OU812

     David Lee Roth’s garish spandex leggings sparkle in the noon daylight. He’s beat. He tries to jog his memory as to how he got on this desert highway or where it is he’s going, but the heat of the sun won’t let him remember. He just keeps on walking.

     A crossroad sits in front of him. Up ahead, he can see a blonde, poofy-headed guy in wide genie pants. It is Sammy Hagar. Upon closer inspection, Roth notices that he’s also wearing a cut-off ‘5150’ tour shit. His overly curly, canary-yellow hair drips with sweat.

     "Diamond Dave," Hagar exclaims, "what the fuck, hombre?"

     "How’s it hangin’ there, Bozo," Roth zips back.

     "What are the odds, man?" asks Hagar. "Two lead singers for one of the world’s premiere rock bands walkin’ along the same stretch of road! Fuckin’ crazy, baby!"

     "Bound to happen eventually, I guess," answers Roth, "but there’s one thing wrong with what you just said, Cap’n Trips."

     "What do you mean?" asks Hagar.

     "There were only the world’s premiere rock band when I was with ‘um, you dig? You were just a pale imitation, my pasty friend."

     "Oh, here it comes."

     "And what kind of soft-bellied, schimmy schister wears his own band’s t-shirt? It looks like you raided the Van Halen merchandizing table before it closed down for the night. Grabbed whatever was left from the shittiest tour on earth. Mother McCree, you just don’t keep up with fashion, do you?"

     "Listen here, Dave, I appreciate your legacy with the big VH and everything, startin’ up this band and all, but once you left, the dynasty was up for grabs, lock, stock and mutherfuckin’ barrel! Yeah, sure, I rode this here horse, but I rode it on my terms and picked up more Top 40 hits than your sorry, gymnast-lookin’ ass ever did on your watch! And need I remind you of your second album, ‘Skyscraper?’ That made ‘Eat ‘Um and Smile’ look like the fuckin’ ‘White Album!’ And ‘Eat ‘Um And Smile’ sucked! Meanwhile, Van Hagar was leavin’ your ‘1984’ legacy in the dust. Sure, we didn’t put out anything nearly as rockin’ as, say, VH I or VH II, but we sold out stadiums to beat the band. And by "the band," I mean your solo band! And make fun of my clothes all you want, but I’m not the one wearing snowboard gear in the middle of a fuckin’ desert!"

     David Lee Roth is perplexed.  "Touché" he says.

     No cars pass by the crossroad. No birds or airplanes overhead. Sammy scans the horizon.

     "You got any idea where the hell we are?" he asks.

     "Maybe," replies Roth. "Kinda’ reminds me of a place my pappy used to tell me about before he put me to sleep with a teaspoon of Jack. Seems this cat named Robert Johnson stood at this very spot when Papa Scratch showed up, decked out in full red regalia. Offered Johnson the blues in exchange for his soul. If Johnson hadn’t given it up, right here on this spot, I gotta’ sneakin’ speculation we wouldn’t be here either."

     "Yeah," sighs Hagar," I’ve heard that one, but I think your logic is a bit flawed, D.D."

     "How so?"

     "Well, Robert Johnson got what he needed and became a legend, starting blues, rock and everything else. But we’ve gotten everything we’ve ever needed. I’ve got Cabo Wabo and a successful line of tequila and you’ve got . . . "

     Roth gives him a questioning glance.

     "Well," continues Hagar, "you’ve still got your hair."

     "Amen," replies Roth. 

     "So, why would the devil show up here?" asks Hagar. "I mean, what’s the point, you know? Where in the fuck are we?"

     Suddenly, out of thin air appears Gary Cherone, the third lead singer for Van Halen (of the dreaded VH III album). He walks up slowly to the two men.

     "Gentlemen," he says, "welcome to Hell."




-SLL