The Baltimore Connection

He ambles over. This is it. He is really coming over.

Bright, shiny, round, ample, redfaced, lightly-sweated, fucking glowing like fucking Santa Claus. Outfitted in logoless black sweat pants and a matching black sweat shirt - a retired, out of shape Ninja. A 5' 5" black, rotund monolith with white New Balance hightops, a daring and unashamed contrast with the rest of his getup. A Guinness pint in his massive right hand. Smiling.

George Fucking Wendt. In Baltimore.

"Hey man," he says, amicably. His voice is the voice of Norm. Norm from Cheers. He reaches to shake my hand. I extend mine out in return, as if I somehow deserve to touch the hand of Norm. Norm from Cheers. "Really hot set tonight, man. No, really, great stuff."

Blushing? Did I blush in response to Norm? Norm from Cheers? Yes, that's it. My initial response to Norm from Cheers was to blush, to make my face red. "Oh wow, thanks a lot man! Thanks for coming!" He nods and ambles away, back to his friend and their conversation.

I lean over to the dude I was talking to, our eyes lock and bulge in unison. We return to our previous conversation. We are nonchalant. To the public, we give the impression that this shit is cool. This shit happens all the time when you are in a professional touring rock band. This is what happens at "gigs." This is par for the proverbial course. We are unaffected. Nonplussed.

On the inside, I can only think one thing. "Thank God that shit with me and Wendt is cool again."

+++++++++++++++++++++

Let me start at the beginning by telling you that playing a rock show in Baltimore on a Monday night, if you are not from Baltimore and do not possess hundreds of old friends and family members that want to see your rock band, is an inherently bad idea. People will not come to see your rock band play music. This is possibly because people are too busy trying to not be murdered to come see your rock band. Really, being anywhere in Baltimore on any night is a dicey proposition.

I exaggerate. Baltimore is actually quite beautiful on the approach. But I exaggerate for a reason. When the first band begins on this night, there are exactly 2 paying customers present at the show. No one is really that upset because, actually, this is normal, in Baltimore at least.

Slowly it becomes a known fact among the bands that good god holy fuck george wendt is here yeah norm norm from cheers the fat one yeah the one that always drank, oh yeah that one was he also the one who was the mailman who knew all that trivia no that was cliff cleven oh yeah right oh okay yeah holy shit there he is at the bar what the fuck this is nuts dude.

Let me interject here that famous people do not come to see rock bands of our size play. It is not something that happens in life.

He's with a friend, of similar age and disposition, though not famous, at least to me. They are drinking Guinness pints together and seem to be having a good time. This is a mystery on par with Stonehenge. Did they wind up here by accident? Do they know the owner and drink for free? Maybe the most interesting question: Does George Wendt live in Baltimore? Who would consciously choose to retire here? The questions are endless. Ryan starts talking to him and his friend. They are taking for a long time. It seems friendly. Ryan is actually talking to Norm from Cheers and his not-famous friend and it is going well. Holy shit.

It is discovered by those of us who are not-too-subtly eavesdropping on their conversation that George Wendt and his friend are a) big fans of underground music b) used to go see shows together all the time in L.A. "back in the day" c) have heard of Thunderbirds are Now, the band Ryan is in, because the not-famous friend has a son who is a big fan d) are coming to "check out" the bands. Also, George Wendt is in town doing Twelve Angry Men at the Hippodrome Theatre in Downtown Baltimore and his friend is a TV critic who now lives in Baltimore.

Word gets around. The realization sinks in that George Wendt is like, sort of, like, one of us. He is down with the "jams." Excitement builds. Imagined comfort levels are raised. Shit will be cool with us and George Wendt.

Murmurs begin floating around between a few of the bands about dude we should get a picture yeah you're right but wouldn't that be weird yeah probably a little awkward i don't want to be that guy that's all like yo dude can i get a picture yeah but when's the next time norm from cheers is gonna be at your show yeah good point i should get a picture. I mean, George Wendt probably gets asked for his picture all the time, right? He's used to it, and maybe a little honored and touched? Especially considering the imagined kinship we now feel due to rumors of his interest in the rock music we are going to play tonight. He would be down, right?

This is what I tell myself when I decide to ask for a photo. Matt will be the cameraman. I will be in a picture with Norm, Norm from Cheers and it will be triumphant and pure and something for the ages. A document looked back upon by historians and scholars, surely. We walk over to Mr. Wendt and his dude.

I try to sound polite, eager, interested. Maybe too much. "Hey there, sorry to interrupt, do you think there's any chance we could take a quick photo?"

A pause. Oh god. The pause is interminable. Will he ever respond? He is not responding. It's easily been 3 hours since I asked, right? Fuck. I shouldn't have done this. This was a mistake. I never wanted to be that guy that asks for the photo.

Finally, after epochs of torture he responds, unsmiling, annoyed. "Yeah sure."

I am the scum of the earth. I am a pariah, a parasite, a desperate bitch in the eyes of Norm from Cheers. He has no respect for me. I am the guy who asks for the photo when he is just trying to chill, down some brews with his homie, and watch some jams. The evidence is clear:


On the left, you'll see Norm from Cheers stifling his anger and resentment through a mask of stoicism. On the right, you'll see me disguising my self-loathing and regret through a stiff, terse smile. No teeth. Halfheartedly raising my beer to some sort of communion of souls that never really took place. Striking, really, this image of dashed dreams and ugly ambitions gone wrong.

I thank George Wendt for his time and walk back backstage with Matt. We both know that what went down was not right. Awkward. Not right. We feel dirty. Ashamed. The one time in our entire lives that we will be in the same room as Norm from Cheers was spent being the guys who ask for the photo. He hates us. Despite my initial hopes, shit is most definitely not cool with me and George Wendt and probably never will be. The guilt and dread is monumental. I resign myself to this destiny.

A funny thing happens though.

Despite the small crowd, my band plays our rock music on this night with some chutzpah, gusto, hoohah, whizbang. Sweat flies, blood runs free on fret boards, legs are kicked in the air, amps are turned up, hearts are set afire, ears are left ringing. I'm not ashamed to admit that we kinda brought the pain on this Monday night in Baltimore. Maybe Wendt was the catalyst, I don't know. His presence may have ignited a passion, that next gear.

While packing up guitars and moving amps off stage for the next band to start, we are told that George Wendt, Norm, Norm from Cheers was moved enough by our flailing rock boom to actually leave the stools he and his friend were sitting on at the upper bar and head down to the main floor to watch us from a closer vantage point. This did not happen for other bands on this Monday night in Baltimore. This, this, this is something. We moved Norm from Cheers off of his fucking BAR STOOL, which, if you're at all a fan of the television show Cheers, you know is where he spent all of his time. Getting him off his stool was difficult on that show. It was a task.

We fucking did that shit. Read em' and weep, Vera (Norm's unseen wife on the show who was often unsuccessful at getting Norm to come home from aforementioned bar stool). I begin to wonder if maybe, shit is cool with me and George Wendt again. I hope. I pray. I go to the bar for a beer, Budweiser bottle. Start talking to my friend Michael.

That's when Norm, Norm from Cheers, George Wendt, ambles over to me, right hand extended out in a show of friendship. I am redeemed, forgiven, absolved, triumphant.

Shit is cool with me and Wendt.