The Legend of Rockin’ Rodney

by Front Row Philly…

It was the old gang together again. What was left of it, anyway. It was Graham Kraker, Ted Danson and me. I was going to have to make this trip without my attorney, always a dicey affair. And who is Rockin’ Rodney? That’s the question we find ourselves still asking, even today.

It was somewhere around the turn of the new millennium and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young were coming to town. Not my town, but close enough: Austin, Texas. I never pass up a chance to see David Crosby in concert because I never know when it will be the last. How is that guy still even alive?

Yes, I’m a Neil Young guy; everybody knows that. But it’s important never to underestimate the importance of David Crosby. Along with Jerry Garcia, he’s the poster child for rock and roll in the 1960s. And here’s something I found out the last time I saw CSNY in concert: he really rocks. At times, more so even than Neil.

It’s true. The last time I saw CSNY, David Crosby blew everyone away, including Neil Young. Poor Stephen Stills looked like he was going to drop dead at any moment; Graham Nash was, well, Graham Nash; but David Crosby, man did he blow it out. Especially when he sang Almost Cut My Hair.

The awful truth is that David Crosby is the very definition of the term: what might have been. He’s so good these days, people always have to wonder how much he could have achieved in his prime if he hadn’t been so self-destructive.

Seriously, who else but David Crosby could bring together the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Joni Mitchell, Carlos Santana, and Neil Young to play on an album? I’m talking about his first solo album and one of the great lost treasures, If I Could Only Remember My Name. Pretty much sums it all up.

Forgotten treasure or not, David Crosby was a huge star back in the 60s. Heck, his album even went to Number 12 on the Billboard charts. But don’t get me started on the whole lost David Crosby-era thingy. This story is about the one they call Rockin’ Rodney, and how we came to rock it with him the night of the big concert.

Anyway. So there we were, Graham Kraker, Ted Danson and I, alive and well and staying at the Four Seasons in downtown Austin. We might have seen our better days, but just like those old rockers up on stage, we could still put on a good show now and again.

I reserved the Presidential Suite for us all that night (nothing but the best for a bunch of old has-beens like ourselves), but there seemed to be a problem: whoever was staying in our room the night before still had not checked out. “No problem,” I told the bellman, “just come find us in the bar when it’s ready.” Waiting in the bar was a ritual for old war horses like us.

A few hours passed and no less than the hotel manager himself came to tell us that our room was still not ready.

“Would it be okay if we put you up in the Governor’s Suite until the current occupant of your room checks out?” the manager said. “Then we’ll move all your stuff and get you situated.”

The Governor’s Suite? WTF?

“Okay, I guess,” I told him. I love staying in hotels, the way everyone’s always kissing your ass all the time. It’s quite a different story than at home.

Anyway, the truth is we just wanted somewhere private for a few hours before the concert, somewhere we could ramp-up the party. You know what I’m talking about: somewhere we could crank up our own music and enjoy the sort of party favors you just can’t imbibe in public.

“Sure,” I told him. “That would be fine. We’re going to the concert tonight, so just have out things moved by the time we get back.”

So there we were in the Governor’s Suite, rocking-out to Neil Young and getting our pre-concert buzz on. Ted Danson and Graham Kraker were fighting over whether to play Tom Petty or the Grateful Dead next. Didn’t matter to me. The way I was feeling by then, just about anything would do. Just no Michael McDonald. NO MICHAEL MCDONALD! No problem.

About an hour before the concert was set to start, Ted whips out a half sheet of acid he calls Bettys. Why? Because there was a picture of Betty Boop on them. I’d had Snoopy and Charlie Brown acid in my day, Woodstock and Bugs Bunny too. But never Betty Boop. I love Betty Boop. While many believe Betty is a caricature of famous Twenties’ flapper Clara Bow, she was actually modeled after the singer Helen Kane.

So we take our Betty Boops. One hour was just enough time to get to the concert and let the drug start doing its work. There was only one problem: where were the tickets. I had purchased front row tickets for the concert—the only way to fly—but now they were nowhere to be found.

We looked everywhere, praying to God not only to find the tickets, but to do so before the acid kicked in. Once the acid kicked in, we’d be lucky to remember our names, much less where I’d hidden the tickets.

We looked everywhere. Once that was done, we looked in all the fucked-up places like in the fridge, the microwave, even the toilet bowl tank. No luck.

It was then I decided to employ and old Vulcan mind trick. I went deep into my subconscious, retracing my steps as best I could in my mind until I yelled out “Shazam.” That’s when I went over to the big oriental run in the middle of the room and turned back one of its corners.

“Bingo!” yelled Graham Kraker, and we were on our way. Why I hid the tickets under the rug, why I even hid the tickets at all, I’ll never know. Sad part is: I’d done it before, and I’d do it again.

When we got to the concert I pulled out the tickets and that’s when I remembered: we had four tickets, not three. Chemise Lacoste was supposed to have made the trip but wound up taking a left turn instead of a right and ended up in rehab instead. We dedicated this voyage to him.

But the point was: we had one ticket too many. The face value of the ticket was a hundred bucks, and a hundred bucks would be just about enough to keep our whistles wet the whole concert long. That was it: $100. I wasn’t looking to make a profit on the thing: that would spoil the whole spirit of the evening.

So I offered-up the ticket—front row and center—for exactly the same price as I paid for it. It was a great deal. Heck, you couldn’t get a front row ticket now, with the show just about to start, even if you tried.

Surprisingly though, there were no takers. That is until this Mimi Bobeck-looking broad came up and said she’d give me twenty bucks for it. Twenty bucks? That wasn’t an offer; that was an insult.

So I ignored her and kept on looking. But she kept following me around, upping her bid to twenty-five. Thirty, she said, was her final offer.

This disgusting, piggy-like woman was really starting to roach my buzz, ruining the mood of the whole concert experience, when I finally told her, “I’ll give this ticket away before I sell it to you.”

“Okay,” she said, “then do it. Give it away. I dare you.”

That was it. Nobody dares T Philleous.

So I did; and it surprised the hell out of her—out of everyone—when I found this tall, thin, mousy-looking fellow with a mustache standing over by the bushes just minding his own business.

“Hey,” I said to him. “How would you like to go see Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young?’

“I’d like that a lot,” he said.

“How would you like to be sitting in the front row?”

“I’d like that a lot,” he said.

“How would you like to do it for free?”

“I’d like that a lot.”

So that was that. The deal was struck. This guy, by no means of his own, just became the luckiest guy in Austin, Texas that night. On top of that, Ted slipped him a hit of acid and we bought his drinks all night long. He was, after all, our guest. When all was said and done, I was so glad I never sold that ticket. Besides, what’s thirty bucks compared to having a great story to tell?

“Hi,” I told him. “I’m T Philly, this is Ted Danson, and this is Graham Kraker.”

“Nice to meet you all,” he said. “My name is Rodney.”

Several hours later there we are in the pit, on the front row, drinking pretty heavily and hanging out with this dentist and his wife from Dallas. Seems the dentist is only allowed to party one day out of the year, and this is the day. He’s out of his head on X and he’s having the time of his life. His eyeballs are rolling back in his head, he’s sweating profusely, and his wife is loving every minute of it. I always heard that dentists were hard partiers; I never knew their wives had such a great sense of humor too.

That’s when Graham turns to me and says, “What happened to Rodney?” I have no idea.

All of a sudden, we see Rodney up on stage. He’s running full speed toward Neil Young and screaming like a banshee. Right as he’s about to tackle the Godfather of Grunge, this big bald security guard comes out of nowhere, lifts him up in the air and whisks him off the stage. The band keeps on playing like it never happened at all. I don’t think Neil ever even saw him; it wasn’t like Rodney was some hot chick or something.

Luckily for Rodney, the concert was just about over anyway. When we came outside, there he was waiting for us. “What’s next?” said Rodney. What the night had in store for us, none of us ever would have guessed.

So there we are outside after the concert. Next thing we know we’re heading back to the hotel, Rodney in tow. We decide this time to take a taxi as we were old men and the thought of hoofing it back just didn’t have the same appeal it did three hours ago. Besides, we were still booming and had no doubt we would wind up going the wrong way.

So we make it back to the Four Seasons and we must have looked a fright, all sweaty with our hair sticking up and wandering the halls because quite frankly: we were lost as hell. No one remembered where the room was, and we couldn’t even find the bar—not that they would have served us, anyway.

Eventually a bellman tracked us down and showed us the way. I imagine some cranky old fart must have called down to the front desk and told them there were four laughing hyenas roaming the halls and could they call in Marlon Perkins.

Anyhoo, the bellman shows us to our room and was so polite because: we were staying in the Presidential Suite. Besides wanting the best room in the house because I was with my good friends again, there’s another very important reason for slapping down nearly $5000 a night: They won’t throw you out!

When you’re laying down that kind of dough, you can get as drunk as you want, play the music as loud as you want, even throw a TV off the side of the balcony if you want. No matter what you do, they won’t throw you out. Well, I’m not sure about the TV part; but pretty much anything else goes.

And they’re polite as hell to you the whole time. No matter what you do it’s Yes Sir this, and Yes Sir that. I wish I could live in a hotel all the time, that is until the next morning when I wake up with a hangover. Plus, I’d miss my dog Slugger; so scrap that.

Anyway, so the bellman tracks us down and somehow he gets us all on the elevator. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get four guys in the depths of an acid trip on an elevator? It’s hard. Very hard. This guy was good.

So we make it back to the room and the second we walk in that’s when I realize, “Hey, we’re supposed to have the Presidential Suite.”

“Yes, sir,” says the bellman. “Unfortunately, the current occupant never did check out, so we brought you a little something we hope will make it up to you.”

I’m about to let this little Yes Man have it when I look over at the dining room table and sitting on top of it is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. No, it wasn’t the Crown of Thorns or the Holy Grail itself, but it might as well have been. It was a huge mound of beer, bottles and bottles of the finest imported pilsner sitting on top of a mountain of ice: cool, sparkling, refreshing ice. All I could think was:

Rodney fell to his knees.

“Again,” said the bellman, “the management apologizes. We hope you will enjoy the rest of your stay at the Four Seasons.”

Fuck off, was what went through my head; thank you, was what came out of my mouth. For $5000 a night, you’d think we’d get the room we asked for. Now, none of that mattered anymore. It was time to get settled in. As for Rodney, he must have died and thought he went to hobo heaven. For all four of us, the night was just getting started.

We guzzled those beers as fast as we could. What began as a profound appreciation for the quality and craftsmanship of each and every beer soon became a chug-fest. We cranked up that stereo as loud as it would go and tore that place apart. About the only thing that could get us kicked out of our room now might be a dead body, and even that, I wasn’t so sure of anymore.

At some point in the evening we decided it would be funny to go pee off the side of the balcony and curse the current occupants of the Presidential Suite. OUR suite! Rodney said he’d be right there; he needed the get another beer.

So there we were with our dicks in our hands, all screaming out the chorus of Rockin’ in the Free World, when who comes out on the balcony below us but Neil Young himself. WTF! So that’s the “Current Occupant.” It all made sense now.

Now, instead of cursing the current occupant of the Presidential Suite, we felt honored. To have none other than Neil Young himself kick us out of our rightful room; it was an honor and a privilege. Oh the stories we would tell. You ain’t heard nothing yet.

We put our dicks back in our pants and the next thing we know we’re talking to the guy. To Neil Young. Just like old friends. And then out walks who but David Crosby himself. THE David Crosby. All of a sudden that mountain of beer seemed like nothing at all; like anything would when stacked up against the Counter Culture Messiah himself.

The only problem was, we didn’t know what to say. That can happen to anyone you know: getting star struck like that. Then Ted says to David Crosby, “What was it like playing with Jerry during the Perro sessions?” Fucking Ted and his Grateful Dead. That’s the thing with Dead Heads: all they ever want to talk about is Jerry Garcia.

But it was the perfect question. David Crosby really seemed to appreciate the trip down memory lane. Then, suddenly, the good times came to a crashing halt.

We’re just getting settled into a cool conversation with THE David Crosby when all of a sudden Rodney comes running out on the balcony screaming “Rocking in the free world,” with his dick in his hand. Before we can say anything, he’s letting one fly. He’s pissing like a race horse two flights down and it hits both Neil Young and David Crosby right on top of their big bald heads.

“No,” we scream at Rodney, but it’s too late. Once a man gets started peeing, there’s just no stopping him.

We run back into the room, Rodney close behind. We lock the door and close the drapes, turn off all the lights and hide in the bathroom.

“What happened?” said Rodney. “Is my mother here?”

“No,” I tell Rodney, “you’re mother isn’t here. Now be quiet.”

There we were, all jammed up in a little bathroom, just waiting for that inevitable knocking at the door and the accompanying shout-out, “Security!”

Want to know what can get you thrown out of the Four Seasons hotel, even if you’re paying $5000 a night? Pissing on someone’s head. Especially when it’s the head of someone rich and famous.

We waited and waited for that imminent busting down of the door, but it never came. We wondered if maybe Neil and David thought it had started raining and went back inside. Could be.

After an hour or so, Graham Kraker got up the courage to make his way through the room and look out the front door peephole. Nothing. No one. The coast was clear.

There was no one outside on the balcony either, and no one still down below. Eventually, we cranked up the music and got back to our party. We ordered up another mountain of beer, not caring how much it cost because we had just dodged a serious bullet. After dodging a bullet like that, you feel like Superman. We were all Superman, all night long. Just like old times.

Rodney asked if he could play some Joe Walsh and we said fine. Just no Michael McDonald. NO MICHAEL MCDONALD!

When I woke up the next morning, Graham Kraker was crashed out in one of the bedrooms, but Ted was still awake, nursing a Heineken. Ted was like that. He could go for days on-end without sleep. One time, he even went a week.

Things had calmed down by now and Ted was taking the opportunity to play a little Garcia and Grisman. Ted loved his Jerry Garcia, and who could blame him. Along with David Crosby, Jerry Garcia really was a musical god.

I asked Ted, “Did that really happen?” Ted just smiled and handed me a beer.

“Where’s Rodney?” I asked him.

He said Rodney took off. Said he was staying on his sister’s couch and had to babysit during the day. Rodney, the babysitter? Lord help us all.

“What a story he’ll have to tell all his friends,” I said. “Only problem is, no one’s going to believe him.”

Ted just laughed.

“Did you get his phone number?” I asked.

“Said he didn’t have one,” said Ted, “But I did get his email.”

Ted handed me a piece of paper with some scribbling on it. It said: RockinRodney@aol.com. Rockin’ Rodney. Fuck’n A.

The Legend of Rockin’ Rodney is the latest in the Flashbytes series from worst-selling author T Philly Loyd. According to Loyd, every event in this story is true. Exactly what happened to whom, where it all happened and when, well, the details are still a little foggy. Neither David Crosby nor Neil Young could be reached for comment. When asked about the story, Ted Danson just smiled.

Download our riveting tale … Part I – Part II

T Philly Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. Loyd has worked for Forbes and McGraw Hill, each time running for his life as if waking up from a nightmare. He dreams of one day moving to Hollywood and winning a Razzie. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas.