Two Schlongs for the Price of None
A Tale of Punk Legends, Nudity, and a Guy Named Wayne (That I Wrote During the Opening Act at a New Pornographers Show)
Schlong has been one of my favorite bands for over thirty years. Most people wouldn’t share my love for a band that covered Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours in its entirety in barely more than twelve minutes, in a release they titled Tumours.
Dave Mello of Operation Ivy fame joined his brother Pat and friend Gavin McArthur to form a power trio that blended punk rock with elements of ska, country, blues, and jazz. Dave and Pat were in Downfall together, with Tim ‘Lint’ Armstrong of Operation Ivy and Rancid.
The guys from Schlong also had a band called Three Finger Spread, a bluegrass band in the loosest sense, best known for their song Phone Me Bone Me, but mostly not known at all. Don’t let their obscurity fool you into thinking that when I joined a bluegrass band in the mid-nineties, we didn’t cover Phone Me Bone Me at the Sawdust Festival in Laguna Beach. Because I know you were thinking that didn’t happen, and you were about to feel really stupid.
The one time I saw Schlong perform live was at The Barn, on the UC Riverside campus. I hated Riverside shows in general, and The Barn specifically, but seeing Schlong made the irritation worthwhile.
When my friends and I arrived at the venue, the show was sold out, not because there were a lot of Schlong fans in Riverside — I think we were the only people there to see them — but presumably there was a more popular band on the bill, or maybe just a lot of college rock shitheads looking for a mosh pit or an unsuspecting coed to grope.
Getting into sold out shows was never especially hard. We found the band in the parking lot, with a friend of theirs who introduced himself as Fuckin’ Wayne, and we asked if they could get us inside. They suggested we each carry in one of Dave’s drums and then just walk down to the floor and stay there — a tactic we’d employ a few more times in the coming years.
The crowd booed the band and part of me was glad they didn’t like it. As a young guitarist I was thrilled with Gavin’s phrasing and use of harmonics.
After their set we joined the band and Fuckin’ Wayne in a green room of sorts — an unused classroom in a portable.
We hung out and talked shop a bit; Gavin’s sister, Melissa was also there, and AJ was smitten when he learned that she was the singer for Raooul. She would later go on to be featured on Schlong’s Punk Side Story, their 43-minute version of West Side Story.
We talked about bands we liked, about the East Bay punk scene, and the perils of masturbating with shampoo. “I pissed fire for a week,” Gavin warned us.
I don’t remember how it started, but at some point Fuckin’ Wayne took out his penis and started chasing AJ and me around the room. I was immediately reminded of the moment I first realized my parents were fallible.
I was two years old, and had just finished peeing, while my older sister stood at the bathroom sink, washing her hands. I looked at her, and I had an idea.
“I’m gonna pee on you! I’m gonna pee on you!”
She shrieked, then ran, and I chased, yelling, “I’m gonna pee on you I’m gonna pee on you I’m gonna pee on you …”
The fun ended quickly when I was snared by one of my parents and given a spanking. It was one of the only times I was ever spanked, and I had tried to explain that clearly I wasn’t really going to pee on my sister — I had already finished peeing. But they spanked me anyway, and it was then that I knew they had the capacity to be wrong.
Back in shit-stinking Riverside, Fuckin’ Wayne settled into a chair. “This is my penis. It’s small, but it’s mine.”
Gavin sneaked up behind him and dumped a bucket of ice onto his lap, but Fuckin’ Wayne merely piled the ice cubes around his shrinking dink and wiggled it like a cold worm.
____
The next weekend I ran into Fuckin’ Wayne at another show. “Fuckin’ Wayne!”
“Oh, hey guys … Hey … Is it true that I masturbated in a bucket of ice cubes? I don’t remember any of that night.”
“Yeah, well … Not successfully …” I answered.
Wayne apologized, which was totally unnecessary — he was neither the first nor the last person to chase one of us with his dick out.
He said it was nice to meet us again, and that if we ever wanted to get in touch, we could mail him at Guttermouth’s PO Box.
I never saw him again, but I hope he’s well.