Here’s a recent email exchange:
Michael Ansart: For some reason as soon as I heard the news, I felt the pain from old bruises sustained in a cardboard "pizza disk” fight at the gameroom.
Dennis Hurd: Thanks for the news. Okay, Bret ... what was the number on the jukebox?
Bret Wirta: All this ol' brain remembers is N4. Was that Main Street? Love is Like Oxygen?
Mark Wirta: Why couldn't it have been the Heart sisters instead. Would have given me some measure of satisfaction for having to listen to Barracuda every time that Bungay kid had an extra quarter.
Dennis Hurd: You mean the jukebox used quarters? I remember just opening a little door, reaching inside, and hitting ...
Michael Ansart: Years ago I saw Warren Zevon in a small club, I went in just liking his music, but came away with a bit of admiration for the man. He was three songs into his first set, when this loud group of approx. 8 entered the club and made a big deal with the club staff. Essentially demanding that they set a table up for them near the front of the stage. The club staff, trying to avoid a scene complied. Between songs, the loud and most obnoxious of the 8 repeatedly tried to talk with Zevon. Right in the middle of one song, Zevon simply stopped playing and turned to the audience and said, “Did you ever notice how the f#$*ing a*^holes who are up front at a show, are the ones who care least about the music?” Then he announced to a semi-stunned crowd, “I’m not going to continue until this table is empty” Then to wild applause, the club staff escorted the table of 8 to the door. Ever since that night, I always enjoyed listening to Zevon a little more.