An Even Bigger Butterfly, Part 6.
If you're a bassist, then you know a drummer. If you don't, you should either find a drummer or take up something less strenuous and demeaning...perhaps being a lot lizard, alligator proctologist, or bunk punk at the nearest SuperMax facility.

My Drummer (when it's the one and only, you capitalize) was/is/will always be Matt. He's been my all-too-willing accomplice, musical and otherwise, for about 16+ years. As such, we have a history, a bond, and enough blackmail material to have the other guy put down like a rabid dog.
Matt's role was usually that of a facilitator; he made things happen, usually from out of left field, and with him in place, as he was that night, life was never boring.

Matt pulled up in his styling K-car (this was 1991, after all) and immediately started piling gear into the Pit. While it may have looked like a plumbing experiment gone horribly wrong, any trained eye would have identified it as an overpriced drum kit of considerable proportions.
Matt assured me, between trips to and fro, that there were even more girls coming, which confirmed Jacques' theory. The only problem, and he freely admits this, was his choice of wheelmen.

Dio Phil is a terrible, terrible driver. I'm pretty sure he could hit a parked car WITH a parked car, in fact. He's a good cat, even though he keeps trying to kill me (indirectly, of course!)
Exhibit A in my case against him is the fact that he was driving three girls from Southern to my house on that night.

Phil had it down to a science: he would blast past the end of my street at furious speeds, go about a mile, then call my house from a payphone. As his failure mounted, his despair started to get the better of him. If memory serves, he eventually just waited for us to pick up, then started mewling like a newborn.

Heeding Phil's third frenzied plea (somewhat), we took turns walking to the corner of my street and watching him drive by. After the 11th pass, I stepped out into Ocean Ave. and flagged him down.
There is only so much suffering I can stand to watch, although I find that threshold growing daily.

The girls, thankful to their respective deities, were more than happy to leave the Philmobile. One was Wendy, a known problem child with barely enough mental stability to nurture complete sentences, much less sustained conversations; the second was Teri, who possessed an amazing brain...but forgot who I was between meetings, even if I had hit on her (which might say worse things about my technique than I'd previously realized); the last one was M., and she's the one you should be watching.