First of all, go back if you have somehow missed:

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR

Okay?

Alright. So my fifteen minutes are NOT up. But I STILL HAVE LEAVES TO RAKE. But first, a few phone calls and E-mails......check AGAIN for hallucinations, and out in the yard we go.......and of course, we do not get very much done.

But, tonight we will at least be going to the show together instead of in separate cars (or, one of us not at all.) Because tonight there will be no surprises.

No one's coming with us tonight, so we're on our own. I explain to Wendy over dinner the wisdom of planting ourselves right up against the middle of the stage. For both smoke and safety purposes.

I am planning to take a leisurely shower and be real pretty for the two or three songs I figure I'll be singing. These plans are, of course, going to be scotched. See, it's 6:05 PM and I have just climbed into the shower--when the phone rings, Wendy picks it up.......and it's Eddie Shaw. Sound check at 7, and they need me.

I hadn't reckoned with a sound check, of course, and neither had Eddie or the rest of the Monks. Well, cool, except for WHAT IT SAYS ON THIS HERE CLOCK.

So, since Wendy is not yet ready, we will once again be travelling separately, Not that I am ready MYSELF, you understand. I am wet and semi-clothed. And, frankly, I look stupid enough when DRESSED--even apart from the fact that it's kinda cold outside. Usedta be gorgeous, make no mistake--now I'm just "cute." The hair needs some attention, which it plainly ain't gonna get.

So I hop in the car, fully clothed but still wet, and hurtle towards Manhattan. As I lurch out of the driveway, it's about 6:25. Not a chance.

Well, I drive PRUDENTLY and get there at, oh, I don't know, 6:27? No, actually it was about 7:10. Not bad.

I do not stroll in like last night, I more like STEAM in . Most of the Monks are already on stage, so I make my presence known and the rest of 'em come up too, one at a time.

All weekend, I have been waiting for one particular thing to happen, and it finally does. If you've read Eddie's book, you know all about Larry and his penchant for breaking into Green Onions whenever the opportunity may arise. I've been hoping he'll do so. So I'm sitting on the front lip of the stage, with no one ONSTAGE except Larry and Roger, and....there it is! Green Onions!

Dave's banjo is on its stand, right next to me. I cannot help myself. I grab it and start playing the bass line--that's right, on the BANJO. It sounds fairly wacky. I look up and see Kelley shaking his head and grinning.

So, the band files onto the stage, and the soundcheck starts. I cannot for the life of me remember what songs they did, other than Monk Time, but it was only a couple. For my part I was much looser this time, and I didn't concentrate so hard on looking humble. The band was having a lot more fun too. When I pointed and howled "Alright, his name's Gary", Gary even smiled and took a little bow--accompanied by much cheering from the assembled Monk People, Cavestomp People, and members of other bands waiting for their own soundchecks--which tonight, happily, they were actually going to GET. I note, among the Members Of Other Bands, some more "Children", and my spirits go way up. Yay! More Garage Kids! I don't know who they are, of course, but I'm hoping for something resembling another Mooney Suzuki experience.

Remember, the Monks are SECOND billed tonight, which means I've missed the Standells' soundcheck. Damn. That would have been good. Which brings up an interesting problem--if I'm gonna see the show tonight, it will not only involve beating it out of there before the pre-Monks act is done, but also coming offstage AFTER the Monks' set and finding my way back to Audience Ground Zero. Whatever Secrets Of Osmosis are known only to Alex and Melissa, I'm gonna have to learn.

Okay, but I'm still ON STAGE WITH THE MONKS, doing a sound check--I'm sure they did at least two or three songs......the second one must have been Oh How To Do Now, I believe.....but if there was a third I can't recall it. Is that ridiculous? Anyway I gave 'em everything I could give 'em. There was a little trouble with the PA, as usual, and that gives me an excellent opportunity to talk about the Cavestomp Sound Man, "Dave."

Remember when I was talking about how the Stage Manager, "Nigel" [Austin] was so refreshingly devoid of "attitude" for someone in his position? Well, he's got nothin' on Dave. ("Dave" is, in fact, his ACTUAL NAME, and not one I am making up because he LOOKS like his name should be "Dave.") For those of you who have NOT had the UNSPEAKABLE pleasure of dealing with The House Sound Man (in other words, a guy who works for the Hall or the Promoter and DOESN'T WORK FOR YOU OR YOUR BAND) then let me point out, in case you haven't figured this out yet, that said Sound Man is "AAAA", which stands for "Almost Always An A....." well, you get it. I hate to keep pounding on this point, but I am still marvelling at the sweetness, sunshine, and lollipops exhibited by nearly everyone connected with Cavestomp. And Dave The Sound Man was certainly no exception.....in fact he was the Standard Bearer. Here's me on stage with The Monks, right? Not exactly in any position to be a Prima Donna. Or maybe I was, I dunno, but I was careful not to be. Whatever timid request I made to Dave for some sort of adjustment (and there were quite a few) he was not only on it in a heartbeat, but with the most helpful attitude you could possible imagine. And he was the same way with every other band during the shows (remember, I was up REEEEL CLOSE and got to see every little wrinkle, including Dave doing Olympic Sprints from the back of the hall to the stage and back again, several times.) So if ever you run into a sound man named "Dave", ask him if he's THAT Dave. If he is, you're gonna be okay. Okay?

NOW I remember--the last song we did was I Can't Get Over You. This became the source of a small quantity of anguish. Before we started, Gary told me not to sing the high part, because it made the harmonies sound empty--that I should just drop down and find an open slot in the three-part, and sneak in there. So I did that--and to my ears it didn't sound right. That falsetto is what makes the song--that and Larry's "answer" to it. So I'm wondering if I should heed Gary's wishes during the show or not.

So, The Monks finish up, to much applause, and pile off the stage. People are pumping my hand like I was the Second Coming. Very different mood tonight among the small crowd--there's no panic. Everybody KNOWS it's gonna be great, and besides Gary will be doing a larger share of the singing. But they're all piling all over me like I saved the show or something. This, as I've said, feels awfully good. I don't get this at the job. I get snubbed, ignored, and treated like a child. THIS is, wait for it, somehow DIFFERENT!!!!!!!!!

But I, of course, am the only idiot who is thinking THIS: tonight it's not The Monks' House. It's the Standells' House. Maybe with the Monks SECOND on the bill the audience will be less friendly toward some Brillo-Headed Retard who Shouldn't Oughtta Be Up There. I dismiss this thought because here, walking toward me, is Will--whom I have not seen, remember, since before the Monks' set on Friday. Turns out he was sick all day Saturday and never made that night's show. Now he needs fillin' in. This I do.

He wants to know what Wendy thought of my performance, too. Well, you know, she's seen me turned loose onstage with my idols oh, hundreds of times. He asks a crude and allusive question about what might have happened when she got me home Friday night. (This sort of question, coming from Will, is entertaining rather than annoying.) The truth is not very poetic: we had some milk and cookies, tried in vain to wring the nicotine phlegm out of our windpipes, and went to sleep. Happy??

We Monk Hangers-On have formed, in these few quick days, a rather tight knot of new friendships. Cool people, all. Real nice but also with enough demons to remain interesting in the off-moments. Here, for your approval, is a photo I just got from Sherrie--she snapped it just after I leaped off the stage--a shot of Kelley, My Own Dopey Self, and Will. See No Evil, Sing No Evil, and.......well, just "Evil", I guess he'd prefer.

As we're walking towards the door, Dave and Eddie pull me aside. "What was that you were singing during I Can't Get Over You???" Great. I can see what's coming. So I tell 'em what Gary said, and it is their opinion that I should sing what I HAVE been singing. NOW I have a dilemma. But I'll worry about it later......

Will, I, and a few others pile out into the lobby. Dave Day heads for the bar with Irene. That's where Dave lives, for this entire weekend. If I were talking about anyone else, I'd say "holds court", but that's not Dave. He's just another guy in the crowd having a good time. "I'm a Monk, you're a Monk, we're ALL Monks." Never truer.

I see Alex and Kelley, say quick hellos, and then Sherrie, Eddie, and I go upstairs to the dressing room area to drop off our Personal Belongings. As I burst out of the stairwell, I nearly hurtle directly into Anja. I blurt out something clever like "You were AMAZING last night," (oops...) and just at that instant Mike Stax comes out of the men's room, smiles, and I continue "and YOU......!" They are both very self-effacing and gracious. Stax has finally made the connection between Me The Guy Who Sang With The Monks, and Me The Guy Who Made The Monks Xmas Tape, and Me The Guy Who's Written To Him A Few Times. So now I am Fully Assembled for him. We talk for a few seconds about the sheer enormity of the events of this weekend, and then suddenly our man "Nigel" [.........aaaaaahh, I give up....] bounds over, followed by Eddie and Sherrie, waving a small cache of Official Backstage Access Wristbands, which we all must wear.

If you've looked hard at some of the pictures from Friday and Saturday, you've seen these wristbands on a few folks. On the two previous nights, they were a luminous green. Tonight, they're a yellow and black checkerboard pattern. I know that doesn't seem so very important right now, but hang onto it for a minute.

Just to prove that even "Nigel" is not perfect, there has been a bit of a Wristband Shortfall this final evening. Wristbands were somewhat shy of a full load, so not everyone got one. Eddie relinquished his so I could have it and there'd be no mishaps later. Remember THAT too.

I'm chatting idly with a couple of guys wearing "Standells" T-shirts. Remember THAT as well, as if you can't GUESS where THIS ends up. Don't forget, I'm an IDIOT. That will help you guess.

Now I wanna go back downstairs to look, for the first time, through the wares at the Vendor Tables. I'm heading down the empty stairwell--and then, bursting through the door at the bottom comes the only person I haven't seen since popping off the stage--Jerod. He looks at me, I look at him, and neither of us can say a word. We both just burst out laughing. It's both a catharsis and a sheer inability to verbalize the incredible, unbelievable turn of events of the last few days. Finally he finds some English, well before I do: "I cannot even imagine what this must feel like for you." Good on ya, J.

Now, in comes Dietmar Post, with his ubiquitous video camera and huge microphone. He has, as I said earlier, been capturing virtually every second of this week's activity. Now he wants me to sit for a quick interview. In the stairwell. Obligingly, I babble incoherently for five minutes about the importance of The Monks to music history, etc., etc......Dietmar seems satisfied with whatever I said, and he smiles and packs up, then goes upstairs. I dunno. Possibly it was a cunning ruse. He'll cut up the tape to make me sound even stupider than I DID. "Ja, that vill teach him not to try to hoax DIETMAR!" But all this is in my own big dopey head, of course. Of course?

I pop out of the stairwell, into the lobby, and drift over to the Sundazed Corner--and who might be manning the booth but Tim Livingston and Bob Irwin. Is that classy? Here are two guys who are so constantly busy with project stacked atop project that they have probably forgotten the names of several immediate family members--yet they have the time AND the humility to stand behind a f***ing card table and hawk CDs to the proles IN PERSON. Very cool. I never got a chance to meet or talk to Tim, who was being monopolized by some large fellow, but I picked out two things to buy: Canterbury Fair and Josefus--there, THAT'S rather well-rounded of me, yes?--and Bob sees me. I have brought with me several copies of both my Monks Xmas tape and also my fake Moby Grape tape--(which I have variously titled "Maybe Grape" and also "Faux Be Grape")--along with my fake Jefferson Airplane plus Janis Joplin tape.......

(You, Dear Reader, can hear all of these in encoded RealAudio elsewhere--if ya go back to my home page and click on "Historical Musical Hoaxes".)

So I give Bob a copy of each, and he deigns to give me one of the CDs free, which frankly is Right Neighborly of him. I LIKE this guy.

I drift over to the Monks table, where I find Alex, Jerod, and Joanne--the entire Telegraph Company. I spy on the table BOTH of their "products"--the Church Of Betty CD and the Kelley Stoltz CD. I am about to purchase both when Jerod just hands 'em to me. I give him a copy of Maybe Grape & Jefferson Janis, which he had earlier expressed an interest in.

I wander around the other booths for a little while, and then come back. Now Kelley's there, sitting behind the table. I give him his copy of the Grape thing. Kelley, although neither of us knows it, is just about to cement himself into my personal Pantheon Of Cool People with headroom to spare. He catches a glimpse at the aforementioned wristband, and says, "Wow--that's the back cover of Safe As Milk."

I will remember Kelley Stoltz as long as I may live.

I go back upstairs to dump the CDs and a couple of other things I picked up, in the Monks' dressing room, and by this time prudence dictates I should go into the theater and Assume The Position if I don't wanna lose it. This I now do. Wendy has been instructed to look for me right here...and I have told Alex, stationed in the lobby, to keep an eye peeled for her. Of course, they don't bring the ticketholders in through the lobby..............figures.

Melissa appears at my left, wraith-like, clockwork-like.....and shortly thereafter Wendy arrives. I introduce them.

The first band slithers stageward, and Peter Z walks out--he sees me right up front, and leans down and hollers, "You singin' tonight?" I tell him as much as I know about that, and he smiles and nods, and he's off. I could get used to this, I think. Sure. All I need is for the Monks to keep playing together (not so very likely, I'm afraid) and for Gary to get sick every time. Think I'll go buy a Powerball ticket.

Well, here come the Young Soul Rebels, or something......the "children" I saw at the soundcheck earlier. They are called the GREENHORNES, and THEY ARE WONDERFUL. I was hoping against hope, as I said earlier, for another Mooney Suzuki Epiphany and against all odds I get one.

They look so f***ing YOUNG. This is a marvelous thing. I wish I could see another new band of twenty-year-olds playing music like this every night. I would suck up all the smoke in Kingdom Come for such an eventuality. I don't know how old these guys actually are but they do NOT look like they've been driving very long.

At any rate, the Greenhornes play Your Basic Garage but with a little dollop of Big City Soulboy Grit thrown in for good measure--now THAT'S a recipe. (Nobody else has been doing that this weekend.) 'Cause, frankly, most retro-garage music is just a little too white--which is weird considering its antecedents. I need a little touch of Buckinghams/Rascals/Soul Survivors in my Garage Band Soup every four or five bands, y'know?? The Greenhornes are not quite in the aforementioned area, but they're a step in that direction. They're from Cincinnatti, apparently. Why not? SOMEBODY has to be from Cincinnatti......

The singer/guitarist is a little bit somnambulent, and he looks out-of-place with the rest of them, who are palpably lunatics. They're shakin' it like they'll break it. The drummer is an analog to Mooney Suzuki's drummer--but this one looks like he's old enough to go to the prom, at least. Saw him at the sound check. Also saw the keyboard player (that's right, KEYBOARD PLAYER)--who looks uncannily like Ratliff from the Eyebeam comic strip.

The crowd is as happy with these guys as I am, and Sunday night is off to another cracking start. How great is this? I have cringed my way through countless opening acts, starting back in 1968.......and here, at Cavestomp, three days, fifteen bands, NONE that I hated and only a couple that I could take or leave. This....is.....just.......wonderful.........

After they finish and get off, Peter Z points out some people in the audience--Miriam Linna, just a little bit to my left, and Rudi Protrudi of the Fuzztones, right at arm's length. (Now HERE'S a guy who has managed to completely re-invent himself. I will never forget one night at the old Ritz, in the very early 1980s--I think the headliner was XTC. Yes. On their last tour. I'm sure of it. Anyway, the opening act was a band called "Tina Peel"--a chirpy, cheesy little punk-pop band whose big song, you may remember, was a song about a poodle stuck in a microwave oven--called "Fifi Goes Pop." Lots of grinning and dancing. Well, you guessed it. This band eventually morphed into the Fuzztones. And got away with it. Pretty cool, I think.)

Anyways, I elect to NOT share this insight with him at this time.

Next, from Japan, the 5,6,7,8s.

Now, listen. Novelty takes you just exactly so far. It's three girls, from Japan, with limited knowledge of English--and acting and sounding exactly as you would expect--giggling in all the wrong places and posturing in some even worse places. JUST as you'd expect--ESPECIALLY if you've already seen Shonen Knife. They weren't BAD at all--they were actually kinda fun--but: memo to any promoters thinking of bringing any MORE Japanese girl pop-punk trios to our fair shores: This was enough. Enough by 150 percent. There. That's as mean and nasty as I'm going to get. I've said my piece. Besides, as I say, they weren't bad. The neatest part, if you DON'T happen to be a slack-jawed neanderthal, was watching all the OTHER slack-jawed neanderthals in the audience--who saw the slender leather-clad silhouettes before the lights came up, and started hooting and howling their slack-jawed neanderthal heads off, only to find--when the lights came up--that the girls were actually kinda plain-looking. (They did, however, have several very underaged-looking little friends in the front of the audience, hopping up and down, waving to the band, and squealing in Japanese. The neanderthals did not get to see THEM, since they were in front. Ha!)

During the 5,6,7,8s' set, we witnessed the ONLY time all weekend that Dave The Sound Man was not equal to his task--he was unable to understand the singer/guitarist's repeated plea, enunciated slowly and painstakingly, to "Pree-za have maw lee-vah-lub on my vo-ca-ra, pree-za!!" I don't know why he didn't understand that...... really I don't. Having some trouble with it yourself? Finally a few of us up front turned around, faced the back of the hall, and yelled "REVERB!!!!" And glad to have been of heh-ropp. Poor girl.

And now it is time for the stage to start burning. It's THE FLESHTONES. For some reason, I have never gotten around to seeing them. But I know this is gonna be great.

There's a weird thing you notice when watching all the best high-energy "party" bands--like these guys, like the Vipers, like the Smithereens--if you watch 'em clinically--they're like drill teams. What happens on stage may be completely anarchic or spontaneous but it always looks like they spent weeks on the choreography. That's what makes 'em so great. That's what sets them apart from the merely excellent Greenhornes and Hatebombs of the world, who are still jelling, as it were.

But THIS........this is how it's DONE.

Peter is out of his mind. His shoulders are actually flipping around perpendicular to the rest of his body plane. Keith Streng is possessed. I know he sees and recognizes that it's me right in front of him, though he doesn't let on--and with military precision he repeatedly swings his guitar neck about two inches over my head, with enough force to remove teeth. I grin like an idiot and do not move an inch. I know it ain't gonna hit me. This is part of the show and I'm loving it.

The bass player--whose name, DAMMIT, I can't remember--is simply one of the best I've ever seen. And Bill, the drummer, is a dynamo. I can't imagine anyone else taking his place. Like the Vipers, these guys were born to play together. I repeat: THIS is how it's DONE. It's like watching the Harlem Globetrotters.

Suddenly I'm reminded--oh yeah! I gotta GO! Can you believe this? I'm about to go onstage with the MONKS, for God's sake, and I'm so transfixed by Peter And Co. that I have ACTUALLY FORGOTTEN. I laugh hysterically, to myself, and just at this moment Peter decides to use my shoulder and that of the guy to my right as PARALLEL BARS with which to vault out into the audience......nope, I gotta stay just a LITTLE BIT LONGER. This is too good.

When Peter makes it back up onto the stage, I turn tail and slither. The crowd actually parts to make way. I see several of 'em "whispering" (or what passes for whispering) to each other and pointing at me as I pass. I will assume I must have had some spinach stuck in my teeth or something.

Naw, that couldn't be it......

Anyway, I make it to the Secret Door in the foyer and damn if there isn't a Huge Security Goon at the door. THIS is new. There had always been someone stationed there but they were always much more benign-looking little fellers. No problem, of course--I had my little black-and-yellow checkered wristband on. I urge you again to remember this wristband for later.

Up the stairs and into Monkland again......say hi again to those guys in the Standells T-shirts....(remember, once again, that I am an IDIOT. This will be important later on.) A couple of 5,6,7,8s are being interviewed by somebody.

I see Roger first, then Larry, then Dave.....suddenly this is all Old Hat. Just another day on the job. For THESE guys, I mean, not for ME. They do not have any pre-show jitters. It seemed like they did on Friday, but they were hiding it pretty well. Tonight seems different. They're ready for anything and there are no nerves on display. And why should there be? Their legacy is secure. The only guy with his nads hanging over a blowtorch is.....yours truly. But it feels different for ME as well.....not enough to be YAWNING, mind you, but it almost feels like I BELONG HERE. And this is good. Because I'm well aware that, Friday night, I must have looked like I was about to be burned at the stake. Didn't know where to put my hands, where to look, how to move, IF I should move. Tonight.....well, it's not gonna be James Brown or anything, but it's not gonna be Frankenmonk either. Mach schau, mein boy!

Wendy has my camera. She has new glasses and can't focus too well. She's gonna just keep snapping and hope she gets something good.

And here, for one last time, is "Nigel"........."Alright then, lads.....I just have got to say it....since we probably won't get the chance afterwards......it's been great working with you all, it's just been splendid, it's been SUPER...."

And, suddenly, just in time, I have it. It's Eric Idle doing David Frost.

God bless you, "Nigel", even though your name is actually Austin. I do hope I run into you again sometime.

I've got one of Gary's guitars again. We trundle on into the front stairwell. Roger claps me on the shoulder. "Ready to save another show?"

Golly, coach. You bet.

Down the stairs we go, in a group this time, and nobody gets lost. We have Official Escort all the way around the side to the stage. The audience goes insane as the Monks walk past them through the crowd. We set the stage, I help Gary with his foot pedals, and we're off the other side again. The movie starts--and of course, I again will not see or hear it, and I still haven't to this day.

We're on the stairwell. The door, this time, is mercifully open. I can't recall whether we went back upstairs or not. But I do remember that they didn't play the whole film this time, just a little of it.

Anybody know what time it is? Oh, sorry........

And the band is suddenly onstage. Bang. It's obvious right from the start--Friday may have been amazing, but this is gonna be better.

Gary is still froggy, but he's right there on the money. Monk Time has all its original power tonight. The audience is still a little put-off by the sound of Gary's voice--but tonight, at least, most of 'em know that I'm coming. I think.

Gary works my introduction into the ending of Monk Time, and this time he tells 'em who I actually AM. The crowd is happy. I'm happy. Eddie has personally tied my little white rope tonight and it looks correct this time. Gimme something to do.

And it's Oh How To Do Now. This is VERY different from Friday. Like I said, not James Brown or anything, but much more comfortable. I am

inspired to give 'em a little extra in the vocal department, as well. I'm halfway through the first verse when I realize I'm not doing Gary Burger, I'm doing something closer to Robert Plant. I quickly adjust, for THIS will never "do, now."

Wendy is snapping pictures like crazy, and of course many of them don't come out. But here's a lucky break: Frankel was completely unable to get any good shots of Larry or Eddie on Friday. Wendy got a great Larry and two thoroughly AMAZING Eddies, which you see here. NOW do you see what I meant when I mentioned Bing Crosby?

And, for those of you out there who might be wondering just what The Mysterious Alex might look like--well, you still don't know. But you can see what she'd look like if she were Half-Woman-Half-Camera, if you look next to Larry. Hope that helps.

Now I'm offstage for four songs--We Do Wie Du, Drunken Maria, Pretty Suzanne, and Hushie Pushie. And during Wie Du, somebody taps me on the shoulder and hands me a Box Of Water. Well, a box of BOTTLES of water. "These are for the band!" she yells. I nod. "No," she says, "The band has to have these onstage. They were supposed to be onstage before the band came out!" She looks panicked. So I tell her I will personally see to it that the Box Of Water is properly distributed. She leaves.

It's a pisser to watch Roger sing Drunken Maria as though it were Shakespeare. This is what's so fascinating about WATCHING The Monks, whether in person or on old German video--they're playful where you expect them to be deadly serious, and they're deadly serious where you expect them to be playful. I'm kinda sorry I never got to do the little yelpy "Mar-iiiiiii-aaaaaah!" parts--they had re-arranged the tune a little bit and it was important for Gary to do those, so the band would know where they were in the tune--but I did get to do 'em at that first soundcheck. What a blast that was. Of course, by sticking to the record I brought the new arrangement down in flames--but hey. It was kinda fun to listen to. Like Fibber McGee's closet. I had half expected Larry to break into Green Onions again.

That's why it was Gary who sang 'em at the shows!

Pretty Suzanne was next. Now here's an interesting case of Differing Perspectives. I remember--BOTH nights--the audience being transfixed, riveted, open-mouthed. Will, however, says they didn't like it--at least not where HE was. I dunno--they looked pretty well transported from where I was standing. I could've sunk ping-pong balls in all their mouths from my vantage point. At any rate, Gary's singing was much stronger tonight, and I thought the song sounded fabulous.

Following Hushie Pushie, I'm back on--WITH the Box Of Water--for Cuckoo. Funny thing about this song. It's a post-Black Monk Time single, of course, and sounds radically different from anything on the album. I know, ('cause it says so in the liner notes) that Gary hates it--(a "dog's ass," I believe he said)--and I don't think ANY of the Monks particularly care for the song--but what's weird is that it's an audience favorite. I have nothing against it myself, don't get me wrong--I just would expect these legions of Humorless Monk Fans to feel otherwise. Glad they don't, 'cause that's ME singing that incredibly wacky high part. Being careful, of course, NOT to flap my arms this time. At least not till the last chorus.

I'm off again for Monk Chant, and even though I've already seen the Dave-And-Gary shtick twice, I can't wait to see it again. It's actually even BETTER tonight. This song is like a steamroller.

NOW comes the part I've been waiting to see. Gary has decided to keep Complication for himself tonight. Obviously he won't be howling like the guy on the record--but I suspect that this is a song with which he can really command the whole place WITHOUT his whole voice. And I'm right. He barks out the words rather than yowling them, and he has the audience eating out of his hand. Fabulous. From there into That's My Girl, which is somehow even funnier in THIS voice than in the squeaky one on the record. Gary's in his element now--and the song goes on much longer than on the record. He's ad-libbing like the pro that he is. "Chuck! Turn the lights up! I can't see her! Hey! CHUCK!!!"

As it turns out, the guy working the lights was not named "Chuck." This may have somthing or other to do with why the lights never came up. I don't know.

Anyway, I'm standing back in the wings wishing I could run around front, watch this, and then run backstage again in time--but it all looks plenty cool enough from the back, believe you me buddy pal mister.

Shut Up is next, and then I'm back. As I come back out on stage, Gary and (I think) Eddie--maybe Dave--give the audience a quick run-down on the events that led to my being onstage with them this weekend. Then they do something that truly knocks the stuffing out of me. The Monks, of course, stride onstage in long hooded capes, which they throw off before starting to play. Gary now says something to the effect that they have a surprise for Mike, and then Dave walks over to me with a cape, drapes it around me, and the audience squeals like the dickens. I am truly overwhelmed. Sentimental gestures usually make me squirm, but this one gets to me. I pull the hood up tight and yank the thing around me like a black straitjacket as the band slams into I Can't Get Over You. Now--remember my "which-part-to-sing" dilemma? Well, as a result of the Cape Presentation Incident, I very neatly--and completely accidentally--manage to sidestep the entire issue by simply FORGETTING the entire damned conversation. I was all the way in the last chorus before I remembered that Gary had wanted me to sing a lower part in this song. So I avoided all the potential angst, at least--and I guess it sounded okay the way it was. Hey, I know--we'll "fix it in the mix!" Ha. Yeah.

Gary hollers into the mic, "Higgle-dy Piggle-dy, let's DO IT!" and we're off. This, tonight just as Friday night, is the song wherein the audience seems to appreciate my presence most. I throw off the cape and let 'em have it. Yodelling is actually kinda fun as long as you don't get locked up for it. Also, this is my last tune, and this is the first time it strikes me that I have actually gotten very used to this Cavestomp Planet I have been dropped down on, and it is not going to be easy to leave it and go back to Earth--where the only thing that sets me apart, apparently, is my hair. I respond to this encroaching thought by shaking said hair like I was singing with the Yardbirds (or the Loons!) rather than the Monks. The audience either loves me or has gotten together before the show and agreed to participate in a Gigantic Mass Deception for my benefit. This is good.

Good, and also OVER. I actually hear Gary shout, as though this was the Jerry Lewis Telethon, "Let's have another hand for Mike!" The aforementioned audience responds loudly. I'm outta here, and once again without covering the stage with blood OR pee. The score: multiple fluids IN, and NO FLUIDS OUT. This is the least one can hope for, and I succeed. I literally sprint for the wings as Blast Off begins.

Just a word, at this point, about these here pictures of me. I've finally given in to the fact that all photos of me, taken in the last fifteen years, are NOT bad pictures. Hear me out.

In my twenties, I looked somewhat Leonine. Well, who doesn't? And, in my bathroom mirror, I still do. That swarthy bastard staring soulfully out at me from the bathroom mirror is a Finely Chiselled Specimen. He's got high, deeply cut cheekbones, a gorgeous vertical cleft in each cheek, big brown puppy-dog eyes--glorious tumbling, tousled brown curls--he's cute as hell.

Unfortunately, the minute he steps away from that bathroom mirror, he turns into something that looks like a waterlogged potato wearing a shredded brillo pad. What the hell???

For years, I managed to convince myself that EVERY picture taken of me was a BAD picture. One of the things I was hoping for, during this weekend, was that Stage Lighting might bring Bathroom Mirror Boy out to play. However, these pictures, like all the others, reveal someone who--while far from grotesque--appears to be made out of marzipan. Well, that's that. As soon as I figure out how, I am going to take a reciprocating saw and cut my entire bathroom out in one piece, strap it to my shoulders (which ALSO look real good in the bathroom mirror) and carry it with me wherever I go. No, really. You have to see this guy. He's gorgeous. Do come stand in my shower sometime and look over my shoulder. I bet YOU look better in there too.

Where the hell was I??? Oh yeah.......

At the close of Blast Off, something weird happens. Instead of coming off stage, the Monks lurch straight into I Hate You, which Gary has said he will sing tonight. But it was their encore number. I suddenly realize: as of yet, no Cavestomp artists except each night's headliner has been allowed an encore. So I assume the Monks are just gonna play what WOULD have been their encore, as part of the set. That sucks, though--after all they've been through they really deserve to yank just a little more love out of this audience. Just that little lagniappe, that indefinable little extra.

Now, another surprise--especially for ME. Gary turns around and waves me back onto the stage. I'm not exactly sure I'm understanding this gesture, and I raise my eyebrows "askance".....and he nods almost impatiently and gestures for me to come out. He hollers into my ear that the first verse is mine, and maybe he'll take the second one. For a second I think he must have blown his voice out for real--then I realize that he has just hollered into my left ear very powerfully, and that ain't it--he WANTS me to take the show out. This is one immeasurably classy son-of-a-bitch, Gary Burger. They ALL are. 'Cause they're all grinning like Jack-O'-Lanterns as I grab the mic. Gary looks out at the crowd and points to me.

They've lowered the key on this one, as I said, and that makes it a little bit harder for me to reach the fever pitch that the song needs. But my veins are filling with lye. I hit the first couple of lines in a voice that actually surprises me. "DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU....."

Gary leans into the second verse hard. This is the last singing he'll have to do before he beats it back to Minnesota, and he has decided to let 'em have it. He's wailing. "Weeeeellllll, I hate you with a passion bay-bayyyyyyyyyyy, yeh-I-doooooooo....." The audience is going nuts. Me too. Then something TRULY bizarre happens--he jumps back from the mic and points to ME again. In the middle of the verse. I'm paralyzed for just a second. Then I lurch toward the mic as if I have an important message to deliver.

At this point I figure I have nothing to lose, and I decide to get JUST A LITTLE cutesy:

"Hey, is it MY TURN to hate you, bay-baayyyyyyyyyYEAH HUH IS IT HUH????" Gary is cracking up. I can't see anyone else. The crowd likes it also. I elect, again, not to push my luck and I play the rest of it straight--except I truly go for the last few nths of Lungpower Units that I have left. (I believe, and correct me if I'm wrong, that Lungpower is measured in "Bobmosleygrams". Somebody check that please?) I scream my bloody fool head off for the rest of the song. It was so beyond cool to have this little coda onstage.

"Do you know why I hate you HUH, do you now, HUH??? DO YOU, HUH????"

I arch upward dementedly on each "HUH??", and instantly this noise sounds weirdly familiar to me. This happens to me a lot. I'm an unconscious mimic, which is why I end up throwing out almost every song I write. Because at some point I realize "Dammit--that sounds exactly like so-and-so singing such-and-such and everybody will know it." Well, the strangely familiar sound of this little "HUH????" is really bothering me, and then I laugh out loud--I'm sure it's on the tape--as I realize that I had unconsciously been imitating not Gary Burger, but JENNIFER LOVE HEWITT. In I Know What You Did Last Summer. "Well, what are you WAITING for, HUH????" Okay, I feel better now--I am QUITE SURE no one but me will realize this. Leastways I certainly HOPE not. And by this time the song, and my Monk career, are over--and the audience is absolutely losing their minds.

[If you are coming back to this narrative for a second time, you may note some radical changes in the preceding few paragraphs. My memory of these events is razor-sharp in some places, and deadly inaccurate in others. As I originally wrote it and remembered it, Gary sang the whole first part of the song. The above version is what actually happened. Well, I'll be forgiven.]

Tonight I am prepared for the set-ending Rope-Toss. I really really REALLY wanna keep my Official I-Was-Onstage-With-The-F***ing-Monks rope tie. I don't wanna give it away. So I have arrived at the following brilliant dodge, if I do say so myself: after the soundcheck I hooked an Auxiliary Rope, which went straight in my pocket and stayed there, from Greenhornes right up till now. And before running back out for this surprise ending, I whipped off the rope I've been wearing and stuck it safely in the OTHER pocket--then took out the Auxiliary Rope and flung it over my neck. And THIS is the rope that went sailing out into the crowd. Ha!

So, whomever it was that caught my rope--don't feel bad. It IS an official Concert Rope. It was in my pocket the whole time. My FRONT pocket. You may wish to dip that sucker in a little bleach.

The audience, predictably, is not going to let the Monks go. Can you IMAGINE any audience attempting to DELAY THE ARRIVAL OF THE STANDELLS???? But this is exactly what happens, and an encore was never better deserved. Trouble is, the audience has no way of knowing, but The Monks have not rehearsed any more songs. At ALL.

But they lope back out onto the stage, without so much as a quick huddle. They just trust Providence to deliver something they can play. They all look at each other quizzically as Gary tells the audience, "We don't have any more songs.......I guess we could play one of 'em OVER again......"

Then he looks back at Roger and says, "Tell ya what....just play a beat," and Roger is off before I can draw another breath. Eddie pounds in a bass line. Dave and Larry listen to figure out what key it's in, and join in. Gary laughs and shoots out a white-hot blast of feedback.

I cannot breathe. This is exactly what it was like that afternoon in Germany when they accidentally invented the "Monk Sound." I wasn't there, mind you, but I KNOW it. Three decades just peeled away like old paper and WE ARE THERE. And I can see from the looks on their faces that at least a couple of them are thinking the same thing. We have just seen The Birth Of Feedback come screaming out of the womb AGAIN. This is also how Monk Chant was written. Just like this. I am standing in the wings losing my mind.

This rolls and boils onward for about three or four minutes and then......it just ends. Neither with bang nor whimper. Just---music, then NO music. They wave to the audience as if they had NOT just done the most amazing thing I had ever seen......and they pile off the stage into the wings. We all clomp on upstairs. Several members of other bands do much back-slapping. The guys in the Standells T-Shirts are nowhere to be seen. Have I reminded you lately that I am an IDIOT??

Roger asks where my cape is. I had left it onstage--I assumed it was one of theirs. "No, no," he said, "We got that extra one for YOU." So I run down the back stairs, but someone has already collected it. I'll find it later, I hope. I run back up.

I can't stick around up here, of course, if I'm gonna catch the Standells in all their glory--so I bound down the FRONT stairwell and slither through the crowd to the front of the stage. I have no problem doing so. I slide into position betwen Wendy and Melissa and I'm ready for what would certainly be an anticlimax if it were 99 out of 100 OTHER bands.......but NOT THIS ONE.

First, however, Miriam Linna taps me on the shoulder and tells me I was great.

At least, after this weekend, I know that my head is never going to explode. Not after all this.

I am on the edge of my little tippytoes, as though I had NOT just been onstage with The Monks--and, just when ya think it can't get any better, Jon Weiss comes onstage to introduce a surprise guest--the guy that will bring the Standells out onstage. It's Lenny Kaye. Whee! The entire audience is damn near reverent. This is the guy that made it possible for us all to be here. This is the guy that sold Elektra Records, in 1973, on the concept of Nuggets. A VERY hard sell at the time, as I've mentioned earlier. This is the MAN. More than Jon, more than Peter, and they'd be the first to tell you.

He tells us about Nuggets, like he needs to explain his credentials to US.....

And suddenly, here they are......the STANDELLS! YEEEEE!!! And thank goodness it's impossible in such close quarters to kick your own ass--because as you have of course realized, THESE ARE THE GUYS IN THE F***ING STANDELLS T-SHIRTS AND I AM AN IDIOT. Did I mention this?

No matter. As they tear into one classic after another, sounding exactly as they did in 1966, I am once again nearly losing my mind. And I begin to forgive myself for not recognizing them. All three of them look extremely different.

Dick Dodd. What do you say about this guy? To see him on the street (or, for example, BACKSTAGE AT THE F***ING WESTBETH) you would never in a million years imagine THAT VOICE coming out of him. That sassy, punky "Bad Kid In School" voice. But it's him alright. He sounds PRECISELY the same. And plays like a hurricane.

Larry Tamblyn is even MORE unrecognizable. I'm studying these pictures over and over, and I find barely a trace of that mischievous-looking moptop. And he looks great, make no mistake. He looks like a Sitcom Dad. "Kids, kids, c'mon, don't jump up and down on the couch!"

That brings us to Tony Valentino. There's no mistaking that dimple, but I STILL would never have recognized him. He even STANDS differently. But you shoulda HEARD him. They were amazing. I could not have imagined ANYONE following the Monks and getting away with it--till I saw the Standells. And once again I am reminded that--since the day I got my first VCR, in 1984--Riot On Sunset Strip has NEVER AGAIN been on TV in the New York area. It's been well over fifteen years since I've seen the damned thing--and I'm dying to see it again. Why why WHY does no video distributor make this thing available? To add fuel to the fire, they're showing the trailer ON THE SCREEN at Cavestomp. Aaaaaargh!

The fourth or fifth song was the one I was waiting for--Sometimes Good Guys Don't Wear White. I guess it was a combination of seeing the Standells, the fact that it was the last set in an unprecedentedly amazing weekend, and those lyrics--which I have always seen as a loosely-based analog of my own existence--but I got thoroughly choked up. I had been singing along at full bore, and this one girdled my throat. No sound would come out. Thought I was gonna cry.

There was a brief snafu as Tony realized he had left his 12-string upstairs (someone brought it, as you can see) but other than that, the set was fierce and unrelenting. You wonder how these guys could put this music away for so long and then get right back in the pocket like that. I cannot WAIT to hear the tapes of this show.

There were too many highlights to name 'em all. But the big surprise was Medication. I hadn't even expected them to PLAY that one--and they tore it to shreds and spit 'em out like they were playing the song in public for the first time. Amazing.

Then, suddenly, it's all over. I do NOT want this to end. Smoke or no smoke. But it's over. A very dazed crowd makes for the exit. We approach the Forbidden Door Upstairs, and I note that the security goon is still standing there, looking quite formidable. I grab Wendy's hand in my Beefheart-Braceleted hand and flash it in front of said goon, and he of course won't let her go through. No amount of logic or reason will move this massive idiot. So I tell her to "wait right here," and rush upstairs hoping to find "Nigel" or Jon or somebody.......as I burst out of the stairwell, here's Eddie talking to Mike Stax. So I brusquely interrupt, and explain my problem to Eddie--who goes downstairs and returns quickly with Wendy.

I hope he didn't have to beat the guy TOO bloody.

Suddenly I am encircled by Greenhornes. First, the drummer and the keyboard guy. The drummer is completely beside himself. Sputtering. "That was amazing!" he keeps saying. I tell him how great his own band was, and I try to convey some sense of what it's like for a guy my age to see guys HIS age playing that kind of music. I don't know if I made any sense or not. The singer then glides past, into the men's room. He looks as sleepy offstage as he does ONstage. He was great though. You really have to try and hear these guys if you get a chance.

Bill, the Fleshtones' drummer, still has steam rising off of him. A couple of 5,6,7,8s are (again) being interviewed by someone over in the corner. I locate my wayward cape and put it with my other stuff.

There are Monks and members of other bands splayed all over the area. It's like some bizarre convention. "Hi! My name is......" No name tags though. Except, of course, the Standells, who HAVE THEIR OWN BAND NAME ON THEIR T-SHIRTS....I am, of course, too embarrassed to go over to them NOW and admit that I didn't know who they were when we were chatting earlier. So I just smile as I walk past.

Kelley is sitting with his girlfriend. He is, again, speechless. As I walk past him, he looks at me, shakes his head, and just says, "Medication......." And he doesn't need to say anything else. A little bit later, when we're all more lucid and communicative, I introduce Wendy to him--finally--and recite to her the blurb concerning his CD from the Telegraph Company website--something to do with "Nick Drake meets Hawkwind." She likes this idea, as do I, and I can't wait to hear the thing. It will be the first thing on the stereo tomorrow morning--"morning", in this case, being whenever we finally get up.

We talk with Irene for a little while. She's watching Dave schmooze. She's so proud of him it's a joy to watch. Ditto Sherrie and Eddie. Larry breezes by, smiling and nodding, as he says, "I really enjoyed that. It went really well, I think," nodding the whole time. I hate to keep beating away on this point, but I almost laugh out loud every time I think of that screaming, skronking music coming out of these gentle, soft-spoken guys. What a pisser.

Roger walks through and mentions my Monks Xmas tape. "It's too loud for my antlers," he laughs as he passes by.

There's a very palpable sense of "This isn't really OVER, is it?" among the folks standing around up here. Us too. Finally we all move downstairs to the lobby, where there are still numerous civilians milling about. Waiting for Monk autographs, many of them. Sherrie hooks me, Eddie, Gary, and Roger and takes the shot you see here.

I go back into the now-empty theatre to have one more look at the stage and shake my head in bewilderment. I also have one more very important thing to do--I go over to Dave the Sound Man, who is dutifully wrapping up cables, and I tell him how great it was working with him, and explain my Sound Man Theory as outlined earlier, and point out that he is a Gleaming Exception to the rule. He's quite happy to hear this--and, additionally, he says, "Listen, just in case you don't realize it--you SAVED this entire weekend. And everybody knows it." Extremely cool guy, Dave, and I wish I knew the rest of his name so he could link this page to his resume.

[Update, 12/20/99: Well, I do now. It's--wait for it--"Mann". Dave "The Sound" Mann, I realize. Too perfect. We just met again, at the studio that he and Jon own, in a basement on Norfolk Street. "Krispy Kreme Studios." Jon says, "You remember Dave, right?" and I bend in a mock hosanna and intone "I bow unto Dave, Roman God Of Monitors!" Dave replies, "Oh, go on with you."]

Back in the lobby, the Monks dutifully sign anything thrust into their paths. They're really enjoying this--to the hilt. Jon Weiss' head hovers above the crowd. He looks exhausted but he's beaming. Why shouldn't he be? I catch Bob Irwin's eye, and he smiles and waves. "How'd it sound?" I ask. He grins even wider. (I guess that's good.) I introduce Wendy to him. We make the rounds and say our goodbyes.

Finally, it's all over, and the last handful of us straggles out onto the street. Wendy, of course, has her own car. So I'm ferrying Eddie and Sherrie again, this time without their friend Carole. They aren't going back home till Wednesday--Gary, Roger, Dave, and Larry are all leaving Tuesday. This gives all of 'em one more full day in New York. Eddie had said somethng, Friday or Saturday, about trying to have some sort of final get-together before everyone left.

"Well," I say as we swerve onto the West Side Highway, choosing my words oh-so-carefully, "I guess that's it..............'till next year."

They both laugh. That's good, that's good. A little more talk on the subject and finally Eddie lets it all spill out. "Well, you really don't do Cavestomp two years in a row." Why the F*** not, I think to myself? Then he continues: "But on the other hand, if we wait more than a year, maybe a couple of us might not be willing or able to get up there and do it anymore......." and he trails off. Well, food for thought. It is none of my business to push the issue, but I do opine out loud that this was palpably too good to drop, and I hope he thought so too. He admits it was fun and it sounded pretty good to him--mainly, anyway. He's hypercritical, like all good artists, and Minor Details like three guys playing in three different keys tend to make him cringe. Especially when he's one of the three guys. I silently wish Will was here. Will would get right to the heart of the matter. "Whatsamatter? Are you a Monk or a Mouse?" Or something. Me, I just GOT to this party and I don't wanna piss anybody off. But I am both hopeful and pessimistic about any future Monk sightings. Time will have to tell its own story.

I drop 'em off at 57th and Lex again, and Eddie gives me a big hug and says "Love ya." I go uptown the long way--Riverside Drive--and I am glowing like a candle all the way home. Trying to sort all this out in my poor little dazed head.

Said Little Dazed Head hits the pillow at about 5AM. The phone rings at about 8:30. It's Frankel. He's squealing. "The New York Times! The F***ing NEW YORK TIMES!!!!!"

I attempt to snap to attention. He's telling me that I got my own paragraph in this morning's New York Times review of Friday night's show, by Jon Pareles--and with my name spelled correctly as well. Hmmm. Not bad, I guess. WHOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

My sister calls very shortly thereafter with the same news.

Well, guess I'm getting up now.......I go down to the computer, log on to the NY Times site, and damned if they aren't right. Under a photo of Eddie and Dave that literally makes them look like demons:

Jubilation greeted the American debut of the Monks, who played their first show since 1967 on Friday night......

A glowing review ensues, along with a quick history. THEN:

Mr. Burger announced that he had wrecked his voice during rehearsals, and he sang only the lower vocal lines. Mike Fornatale, a frequent contributor on the band's web site, took over the higher parts, fervently reproducing the recordings with an air of abashed incredulity.

Wow. In English, that means I sang the s**t out of it, sounded just like the record, and had a look on my face that said "I am not worthy." Which is exactly what I had hoped for. Pareles could not have been nicer to me. I know him by reputation, of course, but I have no idea what he looks like. Nor do I know to whom he spoke to get my name--AND to spell it correctly, which is the REAL mystery. I know that nobody interviewed me. Strange. But PRETTY NEAT.

So we get breakfast ready, and I put on the Kelley Stoltz CD. Boinnnnnnnggg...........

Normally, I dismiss "lo-fi" projects with disdain. But this thing really eats away at you, right from the first few seconds. There are times when the tape hiss is almost as loud as the music, and you just don't care. It's almost indescribable. Think in terms of the very best imaginable British DIY project circa 1979. VERY British. But with lyrics which are deeply American. There's one song that could easily be a lost Syd Floyd outtake. There are several songs that could easily be the Three Johns. And whoever came up with that Nick Drake reference was not just whistling Tamworth-In-Arden either. Wow. I wonder out loud if he's gone back West yet, and dash downstairs to E-mail Jerod and Alex.....the header on my spluttering E-mail read, as I recall, "Kelley Stoltz is a F***ING GENIUS!!!!" Once again I am terribly annoyed that I did not take any "backstage" pictures of all these people. But it's understandable. My brain was awfully full at the time.

Know what I gotta go do now? RAKE LEAVES!!! So this I do.

I'm wondering if we'll hear from Eddie sometime today, but we don't. So, around seven, we go to the diner with my sister--and bring her up to speed on the entire weekend's events. When we get home, there's a message on the answering machine--from Jerod. He's calling from his car--where he's waxing ecstatic about the Maybe Grape tape--which he's hearing for the first time. He says he's on the way to Eddie and Sherrie's, and he theorizes that since we're not home, we must be on our way there too, and he'll see us there.

Uh-oh. Whazzis? Etiquette Dilemma. I have the phone number at Eddie and Sherrie's, because of the frantic Sunday sound-check summons when I was in the shower. Do I call? Did they just FORGET to call me, or each assume that the OTHER had called me, or is this maybe "Business Only"..........?

Well, I gulp, screw it. These folks are apparently all my friends now, and additionally there's the Pure Fact that if I do NOT insert myself into this gathering, it's not likely there'll be a "next time," at least not anytime soon. And definitely not 45 minutes from the house. So I dial. Sherrie answers. I decide that the truth shall set ye free, and I just tell her about Jerod's telephonic faux pas. Without explanation, she says "Sure! C'mon over!" I hang up, still not knowing if I was truly welcome or.....who knows. But Sherrie does not seem the type to say "Sure! C'mon over!" and then hang up and beat Jerod over the head with the phone. "Why did you tell THAT Frozen Dorksicle to come........" (Bang. Bang.) I don't dwell on it. I tell Wendy what has transpired. She is pooped and elects to stay home, but insists that I go. So I go.

This is one of those imposing city condo complexes, where you first have to be sniffed by a guy at a desk, who gives you an Elevator Pass, and you walk around the corner to the elevator bank and ANOTHER guy appears mysteriously out of nowhere and takes your Elevator Ducat and sticks it up his ass, or somewhere, and vanishes as quickly as he appeared. Then you glide on up to the 47th floor. Something about this building looks very familiar to me, even in the dark. I find out much later, from Will, that this is the very building where Eric Clapton's son Conor fell out the window. So sure--I had seen it on the news. Glad I was unaware of that while I was inside the place.

I get out of the elevator on the proper floor, walk down the end of the hall, and ring the bell. Sherrie opens the door, and BANG. A whole room full of people bursts into applause. Cool! I thought I had had my share of accolades for this week, but here was one more. It was kinda like walking into your own surprise party.

Most of the people I had met during this amazing week were there. Allow me to captionify the accompanying photo for ya......