It was pitch black out when I emerged from the woods behind my parents house. I turned the corner and saw Marc Maron standing in the summer darkness with an acoustic guitar strapped around his neck and he was strumming it. I did think it was odd that Maron, the WTF Podcast mastermind and much loved self-deprecating and self-analyzing comedian, was playing an acoustic show instead of doing a stand-up routine. I also thought it was odd that the guy who just announced that he’d be performing at Carnegie Hall in November was pacing on my mom and dad’s driveway strumming away and getting ready to play to a crowd of 10 or so(mostly a couple friends of mine and nearby neighbors that would otherwise already be in bed, or watching a rerun of Pitbulls & Parolees on Animal Planet before nodding off in there Lazy Boy.) It also struck me as odd that my parents were letting all of this go down in their front yard on their driveway, though my dad did watch season 4 of Maron and said he liked it. Maybe that was reason enough to host the podcast host and mustached, neurotic funnyman.
I approached Maron as my parents garage door went up and asked him if needed any extra microphones, as I had some downstairs in my parents basement(you see, my dad built a practice room for me when I was in the 8th grade so he didn’t have to hear me butcher AC/DCs “Beating Around The Bush” and Tesla’s “Love Song” as I attempted to learn them in my bedroom. By the time I finally moved out of my parents home in 1995 I had a large desk, Sovtek half stack, Fender bass amp, and a 5-pc Ludwig Rocker drumset all crammed into that 8×10 practice room, not to mention 2 strats, three acoustics, a Rickenbacker bass, and a rackmount effects processor.) Marc Maron said “No, I think we’ve got everything we need. It’s an acoustic show, so we really don’t need mics. Besides, there’s no plug-ins in any of these trees.” I laughed and realized a small crowd of onlookers had begun to build up along the driveway and a few cars had parked along the side of the road with bulging eyes looking through the open windows. Was this legal? Did we need a permit for this? Why haven’t my parents come out? Should we have a Porta Jon set up out here? And where can I buy a WTF t-shirt?
Maron seemed to be getting ready to jump into this thing. I noticed his entourage was pretty minimal. There was a guy I assumed was maybe his producer Brendan. There was a small black cat that may have been Buster Kitten. I wanted to go over and pet the cat, but I’m allergic. I’d hate to start wheezing and sneezing in the middle of Maron’s show. Maybe he’d think I was heckling him or something. I wouldn’t want that. “Okay everybody! Here we go!”, Maron shouted as he began strumming this beat up old Martin acoustic. I tried finding a good spot in front of the bushes at the edge of the driveway, but these strangers kept pushing me back. I knelt down and sort of wedged my way within the bushes. I was cocooned inside this prickly hedge and could barely see Marc Maron now. Some guy was in my way. Well, his hair was in my way. It was a large head of hair. I noticed it began to rain, yet Marc Maron kept strumming a tune I couldn’t place, yet sounded familiar. I was started to get wet in this painful hedge and I looked down and saw a spider crawling on my hand. “Is that a wood spider?!?! Shit! Those are poisonous!” I said to myself. I tried knocking it off my hand, but it just remained there, taunting me. “I’m missing the show! In my own parents front yard! On their damn driveway!“, I yelled inside my skull as I frantically attempted to brush the spider off my hand. Where’s Buster Kitten?!?! Where’s Buster Kitten?!?!
This is why you don’t eat a Little Debbie Fancy Cake before bed.