tags. It was a gold mine of audio apparatus.

Tyson immediately gravitated to the drum kit. He grabbed two sticks and began to bang away. He loved being the most obnoxious person in the room. Eli found himself staring at a stringed instrument hanging high above. It was glossy and longer than the other guitars. The strings were thicker, and the headstock was twice the size.

“Cool guitar,” he said quietly. He hadn’t noticed his dad was behind him.

“It’s a bass guitar.”

James stepped up on a short stool and handed Eli the instrument.

“Try it. It’s heavy, though.”

Eli inspected the bass while Tyson was annoying the patrons of the music shop with random bangs and clangs.

“I don’t know how to play,” Eli said.

James inspected the wall of shiny guitars and picked up a six-string electric guitar. “Do what I do.”

Using only one finger on one string, James began to play a familiar tune. Eli watched, attempting to replicate his father. Soon, Eli was playing what his father was playing.

“Now, I’m going to play the same notes but with more strings. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

James began to strum chords in sync with Eli. “Wait, I know this song,” Eli said. “It’s ‘Smoke on the Water.’”

James smiled, “It’s the first song everyone learns.”

Eli stopped playing. “Why didn’t you tell us you could play guitar?”

James stopped playing and rested his arms on the guitar. “Well, when your mom and I had you, we needed some money, so I sold my guitar, amp, and a few other things and bought baby stuff. After that, I never had time and honestly didn’t care much about it. We were busy. I guess it’s every wanna-be rock star’s sad story.” James began to play again. “But I have no regrets,” he added.

“You’re…good,” Eli said, surprised.

“I had a band in high school. Eventually we disbanded and moved on with life.” James was now playing solos so fast that Eli could barely keep his eyes on his dad’s fingers.

Tyson stopped banging drums and walked over. James plugged the guitar into a nearby amplifier, and turned up the volume.

“Holy crap, Dad! You’re like, Jimmy Hendrix!” Tyson exclaimed.

James began playing “Voodoo Child” by Jimmy Hendrix.

“How did you do that?” Eli asked.

Tyson stepped in closer, “Play Zeppelin.” James transitioned to “Immigrant Song” instantly.

Tyson was a music connoisseur. A bit of an old soul, he knew all the classics. So, he made a game of it.

“Pink Floyd,” He called out.

James started playing “Comfortably Numb.”

“ZZ Top,” Eli said.

James began playing “Mexican Blackbird.”

“Sabbath,” Tyson said.

James strummed the opening riff to “Iron Man.”

“Queen,” Eli said.

“Killer Queen” was effortlessly flowing from James’s hands.

“Metallica,” Tyson said.

The opening riff to “Master of Puppets” crunched through the amp.

This continued until James’s hands stiffened. “Sorry, guys, I haven’t played in years. My fingers hurt. See,” he said showing them the indentions on his fingertips.

James hung the guitar back on the wall and turned towards Eli and Tyson. He heard Peggy’s words in his head, I’m sorry I won’t be there. But you will.

“What do you guys think about letting me teach you how to play a few of these songs?”

“We don’t have instruments,” Eli replied.

Tyson looked around the music store, “I think I know where we can buy some.”

Part III: Garage Days and Purple Haze

“Come on! Let’s just sign up for the audition and see what happens. What’s the point of practicing in the hot garage every day for the last year if we don’t get to play in front of real human beings? And some of those humans will be girls. And a few might be my age. And one of them might think the drummer is cute. And I might get a phone number!” Tyson said in his typical dramatic fashion.

James stopped picking at a music scale. “I don’t care, you know that. For me, this was never about who we played in front of. It was a way to be with you two before you get old and mean and hate being around me more than you already do,” he said with a smirk. Then, pointing the guitar neck towards Eli, “You don’t have to talk me into it.”

Eli sat back on his stool and let the bass guitar rest on his lap. “We’re not there yet. We need to get better.”

Tyson smacked one of his drumsticks on the snare, letting the impact send his stick flying up in the air. “Dude. We are good enough. I’m dying to play in front of someone other than the cat and dog and all these old toys dad has hanging on the walls in here. Let’s just try out and see what happens!”

Eli, always the processor, stared at the garage floor to carefully consider Tyson’s proposition. “And all we have to do is play one Hendrix song?” he asked.

“Yeah, dude. Everyone is playing Hendrix because it’s a Hendrix tribute!” Tyson said, becoming annoyed by his older brother. “I’m telling you, we own ‘Purple Haze.’”

Tyson looked at his dad for confirmation.

“He’s right,” James said.

Eli rested his head in the palms of his hands. “Let’s say we do this. We don’t even have a band name. We need the perfect band name.”

––––

Over the previous year, James and his sons had made a nightly ritual of “jamming.” Eli was the first to realize his ability on bass. He was a quick learner and in a matter of months, could play almost anything his dad could.

“You can play ‘Tom Sawyer?’ Are you serious? When did you learn the parts?” James asked, surprised.

“I don’t know. When you were out, I guess,” Eli said humbly.

“Show me.” James strummed the opening chords to “Tom Sawyer” by Rush. Eli quickly joined, and they continued to play the famous opening rifts to the Canadian band’s most popular rock song.

Tyson summoned his inner Neil Peart, the master drummer from Rush, but fumbled along the way. Eli was a natural. Tyson had to work for it. The only thing that came naturally to Tyson was his charismatic personality. But for things like music and school, he had to put in the work.

The three-piece band eventually perfected “Tom Sawyer” and other Rush songs. They gradually transitioned from the radio-typical rock songs of the 70s and 80s to more progressive and challenging music by jam bands like Jefferson Airplane, The Allman Brothers, and Pink Floyd.

All the while, they were attending concerts almost monthly. They would travel in search of bands who inspired them, paying close attention to what James described as “stage presence.”

“You see how David Lee Roth has got the audience eating out of the palms of his hands?” He would ask Eli. “Sure, it’s a bit theatrical, but it serves a purpose.”

While Eli and Tyson enjoyed their exposure to music, James’s intentions were deeply personal. Peggy’s death left a gaping hole in their family as she was the glue that kept them close. However, in an instant, James became a single parent. He needed a way to stay close with his sons. In front of Jassler’s Music a year earlier, he found a way.

––––

“Alright, we’ll audition, but only after we come up with a good band name. I don’t want to be like The Partridge Family. I want our name to be expressive of who we are and what we’re about,” Eli said.

Both Eli and Tyson turned toward their dad.

“No, I’m not doing it. This is your time. I had a band when I was a kid and got my chance. Eventually, you’re going to replace me with someone your own age, and I don’t want you to have an old man band name.”

“Wait. What do you mean?” Tyson asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’” James asked.

“We’re not kicking you out of the band,” Eli quickly added.

“Guys, I love this. But you’ll want to find someone your age. And someone you want to play with. I did this to teach you how to play and spend some time with you. I appreciate your hearts, but if I were in your shoes, I’d find someone cooler than me.”

“You’d kick us out of the band?” Tyson exclaimed.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying—”

“First, you’re going to be the best guitarist we could find. So, just on the grounds of technicalities, we’d be stupid to replace you. Second, you’re old, but not ancient. So, stop with the old man thing. Third, if Tyson and I want to play with someone else in the future, we will. But this, right here and now—this is our band, and it’s consisting of you, me, and Ty. Ok?” Eli asked.

James sat silently for a moment. Eli’s reasoning was sound, and James was proud of how he spoke his feelings so thoughtfully.

“Deal,” he said, fighting back tears.

Just then, Tyson spoke with an air of excitement, “I know! I got it! How about Blackhole?” pointing to a vintage action doll from the late 70s sci-fi movie. “It sounds mysterious and devious.”

“I like it!” Eli exclaimed. He began scanning the dozens of vintage toys his father had collected over the years and hung on the garage wall in homage to his own childhood. “How about Mad Max?” pointing to a Mel Gibson look-alike toy. “Like we’re mad and to the max.”

“What are we so mad about?” James asked.

“G.I. Joe!” Tyson said quickly, pointing to a figure molded after a solder.

“Lame,” Eli said. He then pointed to a dark corner where another action figure still in the original packaging hung, “Toxic Avenger!” he said proudly.

“Yes!” Tyson said, “Toxic Avenger!”

“Really?” James asked. “I don’t think anyone would get the humor.”

“Good point,” Eli said. “How about Toxic Sludge,” he asked, laughing at his own joke.

“Butt Sludge!” Tyson added.

“This is just getting weird now,” James said with contempt.

“Toxic Butt Sludge,” Eli said.

“Toxic Butt Sludge!” Tyson exclaimed.

The room stood still. You could have heard a pin drop on the greasy garage floor. Eli slowly turned his head towards Tyson, as Tyson did towards Eli. It was a look of infantile pride. They just came up with the dumbest band name ever. That’s when a smile crept up on both their faces. “Toxic Butt Sludge!” they said in unison.

“Funny, but for real, that’s a terrible band name,” James said.

“The Beatles is pretty stupid too. Think about it. Dumb little black bug. And they were the biggest band in history,” Tyson said.

“It’s perfect. It’s totally us. Not serious but totally serious, all at the same time,” Eli said.

“That sentence makes no sense,” James said.

“It makes perfect sense,” Tyson interjected. “We. Are. Toxic Butt Sludge!” Just then, he started playing the opening drum parts to “Purple Haze.”

“We’re going to regret this one day,” their father said, shaking his head.

Eli joined in on bass, “We. Are. Toxic Butt Sludge!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

James shrugged his shoulders and thought about Peggy’s last written words. So, he turned up his amp, smacked the distortion pedal with his foot, and began playing the world-famous Hendrix riff.“

Just as the three-piece band was about to transition to another part of the famous 60s tune, Eli abruptly stopped and put up his hands, “Wait!” he looked to Tyson, “Who’s going to sing? Don’t we need a singer, or can we just do our normal instrumental version?”

Tyson hadn’t even given it much thought. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that oversight.”

James was waiting for one of them to come to this conclusion. “Of course, we have to have a lead singer,” he said.

Eli processed for a moment, then said, “I don’t know anyone. Can we hang something at Jassler’s Music on the bulletin board for auditions?”

Tyson nodded, “Good idea!”

“We could do that,” James said, “or you could do it.”

Part IV: DUI’s and Triple Bi’s

The blue and red flashing lights reflected off the rear-view mirror, creating a disco-ball effect in James’s truck cab. For a moment, it brought back memories of his wedding day. Peggy’s parents rented a local roller-rink for their reception. The DJ used the house disco-ball spinning above the rink while playing classic rock power ballads. The newlyweds danced the night away.

“Peggy, that was a good day,” James slurred while starring at himself in the mirror.

The officer walked up to the window of James’s truck and flashed him with his long black Maglite, “License and registration,” the officer said in a formal tone.

James began to lean towards the glove compartment to find the necessary paperwork when the officer caught a strong whiff of alcohol coming from the truck cab.

“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?” he asked.

James had already considered how he might respond to this line of questioning during previous trips home from his favorite bar. In those scenarios, he would simply lie No sir, no drinking tonight.

Something about this evening was different. “Yes, sir. Yes, I have. And probably too many.” His words came out twisted and sluggish.

The officer took a step away from the vehicle, “Sir, please get out of the car.”

James considered the request and wondered if his body would obey his commands. He unlocked his seat belt, opened the truck door, and forced himself out.

“Sir, I need you to follow my flashlight and walk towards me.”

James thought to himself, now comes the sobriety test portion of the evening’s events. While following the little bright light creeping along the road, he felt a new sensation.

Over the past few years of drinking, James was aware of the physical signs of drunkenness. Stage one: foggy brain with a side of euphoria. Stage two: a sense of invincibility with a dash of good humor. Stage three: becoming everyone’s best friend with thoughtful, deep conversations that made no sense the next day. Stage four: blackout leaving one wondering how they got home the night before.

But this feeling was different.

“I feel funny,” James slurred to the officer.

“I’m sure you do, sir.”

“It feels like someone is sitting on my chest. Are you sitting on my chest?” That’s when James stumbled and fell to the ground. “I can get back up,” he slurred.

Laying on the asphalt, he starred at the stars above that began to twirl.

“Oh, that’s neat looking!” he gasped.

––––

“You’re a lucky guy,” the white coat said. They always say that James thought. The doctor looked at the two young men at James’s bedside. “He’ll be around for a while longer. We cleaned out his pipes, as we like to say,” the doctor said, smiling at Eli and Tyson.

He went on for a few more minutes with colorful euphemisms explaining how James had three partially blocked coronary arteries. “Years of bad habits contributed,” he explained. And now, James needed to change these habits.

“Dad, I’m just so—” Tyson burst into tears, unable to talk, and sat on the bed next to his father.

James patted him on the arm, “I know.”

Eli sat in a chair next to the bed. “This isn’t over. I talked to the police, and they recommended we hire a lawyer. So, I did. I had to pay $1,000 to put him on something called a retainer. You’re going to get in trouble for this.”

James didn’t really care. He was enjoying Tyson’s affection.

“He said since this is your first offense, you’ll at least pay a fine and get your license suspended.”

James slowly breathed in and then out to test out the new “pipes.” “It’s fine, Eli. I’ll deal with it,” he said, continuing to rub Tyson’s arm. “I deserve whatever comes.” He didn’t fully believe his own words. He said it to teach his sons a lesson about actions and consequences. It was the fatherly thing to do.

Eli’s eyes began to tear up, “Why do you do this? You could have hurt someone or died.”

“I know. I didn’t plan for this to happen. After your mom—” James couldn’t find the right words to help make sense of it all.

The room grew silent except for the sound of the beeping heart monitor.

“I’ll fix this. I’m so sorry,” James said.

More silence.

“All I wanted to do was be what you needed me to be when your mom died. I tried so hard. And then, it seemed like it was working. We were together. We found something we loved to do together. I saw that you two were going to be fine, and you began to really take off. I got selfish. So, I drank for the same reason most people probably do—to forget. But I forgot about you two in the process. And I’m so sorry.” James had already been thinking about what he would tell his children.

More silence.

Eli joined his brother on the bed laying his head beside his father’s. The three lay in bed together.

––––

“How was work?” Eli asked.

James climbed into his son’s new foreign car. “Can’t complain,” he answered. “How was practice?”

“Can’t complain,” Eli answered.

“Thanks for picking me up,” James said, buckling his seat belt.

Eli put the car in gear. “You’ve got to get around somehow.”

“I should be getting my license reinstated by the end of the month. I’ve been attending meetings and completed my hours,” James said.

Eli turned on the local radio station. “Dad, we need to talk. I need to know what the long-term plan is.” Eli was sounding more like the caregiver now.

James considered the question for a moment. “Well, son, I’ve been thinking about that. I think the best thing for me is to continue meetings and keep putting in the work.” James was satisfied with his answer.

“That’s the problem. You were doing that before, and it obviously wasn’t working. I knew you were going to meetings and not telling us. What happened?” Eli asked.

“I was attending them out of guilt. I wasn’t ready to change. But now I am. I hit ‘rock bottom,’ as they call it. I’m changing, I promise.”

The music continued to play.

“I’ve got an idea,” Eli said, breaking the silence, “What if at our next show, you come with us. Take some time off work, get in the van, and come to a few cities. It will give you a chance to be around people and give Ty and I a chance to spend some time with you.”

“You mean you want to babysit me?”

“No! I mean, you’re getting older, and we’re getting older, and we don’t see each other anymore. It can be father/son time, or rehab time, or call it what you want.”

“What does Tyson think about it?”

“It was his idea.”

“So, what do you think about it?”

“It wasn’t my idea, but I like it. Dad, we miss you. And we get it. You did it! You raised us well. We’re not drug addicts or crack heads. We’re good people. At least relatively good people. Now, enjoy some of the fruits of your labor.” Eli was good with allusion. A valuable ability for lyricists.

They both sat in silence, listening to Def Leppard pour sugar on something.

“What would I do?” James asked.

“Whatever you want. You can roadie. Or tune guitars, or just read the local newspaper. We’ve got people now that set up and tear down. Just come and be with us.”

I’m sorry I won’t be there. But you will, James thought.

Eli and Tyson’s band was slowly making a name for themselves. They were invited by famous bands now. Between ticket and merch sales, Eli and Tyson could quit their day jobs, buy cars and live on their own.

“Ok,” James said. “I’ll come. But I’m not going to be your roadie.”

“Deal.”

Part V: Van Halen’s Eruption with a Toxic Introduction

“This is Sam,” Eli said, introducing the young lady to his father. “She’s our manager I was telling you about.”

James had a look of surprise on his face. “Oh, Sam, you’re a girl!” he said, fumbling his words.

“You are correct,” she said with a smile.

Just then, Tyson walked over and joined the conversation, “Hey Sam, sorry you couldn’t make the road trip with us. The drive through the mountains was amazing. We stopped at a natural spring for a dip al naturel,” he said with a bad French accent.

“I’m sure it was, but I didn’t mind forgoing the 12-hour road trip for a 2-hour plane ride. I mean, free peanuts, right?” Sam said.

Tyson chuckled while Eli looked stoic, saying, “Anyway, Sam is responsible for getting our gigs lined up, merch tables, hotels, and everything else Ty and I can’t figure out.”

“She’s amazing, plus we’re able to save money on hotel rooms with Eli and Sam bunking together. I get my own room now!” Tyson added.

Eli’s face went from stoic to red. James felt the tension in the small circle double. Tyson read everyone’s facial expressions. “Wait, does dad not…I mean, dad, you knew….” Tyson stopped talking for a moment. “Well, I need to go tune my drumsticks.” He walked away.

“Sam and I have been dating for a while. I was going to tell you, but in typical Ty fashion, he did it for me.” Eli was looking at the ground avoiding eye contact with his father.

James broke the silence, “You’re still getting paid, right Sam?”

She chuckled, “15 percent off the top.”

“Clever girl!” James and Sam laughed. Eli cracked a smile.

––––

The opening band finished their last song, which meant Blackhole, Eli and Tyson’s band, was next. James was exploring the backstage of the convention center. James walked past the green room, where he saw 3 long-haired men practicing in unison. As James peeked through the small door window, he heard someone say, “Excuse me.” James turned around, and a fourth long-haired man walked through the door.

“You’re….” James was star-struck.

Before he could finish his sentence, the blonde-haired man smiled, “Nice to meet you.”

Just then, Sam walked up to James, “We try not to bother the headliner. Let’s find you a place to watch your boys. They’re next.”

Sam and James made their way to the side stage just out of view of the audience. The Smiths were playing through the sound system while the room was dark.

“The Smiths?” James said out loud, “Interesting choice for a heavy metal show. That must be Tyson’s playlist.”

“Tyson has taken it upon himself to design the stage set, choose pre-show music and plan all theatrical details. He’s really good at it too.”

The music faded, and Tyson, Eli, and Luke, their guitarist, walked by. James locked eyes with Eli and winked at his oldest son.

The bass began to rumble, and the cymbals started ringing. The lights flashed on in an instant, and Eli yelled, “We. Are. Blackhole!”

The crowd went wild. The band played their famous song while the audience headbanged in sync. Tyson was going crazy on drums. He twirled drumsticks between beats and periodically threw them up in the air and caught them.

“He’s got that Tommy Lee vibe!” James said, leaning over to Sam, “I’m glad to see he’s wearing pants, though.

“The crowd loves him.”

James turned his attention to Eli, finger-picking bass riffs while singing. “Who would have ever thought that kid could sing so well?”

Sam stepped closer to James, “Isn’t he amazing? And his writing, he’s poetic, and his songs really mean something. It’s not just empty words about cars and sex.”

James glanced over to Sam, staring at his son. He smiled, “Yeah, he’s got a way with words.” James paused, “But he’s a little stiff. He’s not really moving much.”

“We’re working on it. He can write, play, and sing as well as anyone touring, but he’s not like Tyson. It’s the crowds. They make him nervous even after the last few years of touring,” Sam said.

James continued to study Eli, “Too bad. If he ever loosened up, the audience would go nuts.”

They finished their music set. As they concluded, a guitar tech walked up to James, “Here you go,” he said, trying to hand James a guitar.

James recoiled. “What?”

“Eli said to give you this for the encore.”

James looked over to Eli standing center stage. The crowd was chanting, “Blackhole!”

“Hey, crazy people,” Eli said into the mic, “How would you like one last song?”

The crowd responded with fury and frenzy.

“We’ve got a special guest tonight. I want to introduce you to my dad. But you can call him Pops.”

The crowd began to chant, “Pops. Pops. Pops.” The roadie forced the guitar into James’s hands and placed the strap over his shoulder.

“You’re up!” Sam said with a smile, gently shoving James on stage.

He stumbled onto the stage. Tyson was standing on his throne, shirtless, screaming to his father, “Let’s go!”

Eli walked up to James and began to pull him closer to the front of the stage. “Friends, this is my dad, James. He taught Tyson and me how to play. He raised us to have exquisite taste in music. And he loves us no matter what happens.”

Eli’s stoic demeanor shifted. With James on stage, Eli became someone different, and James saw this transformation take place in only seconds. Eli was smiling and laughing. His body gestures were loose and energetic.

James gazed at the crowd. He dreamed of playing in front of thousands of adoring fans as a child. But never did he think this would become a reality. He looked back at Tyson, who was screaming something.

“What?” James asked.

Another scream from Tyson. James looked towards Eli, “Did he say what I think he said?”

Eli walked up to the mic and gestured for the crowd to quiet down. They obeyed.

James grabbed a guitar pick from the mic stand, looked down at his guitar, and back up to the crowd. He began to play the opening riff to Van Halen’s most famous guitar solo, “Eruption.” The crowd immediately knew what he was playing and erupted. In a gesture of love, Eli went down on one knee to watch his dad play. The one-minute and 42-second guitar solo did exactly what Van Helen intended it to do—prepare the audience for “You Really Got Me.” As James concluded the solo, the crowd continued to scream. Eli stood to his feet and walked up to the mic, “You want one more?” he shouted.

The crowd answered.

Eli looked back at Tyson, then to his father, then to the crowd.

He breathed in a big breath and exhaled, “We. Are. Toxic Butt Sludge!”

The lights lit up everywhere, blinding the onlookers. James began to play Van Helen’s version of “You Really Got Me.” Tyson and Eli joined. Eli came alive on stage. He was taunting the crowd just like David Lee Roth. There were mosh pits everywhere. People of all ages were screaming and singing along to the well-known Van Halen song.

I’m sorry I won’t be there. But you will, James said to himself. The words of his wife ringing in his ears along with the deafening metal music. Eli was jumping up and down while Tyson was twirling and throwing sticks everywhere, all the while keeping perfect timing to the song.

Every once in a great while, an idea is formed that changes the world. It’s not often, but it happens. Like the exact moment, lightning srtuck Benjamin Franklin’s kite. Like the day Steve Jobs met Woz. Like the moment Picasso smeared paint on a wall or when Galileo peered through a telescope. These are life-altering moments in history, not just for the individual but for all of humanity.

Finally, the world was introduced to Toxic Butt Sludge.

Part VI: Private Planes and Gold Chains

“I’ll make you a deal, Jimmy. I’ll buy it if you promise to play at church.’ Young James stood starring at the shiny candy apple red stringed instrument at the local thrift store. ‘But I’m not sure this play sells quality guitars. Maybe we should ask someone else more knowledgeable about these things. This might be a piece of junk for all we know.’

“James was transfixed and unmovable. ‘I want that one,’ he said to his father, ‘I’ll learn to play it, and I promise to play at church if you promise to let me play what I want every other day.”

“His father stretched out his hand to shake his pre-teen son’s hand, ‘Deal.’”

––––

“James spent every waking moment in his room with the candy apple red guitar plugged into a stereo system his father rigged as a make-shift guitar amplifier. Weeks and months passed as he increased in precision and speed. He held up his end of the bargain with his father. Sunday mornings were for God. Friday nights were for the metal gods.

“He found like-minded friends at school, and they formed his first band. They found a small cult following of fans. While playing at a friend’s birthday party, he locked eyes with a cute long-haired girl in the corner. She was wearing a tank-top t-shirt, cut-off jean shorts, and worn-in black Chuck Taylors. After the show, the two began talking. The relationship deepened, and they fell in love.

“They were married only weeks after graduating high school. James had bills to pay, so he quit the band and purchased a suit and tie. Working during the day and raising two sons left little time for music. James didn’t care. He had what he really wanted. His life was perfect until tragedy struck. Peggy was diagnosed with an incurable disease. She would pass away, leaving behind her beloved husband, James, and their two young sons, Eli and Tyson.

“But the story didn’t end there! We’ll be right back to tell you how James turned tragedy into triumph with VH1’s: Behind the Music.”

James sat quietly, staring up at the TV in the airport restaurant. The man sitting next to him looked over to James, “Did it really happen that way?”

James stood up, throwing cash on the bar, granting the stranger a forced smile, “Sure, man,” and walked away.

––––

“Guys, this is an amazing opportunity,” Sam exclaimed. “We had our team go through all the details. We got everything we asked for. The rights to originals, most of the merch sales, and huge percentages from tickets. They even agreed to paint the airplane with Tyson’s design.”

Tyson broke out in laughter, “Are you kidding me? I only put that in the contract to screw with them. And they went for it?” he asked, continuing to laugh. He looked at Eli, “Can you imagine us landing in foreign countries and getting off a slime-green 747 with googly eyes on the front and a bio-hazard logo on the tail fin?”

“You got it all! If you sign this deal, you’ll be the highest paid entertainment act in the world. This will make The Beatles look like lovebugs,” Sam said.

Eli looked towards his father, “Dad?”

James was sitting on a couch doing what he did at most band meetings, reading. He looked up at Eli. “I highlighted something in this book the other day. It says, ‘I must be taken as I have been made. The success is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me.’” He set the book down in his lap.

Eli thought about what his father had read.

“What does that mean?” Tyson asked.

Eli spoke up, “I think it means we make our own fate.”

James nodded. “Boy’s, the experiences we’ve encountered over our lives is what makes us. The good and bad; success and failure. We owe our creation to them. It’s what allows us to make this decision today. We can take a left or right at these crossroads, and neither decision is right or wrong. It’s all part of our creation.”

Tyson still looked confused. “I just can’t see the negatives in this thing. Guys, this is what everyone aspires to. We’ve made it!” he exclaimed.

James stood, “That’s not what I aspired to. It all depends on what success looks like for each of us. You both allowing me to be with you during this time; that’s what success looks like for me. Even with all the arguments, it was unadulterated joy. Now, you two must define your own idea of success. If we sign this paper, we’re rich for life. But it’s not just us anymore. There will be businessmen expecting a certain return on their investments, and we will be contractually obligated to deliver. Or, we can continue down the road we’re on now, making our own decisions, playing when and where we want without interference.”

The boys processed this new information. Then Eli spoke up, “Tyson, you know I never set out to become this big. It’s been fun. But what I’ve found on this journey is different. I found my voice, and I don’t mean singing voice. I’ve discovered who I am, and I found Sam along the way. I’ve got you and dad, too. I’m rich, and without sounding sappy, it’s not the money.”

Tyson began to walk around the conference room table. “What I love most about what we do, is we do what we want to. No one telling us what to say or play, or when we can take a break or how to spend our money. I think I’m a bit of a control freak.”

James stood up and cleared his throat, “Let me see if I can remember all the words. ‘There are those who think that life has nothing left to chance. A holy host of holy horrors to direct our aimless dance,” he said.

Eli interrupted James, “A planet of playthings, we dance on the strings of powers we cannot perceive. The stars aren’t aligned, or the Gods are malign. Blame is better to give than receive.”

Tyson looked at them both, adding, “You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice. If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill.”

Tyson stuck out his hand in the middle of the group. Eli returned the gesture and placed his hand on Tyson’s. James put his on top of his two sons. “I will choose a path that’s clear. I will choose Freewill,” they all chanted as one.

Sam was teary-eyed, “Oh my God guys, you’re making me cry. And I don’t cry!” Eli put his hand around her shoulder and pulled her into the group.

“We could turn that into the greatest song ever written!” she said with a smerk.

“We could,” James said.

“Unfortunately, the holy trinity beat us to it,” Eli said.

Tyson cracked a smile, “Thank you, Rush, for your wisdom.”

Part VII: Two Limes and Good Times

“The three-piece band that started in a garage with a terrible band name had made their final decision. Had the band not passed on one of the most lucrative contracts in history, it would have made them rich and famous beyond all imagination. However, their decision had unintended consequences. When their fan base heard their decision, it endeared them even more. Tyson, the self-described publicist for Toxic Butt Sludge or Toxic BS as they are sometimes referred to, explained on the Howard Stern Show they ‘didn’t want to become a monetized music machine forced to bow to corporate bosses.’ They wanted the ‘Freewill,’ as he described it, to continue making their own decisions so that they would always love making music.

“With each tour, they became bigger and bigger, selling out multi-night performances at arenas and stadiums. New albums were coming out almost yearly, making them one of the most prolific music acts in history with each album selling more than the previous.

“Not since The Beatles had the hysteria of music been so prevalent. And because they retained all the licensing rights to their music, merchandise, and brand, it’s estimated the contract they were offered was exceeded almost ten times, simply because they said ‘no.’ Freewill was their cry, and fans all over the world loved them for it.

“TBS didn’t keep it to themselves. Over the years, it’s estimated they have given more than half of their ticket sales to charitable organizations. They formed a foundation in honor of their mother, where they have now raised millions for medical research and family housing at local hospitals.

“Eli married his longtime girlfriend, Sam, who is now the CFO of Toxic BS Corp. She still manages the day-to-day operations of the band.

“Tyson was married, then divorced, then remarried. His first wife, the daughter of a powerful oil executive, and Tyson were wed after only knowing each other two days. The marriage was annulled. Two years later, he met his wife, a psychology professor with whom he now has 6 children. He has said, ‘It would take someone smarter than me to stay grounded. So, I married a doctor.’

“As for James, he continues to keep a low profile staying out of the media spotlight. He never gives interviews and is rarely seen on camera outside of concerts. If you see him out and about, consider yourself lucky.

“Next on VHI’s: Behind the Music, we’ll look at what the future holds for the world-famous mega-band.”

––––

James sat his club soda with two limes down on the bar top. The woman sitting next to him turned towards him, “Hey, you look like that guy on the TV,” sipping her drink.

James looked up from his book.

“Who brings a book to a dive bar?” she asked. “What are you reading?”

“The Tempest. It’s about….”

“Forgiveness,” the woman said, cutting him off.

“You read it?” he asked.

“I teach it,” she said.

James looked confused.

“Tenth grade English.”

James’s attention to the stranger intensified. “So, what’s that like?”

She thought about the question. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”

James was more confused.

“I guess you haven’t got to that part of the book,” she said with a timid smile.

“I guess not.” He placed the book on the bar top.

“I love it, and I hate it. It’s the most rewarding job one could have and the most difficult, all simultaneously. ‘“O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people isn’t!’” said recited.

James was stunned. “Tempest?” he asked.

She adjusted her barstool towards him, “You’ll get to that page soon enough. Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.

“The club soda is free.”

“Can’t you get soda water anywhere? Why are you here?”

“Because bar-folk are the least judgmental people I know.”

She shrugged, “So that guy on TV, people probably say you look like him?” she asked.

“I’ve heard it a few times.”

“I bet he’s a complete jerk. He probably lives in a castle in Europe with maids, butlers and obnoxious short-legged dogs.”

“Probably.”

The bartender walked up to the pair.

“Can you get me another one of these?” tapping her glass, “And freshen up my friend’s soda water.”

“You want some fresh limes, James?” the bartender asked.

The woman looked up at the TV and back to James. “James?” she asked. “You even have the same name?”

The bartender started laughing. “Good one, lady.” He walked away to pour their drinks.

She turned her attention back to James. “Wait. Wait. Are you—”

Before she could finish her sentence, James picked up his glass, “Cheers,” he said, tapping his glass to hers. “What’s your name?

“Georgina,” she answered, biting her bottom lip.

Part VIII: Point to the Sky and Say Goodbye

“It’s just time. I don’t want to be one of those guys still playing on stage all wrinkled and old. Let me go out gracefully,” James said.

Tyson was becoming emotional. “Screw the music and the shows. We get to do this together. Isn’t that worth it?”

“Of course! But I’m not quitting you and Eli. I’m retiring from the band.”

“We are the band! There’s no Toxic Butt Sludge without you.” The tears in his eyes were forming.

Eli spoke up, “What will you do?”

“I’ve been planning that for years; you just didn’t know it,” James said.

Eli looked confused, “What does that mean?”

James sat down in one of the conference room chairs at Toxic BS Headquarters, “All those books I was always reading—it wasn’t just for leisure. They were for classes.”

“You got a degree?” Eli asked.

“It’s a little more than that. One degree turned into two, then three.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well, I finally stopped with a Doct….”

“What?” Tyson exclaimed, “You’re a doctor?”

“Not a medical doctor, but, yes, a doctorate. In literature. So, my plan is to retire from the band and teach.”

“Teach what?” Eli asked.

“High school English,” he answered.

“You don’t need a Ph. D to teach high schoolers,” Eli said.

“You’re right, but you asked what my plan is. That’s been my plan for years. Raising you two was the greatest gift and experience of my life. I figure if I teach high schoolers, I can continue to help raise some kids. I didn’t do too bad with you boys.”

“Do you really think your students will be able to concentrate on having the world’s most famous rock star teaching them how to conjugate a verb?” Tyson asked.

“Not at first, but the thing I love about kids is they don’t get star struck. They’ll get over it.”

“So, when does this all happen?” Eli asked.

“I considered one final tour. But Georgina had a better idea. What if we do one last show at the biggest stadium we can find. A benefit, like what Queen did a few years back. We give the proceeds to the foundation. We’ll do a few nights. We’ll raise millions. It will give the fans what they want and give me a chance to end this right. Doing right by others.”

Tyson and Eli thought about it.

“I like it. Go out with a bang. It’s poetic,” Eli said.

“You guys and your poetry. Fine. It sounds like this isn’t a negotiation. But I get it,” Tyson said, “I knew your girlfriend was going to change you.”

“She showed me that I still have a few years ahead of me and can make my own way. Freewill. Remember?”

“Don’t use my words against me,” Tyson quickly responded.

“They aren’t your words,” Eli said with a smile.

––––

The final encore was always the best part of the show. The fans were left wondering if the band would return. They always did.

Tyson made his way on stage carrying a water bottle and drumsticks. Eli followed, holding his bass. The room became madness.

James, now standing next to Georgina, gave her a small kiss. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” and stepped into position.

Eli walked up to the mic, “Well, friends….” He paused to choose his words carefully. “I mean, family. One last swan song for you, our extended family. That’s what it’s all about. That’s what it’s always been about. That’s why Ty, Pops, and I are here. But you gotta fight for it! It ain’t easy, but it’s worth it. Here’s some free advice for each of you. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to just be present. Be there for the people you love. Don’t try to have all the answers, and don’t try to fix everything.” Then he pointed up to the star-lit sky, “Mom, this last one is for you.”

The band began playing the opening riff to “Freewill” by Rush.

“One last piece of advice.” Eli said into the mic before singing the lyrics, “it’s not a dumb band name if you get to do it with the people you love.”

Eli took one last deep breath and yelled, “We. Are Toxic Butt Sludge!