This is about the night I ate a hot dog topped with crunchy peanut butter.
Back in May I was enjoying some Beams and Bohs at Ottobar with my buddy Rar Kelly, the resident DJ at F#@K the RENT, one of Baltimore’s best dance parties (Listen to some Rar Kelly real talk here. Yay for shameless friend promotion!). We won a pair of tickets to see Jane’s Addiction. (Yay! Free tickets! I love free things).
So last week we were waiting in the beer line at the Lyric for an inordinate amount of time (seriously, there weren’t mixed drinks. How long does it take to pop the top off of a bottle of beer or pour a glass of wine?) when a mustachioed man with kohl-rimmed eyes, sporting a bowler hat and bow tie said to us,
Do you want to go backstage to see Perry?
Fuck yeah, said Mr. Kelly.
Hey, I was game. And then Mystery Mustache Guy offered leather cuffs dangling off of a long, metal chain. Seriously. Look at my dainty wrist.
And with that Mr. Kelly and I were tethered and lead around the theater–down the aisles, across the stage, back into the lobby, while the Steampunky guy collected others and then backstage where we just stood around for a bit–shackled to four ladies.
And then we went into a little room and watched Jane’s Addiction perform a couple songs. Yeah, there I was in a darkened room with Perry Farrell no more than 8 feet away from me. It was pretty rad. Honestly, I didn’t realize how rad until after it was over. The whole time I kept thinking: my mum had such a crush on Dave Navarro and his guyliner when he had that reality show with Carmen Electra.
2 song set done. Boom. Stephen Perkins threw his drumsticks, which Mr. Kelly scooped up. He told me they had the following exchange:
Are you a drummer? Perkins asked.
Nah, but I make beats.
Brian, throw some shade for me.
Who the fuck says that?
So, going back into the theater Mr. Kelly just waltzed past the usher when she asked for tickets. We were already in here, and again when we sat in one of the boxes right next to the stage. It’s OK, we came from backstage.
These are not the droids you’re looking for.
That’s some fucking Jedi mind trick shit. I need to be the Skywalker to his Obi-Wan. I need to learn how to do this.
The only other time this happened to me (and, well, and it didn’t just ‘happen’ to me) is when I feigned a phobia of heights to exchange scalped, obstructed view tickets at an *NSYNC show (don’t judge!) for full-view at a lower tier, and snuck a video camera into the arena (this is before the iphone) through strategically placed tampons in my backpack. True story.
Anyhoo, the moral of this story is this: when someone asks if you want to join the bondage chain gang you say “yes.” Even if your host looks like he fell out of some sort of gothic Yellow Submarine.
And also, try to associate yourself with cocky little dude like Mr. Kelly who acts as though he owns the place. Like. A. Boss.
And now, to the hot dogs!
The evening started in my tiny kitchen. I told Mr. Kelly to come over for hot dogs. Which in itself is a ridiculous thing to say, albeit one that I am sure I will say a lot in the future. You like hot dogs? Well, boy do I have a frankfurter for you!
Well, Mr. Kelly thought it would just be regular ol’ hot dogs. He didn’t know that he was in for Frank Wrap-Ups and Nutty Pups from my 1963 first edition of Barbecues and Picnics from the Better Homes & Gardens Creative Cooking Library. Surprise! It’s a new favorite for all ages!
Yes, you read that right: hot dog + dill relish + bacon + peanut butter.
So I got my ingredients out. I made a back up set of Frank Wrap-Ups that were stuffed with American cheese. You know, just in case the Nutty Pups were as bad as the Peanut Butter Special.
Shit. BH&G, you got me. You win. These were delicious.
In summation, bondage gear and all, the weirdest thing about that night was the fact that I ate a hot dog with chunky peanut butter on it.
And liked it.