(Before we dive in--and yes, be prepared for nautical metaphors, despite the marathon theme of this post--a note for the Man Eater readers who like depth: there will be some profound revelations by the end of this post. Stick with me…)
Mallman and I first crossed paths this summer outside First Avenue…after a hot-dog eating contest, of all things. When our two monstrous egos were introduced, Mallman and I stood there, skeptically sizing each other up like, “Who the hell do you think you are?” Suffice to say, no sparks flew on either side. Still, I can respect a man insane enough to attempt the longest song in history.
On the first day of the 78-hour-long event, I was contemplating whether or not to catch Josh Miller’s set at the Turf Club; on the “Go!” side: the yummy drummer’s propensity for playing bare-chested. On the “Stay!” side: the last time I’d invited their manager, Cody Broccoli, to bring The Goondas over to my place to *unload* in the Jacuzzi, he’d said, “The boys are afraid of you. Especially your hot tub.”
Well, then. So much for my skinny dipping orgy! But was it worth the drive to see Josh's six pack?
ME: Do I get two-for-one eye candy if I come down to the Turf?
CB: Yeah. Mallman and Josh will be there.
ME: NOT who I was referring to...
Mallman's marathon was a must-see, but that's as far as my interest in him goes. He's one of the few rock stars I have no desire to see nude. Instead of devolving to groupie status, I went to yoga. In between “om” and home, Cody texted me to say he was at the club.
Grr!!! You guys have no idea how much work it takes to look like a sexpot! There are hot metal instruments involved. And don’t get me started on accessorizing. It’s a pain in the ass and a major time investment. If I’m gonna get gussied up, I don’t want to come home alone.
ME: I’m not coming down there unless Josh takes his shirt off and/or I’m getting laid.
CB: He’s already shirtless. Watch online and…
Now we’re talkin’! May I just say how brilliant live streaming is? This way, I could ogle Josh banging away on the drum set while simultaneously enjoying my favorite Jacuzzi jet! Score!
My good luck continued. On Saturday, I landed a guest blogging spot on Gimme Noise (a.k.a. the aural authority). My shift happened to coincide with Pictures of Then's set. I was psyched!
Technical difficulties delayed my first post. Thank goddess for Erik Hess, who, on top (heh heh) of being a kick-ass photographer, is also a computer whiz. I was reluctant to hand over my oft-infected computer, but in his capable hands, he not only fixed the problem, he made some mind-blowing stuff appear onscreen.
“I’ve never seen my computer do that before!” I exclaimed as he clicked and connected, uncovered secret tabs, and sounded all the bells & whistles I knew were on my laptop but had never figured out how to control.
Erik smiled slyly at me, as if to imply that women often praise the prowess of his fingertips. When Erik and I have a conversation, virtually (there’s a computer pun for you!) every sentence could be followed by, “That’s what she said.” His subtlety is what makes him such a great dirty-talker.
That weekend, Erik was also going the distance, photographically speaking. He’d hardly left the Turf since the event began.
“What was your favorite set so far?” I asked.
Erik shrugged. “That’s like turning to your partner in the afterglow and asking, So, which part did you like best? It’s all good.”
I agreed...but admitted that I was nervous about my ability to convey the aural ecstasy onscreen.
“Again, it’s like sex,” Erik said. “It’s better if you don’t over-think it.”
True...though guest blogging is a whole different animal. Or a caged animal. At the very least, it’s Man Eater on a leash. Without my innuendo, suitors, or the mention of food…fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! (Oh, I forgot, no F-bombs allowed, either.) Working under the constraints of proper grammar, tame puns, and impeccable punctuation, I was downgraded from a literary tigress to a domestic pussycat. You can read my five hours of relative brilliance here.
Though Mallman was generous with both edible references and naughty puns, it took all my concentration to keep up with his constant flow of quotables, plus snap a few pictures of my boys mid-performance. The stress was rough on my brain and the sound tore up my ears. By the end of Pictures of Then’s set, I was practically deaf.
“You need earplugs,” Erik shouted at me.
“Earplugs are like umbrellas and sunglasses,” I said. “Responsible adult stuff I avoid.”
Erik shook his head.
“If you’re going to hang out with these kinds of guys, you need to use protection, Erica…”
Touché.
When my shift was done, the party was just getting started. Former interviewees Dan Zamzow took the stage and the Mercurial Rage cuties had just arrived. I wanted to stay, but I had a pair on mini-me’s waiting in PJ’s at home for a bedtime story.
Later that evening, as I was about to slip off to dreamland myself, PofT frontman Casey Call texted me. He was back at the Turf with the rest of the boys…and Playboy was there.
Knowing all those bearded men were in the same club would make it impossible to sleep. Back across town I sped.
“You’re back!” one of the many musicians I’d blogged about earlier exclaimed as soon as I walked through the door. “But you’re wearing the same clothes! The least you could have done was showered.”
(Wow…where’s that Minnesota Nice when you need it?)
“I know, I probably stink,” I said. “But I figured everyone else was stinky, too.”
Just as I was saying those oh-so-unsexy words, who do you suppose appeared? Playboy, of course. The last two times I’ve run into Playboy in public, our encounters have been a tad awkward. It’s almost as if we don’t have anything in common besides those fantastic fuck sessions of the past. Cue Ida Maria's "I like you so much better when you're naked!" song.
“So…” Playboy said.
“How have you been?” I asked.
“Good.”
“Good.”
Playboy inhaled slowly, his face tensing as though it was physically painful to attempt small talk with me.
“I need to get some air,” he sighed and slipped out the door.
I guess there’s something to be said for leaving a man breathless, but...what a bummer.
Had the weekend hit its peak already?
The next day was 10-10-10, a numerical combo that suggested something magical was in the stars, so I pumped iron and primped with my hot instruments and returned to the Turf. There were tons of young, attractive men in attendance, several of whom were giving me the look. I felt like I could have my pick…if only there had been one I wanted…but the one I really wanted wasn't there...
A wave of loneliness washed over me. Despite the corporeal closeness of the hotties around me (Yes, one "accidentally" bumped by boob. He apologized, but I almost wanted to thank him.), I realized I haven't been touched by a man (hugs by my many platonic male friends, delicious though they may be, don't count) in two months. That's a looooong fucking time considering how much time I've spent fucking this year!
I was dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean! I felt waterlogged and weary. Most people would say I wasn’t allowed to complain of being tired considering the musician onstage who was still singing after three days sans sleep…yet Mallman had a huge crowd cheering him on. Mallman could count down the minutes until he was done. My race to find a mate wouldn’t end until…well…what would define the finish line in this scenario anyway? The moment when I finally meet my groom at the altar? Who knows how long that’s going to take?! And even when I do remarry, who’s to say how long it will last?
To keep my myself from having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the dance floor, I boogeyed. At 10 PM, Mallman staggered offstage and I headed toward the exit…where I ran smack into another former blog subject.
Some time back, this man had mailed me to express his displeasure about finding himself in the blog. (Kinda makes you wonder why he was reading in the first place...)
“You’ll get over it,” I reassured him. “They all do. In a year from now, we might be...well, who knows...”
Now, here we were. Eyes locked. No escape hatch. Of all the people I could've bumped into, why did it have to be the only one who didn't want to bump and grind with me?
I was prepared to pull the Minnesota Ice act and walk right past him as if we’d never met. To my surprise, however, he addressed me. We then (gasp!) engaged in civil conversation (albeit momentary). Dare I add that I was aroused? Like, nipping out up top and getting juiced down below? Yes!!!
Even more shocking: when he and I parted, I said, “Good to see you.” And I meant it!
WTF?! Go ahead, Universe, throw me another loop because I’m not confused enough as it is!
As I sauntered out to the parking lot, feeling completely out-of-body, Mallman was being ushered into a car behind the club. Fans were huddling around, eager to speak to, and spend time with, the now historic rock star.
“He needs his rest!” someone exclaimed and slammed the car door shut.
I know the feeling (of being depleted, I mean). This past year of dating has been like swimming as hard and fast as I can toward some distant shoreline...which somehow turns out to be a mirage every time. I, like Mallman, just wanted to crawl into bed. The difference between me and him was that I didn’t want to do so alone...
***
I arrived home that night and did my desperately childish wishing-on-a-star thing that I do when the sky is especially glittery. A moment later, as I fished for the front door key in my purse, something jumped out from the shadows and landed at my feet.
It was a frog.
No, I didn’t kiss it. (Haven’t I done enough of that already?!) And truth be told, it was probably a toad. But I was feeling superstitious…so I sort of kissed my pointer finger and gently pressed my digit to the frog’s slimy skin.
After a shiver shot up my spine, I went inside, got in the hot tub, came until I lost count, and cried myself to sleep.
Mark Mallman's Marathon III? Complete. Mine? The never-ending story...
***
In honor of Mark Mallman and his super-human fete, I created this muffin recipe. These pastries are so packed with healthy stuff (and a fair amount of sugar), they'll power you rock star wannabes out there through *any* endurance event!
MARK MALLMAN MARATHON MUFFINS
Ingredients
3 ¾ cups flour
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
1 ½ tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon cinnamon
4 medium, ripe bananas, mashed
1 ½ cups milk
1 ¼ cup smooth peanut butter
5 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
1 ½ large eggs, beaten
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
Method
• Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Fill 3 muffin tins with 36 liners or 4 Jumbo muffins tins with 24 liners. In other words: this recipe makes a lotta muffins. Come hungry.
• Combine flour, sugars, baking powder, salt and the cinnamon in large bowl; stir.
• In separate bowl, combine mashed bananas, milk, peanut butter, egg, oil, and vanilla; mix until incorporated.
• Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients; stir just until uniform. Fold in chocolate chips.
• Fill muffin cups ¾ full of batter. Bake for 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean.
• Remove tins from oven; let stand 2 minutes, then gently transfer muffins to cooling rack.
• Enjoy immediately and go rock someone's world tonight!
***
And now for some eye candy. Here's a vid of my Pictures of Then boys rocking out with Mallman:
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