Beer Frame
Thursday, May 21, 2009 at 2:04AM 
Here’s part two of the Spin story from my book, The Boy Who Would Be A Firetruck. I was going to do this in three parts, but I remembered on Friday’s Beer Frame I always highlight the Commentators, so here’s the rest of the chapter in one long-ass Beer Frame! See ya around noon today.
Cheers,
Marty
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Bob strolled over and Susie introduced us. Bob was very charming and gracious and when I told him I had moved to New York to write, he told me to feel free to submit pitch ideas for freelance articles for Spin. The only problem with this generous offer is I had to submit these ideas to a staff editor named Jay Stowe. This was a problem because by the time I started putting together a pitch list for Jay to peruse, I was also publishing and writing my magazine fishwrap, which ridiculed mainstream magazines and the writers and editors who work for them. I made fun of a Jay Stowe review from Spin in the first issue of fishwrap and in another I referred to him as this “little Doogie Howser-like writer from Spin magazine.” That may sound a little mean, but I had met the guy and, hey, things are what they are. Needless to say most of my queries for freelance work were rejected, aggressively and happily, by young Mr. Stowe. Oh, well, some people just don’t get it.
But others do. Get it, that is. Bob Guccione Jr. was a big fan of fishwrap, and after the first issue he sent me a note saying he was giving me a complimentary subscription for Spin to “help the cause.” A nice gesture. Now the fact that Bob took the trouble to do that would’ve been more than enough. At the time, Spin was really taking off and through Bob’s direction, vision and hard work, Spin had become the new Rolling Stone for the 90s generation of music and pop-culture kids. He didn’t need to spend time writing me notes congratulating me on my little magazine, but he did. Like I said, that alone would’ve been enough, but in 1995, he went one step further. In the July 1995 issue fishwrap was named Magazine of the Month in Spin. I got a lot of new subscribers out of that piece of press and it also helped get me a write-up in the New York Daily News and the New York Post. I appreciated the plug and I let Bob know. Later on, in the fall of that year, Bob did me another favor, although this one—through no intention of Bob’s—ended up blowing up in my face.
I can’t remember if it was September or October; so let’s just say it was October, it’s just easier this way, trust me. So anyway, in October of 1995 they were having Spin’s tenth-anniversary party at Irving Plaza concert hall in New York. Four Non Blondes (remember it was 1995) were scheduled to perform with indie favorites Guided By Voices (featuring former Spin scribe Jim Greer on bass) opening up. I had read about it in the papers and it was the party to be at that night, which I believe was a Thursday but don’t quote me on that, it could’ve been a Tuesday. I didn’t entertain any notions of attending though, it wasn’t for the public. I read about it one of the gossip columns, thought “Good for Bob,” and moved on to the television page.
Halfway into seeing who was on the late-night talk shows and movies, there was a knock on my apartment door. I jumped up and opened it and there stood a mangy-looking kid, kind of resembling a ratty-looking Sean Penn, holding an envelope and a clipboard.
“Sign here for the package,” he mumbled, shoving the clipboard in my direction.
I signed the paper and took the cardboard envelope from him. He took off. I shut the door and looked at the envelope.
It was square and white with the initials “BGJ” written in hand. “Bob Guccione Jr.”, I said to myself. In the lower left-hand corner there was a circle with the words “Spin’s 10th Anniversary 1985—1995” inside of the circle.
I opened the envelope and pulled the contents out slowly, like Charlie from Willy Wonka as he discovers the golden ticket. Well, this wasn’t a golden ticket, but in my eyes it was almost as good. For inside the envelope was a pass to none other than Spin’s tenth-anniversary party! Hot fucking damn! Everybody who was anybody was going to be there and now I was anybody. Does that make sense? Well, whatever, a lot of important people would be there and now I would be mingling with them. I could make some great connections, maybe even find a backer for fishwrap. Three words spun around in my head for the whole afternoon: Hot fucking damn!
I went out and had lunch, then went to Central Park to walk off some of my excitedness. By the time I got back, it was around four in the afternoon. I opened a beer and, one sip into the beer, the phone rang. I picked it up and said “Hello?”
“Hi, could I speak to Marty please?” a cordial female voice inquired.
“It’s your lucky day; this is Marty,” I spat back in my usual wise-ass fashion.
“Oh, hi, Marty, this is Moon Zappa over at VH1,” she casually announced.
“Oh, hi, Moon,” I shakily said feeling like someone had hit me square in the gut with a seventy-pound sledgehammer.
“Thank you so much for sending me those copies of fishwrap, they’re hilarious!” she told me.
Moon Zappa was a short-lived VJ on VH1 in 1995, back when they actually played videos instead of these endless list shows like, “I Love the 80s,” and these C-level reality shows like “The Surreal Life,” “I’m Dating a Brady,” “I Married a Brady,” “I’m Having a Brady Baby” and, of course, “I Love the 80s, I Love a Brady, and I Love My Brady Baby.” So anyway, Moon was a VJ and on her set they had a magazine rack, so I’d mailed her some copies of fishwrap and jokingly wrote a letter to her saying maybe she could put a couple on the rack. I’ve always thought that Moon Zappa was a babe and really cool and never ever expected her to write me back, much less call me on the phone.
“Oh, thanks, I’m glad you liked them, Moon,” I responded, gaining my composure.
We started talking about magazines, writing and music; we were really getting along. At one point, we were dissing Rolling Stone and she said, “Speaking of music magazines, I’m going to Spin’s tenth-anniversary party tonight.”
Holy shit!
“Hey, I’m going to that party, too; I just got my pass messengered over,” I told her excitedly.
“That’s great, hey, let’s continue this conversation there,” she told me. “Obviously you know what I look like, so look for me and come up and say hi.”
“That would be great, Moon, I’ll see you there,” I said, as my head was spun around like a hyperactive top.
“Okay, I’m looking forward to meeting you; see you there,” Moon said as she hung up the phone.
I hung up the phone and just stood silent for about two minutes, my mouth hanging wide open, staring at the wall in disbelief.
Then I jumped for the phone to call my older brother Jim at his art studio in Peoria. Three rings and I got his answering machine. Shit, he was out. I didn’t leave a message, I just hung up and dialed my best friend in Peoria, Tim Hennessey, at the grocery store he managed. Some woman answered and I waited while they paged him. After a minute or so, Tim picked up the phone and said hello.
“Hey, Tim,” I spat out excitedly, “it’s Marty!”
“Marty?” Tim replied. “Are you in Peoria?”
“No, I’m here in New York,” I shot back. “Guess who I just talked to?”
“Uh, I have no idea,” Tim said in a weary I’m-at-work, let’s-get-this-over-with-already voice.
“Moon Zappa. I’m meeting her at Spin’s tenth-anniversary party. It’s almost like I’ve got a date with her!” I almost yelled out while faster than a speed freak who’s just mainlined a truck load of amphetamines.
“What?” Tim fired back in disbelief.
“I just got off the phone with Moon Zappa, we talked for about twenty minutes and she wants to meet me at Spin’s tenth-anniversary party,” I told him at an even faster clip than before.
“Listen, if this is a joke, wind it up, okay, I’ve got a ton of things to do here,” Tim told me.
“A joke? A joke...I just got off the phone with Moon Zappa, the daughter of Frank Zappa,” I fired back, a little indignant now in light of the fact that my best friend thought I was making this up.
“Shit, I gotta run, they’re paging me. Listen, take care of yourself, I’ll try and call you this weekend and check up on you,” Tim said and then the line went dead.
I slammed the phone down.
“Check up on me?” I said to myself. “He thinks I’ve lost my fucking marbles. I’ll show him: I’ll get a photo of me with Moon...maybe we’ll hit it off...maybe it’ll be a photo of me making out with Moon Zappa, could you imagine that? I mean, could you just picture that, me and Moon making out like two lusty teenagers...” I wondered to myself in what I’m embarrassed to admit was full-on Ed Grimley-speak.
But what the fuck, I had a shot. She said she wanted to meet me. I finished my beer, took a shower, put on my clothes, brushed my teeth—didn’t want bad breath for what I had now talked myself into would be a full-bore make-out session with Moon Zappa—and headed out the door for the subway station.
I took a downtown train to 14th Street and then walked over to Irving Plaza, just a few blocks away. There was a line already forming for the party, so I went to the end. It moved quickly and soon I was showing the woman at the door my pass and I was in. I walked to the main floor and made my way to the bar, then checked the room for Moon. As I drank my beer I scoped out the crowd and it was mainly just young kids who would be at any other concert. Weird, I thought, then I looked to my left and saw a security guard standing by a stairway that led to the balcony upstairs.
“That’s where she is,” I said to myself, and it made sense: Irving Plaza is two stories. At concerts, the bottom floor fills up with the mosh-pit nuts and those who are there for the music only. You can see the show upstairs, but it’s more of a lounge atmosphere with a bar. That’s where all the cool people were, and that’s where Moon probably was. I took a big swig of beer, heaved a deep breath for composure and headed over to the stairs.
I walked over and came face to face with a burly security guard standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Hello,” I said putting a foot on the first stair, “I’m just going to go upstairs.”
Before my other foot could touch the stairs, the security guard grabbed my arm.
“You’re not going up there, that’s the VIP area,” he said gruffly, tossing my arm to the side.
“No, no, no,” I excitedly sputtered out, “I can go up there, I’ve got a pass,” I said while showing him the pass around my neck.
“That’s a goon pass, that’s for the ground floor only,” he said with a touch of laughter.
Goon pass? Goon pass? My world felt like it was caving in on me.
“Look, you don’t understand, I know Bob Guccione Jr.” I told the big and burly guard.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody knows Bob Guccione Jr., it’s his party. Now run along and have fun,” he ordered condescendingly.
“No, I know Bob, like on a personal basis,” I said while trying once again to climb the stairs.
Big ’n Burly pushed me back down and started yelling at me, “Get away from these stairs, right now!”
“But you don’t get it, Moon Zappa’s up there and I’ve got a shot at making out with her,” I shouted back in whiny tones.
“Listen, asshole, if you don’t get away from me right fucking now, I’m throwing your ass out on the sidewalk myself,” Big ’n Burly barked out.
“Alright, alright,” I said, putting my hands up in the air for emphasis. “I’m going.”
I walked to the middle of the ground floor, looked up and almost felt sick. One staircase separated me from Moon Zappa. I thought about what could’ve happened had we met. Maybe we would’ve made out, maybe we would’ve gotten involved in a relationship, maybe I’d have met Frank and he would’ve liked fishwrap so much he would’ve backed it and became its publisher. I could’ve finally quit my night job and live with Moon happily ever after with all my dreams having come true.
Then I looked up at the balcony and thought if I was Batman I could throw out that Bat leash thingy, whatever it is, and just climb up and grabbed Moon and take her away. But sadly, I wasn’t Batman, I wasn’t Robin...fuck, I wasn’t even Alfred the Butler. I was a goon, with a goon pass. Fuck. I took one last look at the big burly security jerk-off and walked out the door, went to the first garbage can and threw the goon pass in it with all my might. Then I went to the Old Town Bar, ordered a beer and said to a drunken old man sitting next to me, “You know, I was this close to meeting Moon Zappa tonight.”
He took a long sideways look at me and slurred, “Yep, it sure is a full moon tonight.”
“Whatever,” I said back.
I spent the rest of the night drinking in silence.
The next day I thought about trying to call Moon at VH1. But what was I going to say: “I couldn’t meet you because I had a goon pass?” It was just too humiliating. She moved back to California shortly after that.
Moon Zappa went on to become an actress in movies and TV. She also wrote a book, America the Beautiful, that came out in 2001, and is currently married to Matchbox Twenty drummer Paul Doucette. In 2004, the two had a baby, Mathilda Plum Doucette.
Bob Guccione Jr. sold Spin to Vibe in 1997 for over forty million dollars (it’s a testimony to Bob’s vision that after Vibe took it over, they sold it for a paltry five million dollars, less than a decade later.) Bob went on to create and edit Gear magazine and he’s currently the CEO and publisher of Discover magazine.
I’m still working my stupid night job, writing and waiting for my big break. Sometimes, when it’s real busy and people are yelling at me, I think to myself, “I know it wasn’t intentional but...hey, Bob...would it have killed you to have given me a VIP pass?”
Reader Comments (1)
damn stairs.