By George Tabb

Woo Woo

"Estes Park?" asks Fatass from behind the car rental counter at the Denver airport. .
"Yes," I tell her and her big butt as she continues to scour my New York driver’s license.

"And you want a compact?" she asks again.

I tell her for about the fifth time that yes, I want a compact car, and yes, I’m going to Estes Park, CO, and yes, I know it’s in the mountains.

"You should really rent a midsize," she tells me again.

Finally, letting the three Xanax and one Ativan get the better of me, I tell Fatass I’ll take the bigger car.

Ten minutes later I look at my upgraded car rental bill. For three lousy days the car is going to cost me well over $200.

"Fuck this," I tell Wendy, and P.J., my nine-pound Yorkshire Terrier, who both just took the long flight out on the plane with me but without the drugs, "I’m not paying this much just because some South Park reject tells me I should."

I march back to the car rental counter. "Hi," I say, "I was just here renting a car and need to make a change..."

She screams, "That was a long time ago! I don’t think I can help you."

It’s been all of 10 minutes. Plus, she hasn’t even moved from where she parked her fat ass last time. "Anyway," I explain, "I was thinking about it and I decided I really do want the compact car."

"Too late," she says, "they’re probably all gone." After punching stuff into her computer and moaning and sighing a lot, she says, "Okay, but I’m giving you a Woo Woo."

"A who?"

"A Woo Woo."

"Is that a car?"

"What do you think?" she says, and then asks for my New York driver’s license again, in a really nasty tone. "It’s a Daewoo."

"What’s that?" I ask, not knowing shit about cars these days.

"It’s Korean," the Cartman-looking bitch tells me, "and it probably won’t make it up the mountains."

"Korea makes good VCRs," I tell Fatass, Wendy and P.J., "so I’m sure their cars are fine."

She looks at us and our luggage and tells us it won’t fit in the car. "Don’t worry," I tell her, "I’m a pro."

Truth is, I am. After touring the country in Evan’s grandfather’s car with Furious George, my punk band, I can fit anything into a trunk. Guitars, amps, drum sets, underage girls, duct tape, you name it. Even suitcases.

An hour later we find ourselves in a car rental airport transportation bus with Wendy’s stepmom and her suitcase that’s big enough to fit Evan’s car in. As we make our way out of the airport, the driver pulls over to pick up one more passenger who just radioed him. And surprise, it’s Fatass. As soon as she wobbles up the bus stairs she sees us and our suitcases and lets out a chuckle.

"Ain’t no way all that’s gonna fit in a Daewoo," she says happily.

P.J. barks at her from inside his black Sherpa bag, where he’d been hiding quietly.

"I hear a dog!" Fatass yells. Wendy and I just look at each other. P.J., of course, responds to this by barking louder. "See," she yells to anyone who will listen, "I told you I heard a dog!"

We all look at her like she’s nuts, so she just stares back at us and once again tells us there is no way a Daewoo will make it up to Estes Park.

"Should’ve gotten that midsize," she mutters to herself and the bus driver.

At this point, and seeing how I was in Colorado, I was about to pull a Stan or Kyle on her by calling her every filthy name in the book. But Wendy covered my mouth, and eventually we reached the car rental garage. There we got our Daewoo, where we easily packed all the bags with room to spare.

My only complaint about the Korean car was that the clock kept blinking 12 a.m.

A day and a half later we found ourselves in Estes Park. After helping her stepmom finish unloading all her baggage, both physical and emotional, we made our way to our motel. The Hobby Horse. Where we were greeted by these big brown objects that weighed over 1000 pounds, had four legs and ate golf courses. "They look like horses with antlers," I told Wendy as we drove past about 100 of them. Each much bigger than our VCR car.

"They look like P.J.," she exclaimed, "only much bigger!"

Women. Everything reminds them of their kids.

"They could be deer," I tell her as the cold mountain air blows across my face and I smell snow in the air. What little of it there is.

After checking into our motel we decide to take a walk to find out just what exactly the huge animals are. We walk toward a duck pond and golf course near the motel. As we approach, with P.J. pulling the way on his leash, growling at the animals over 100 times his weight, we spot two little girls playing on a swing set.

"Excuse me," I say to the two young’uns, "can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, mister," they say to me through their nearly toothless smiles. I hate when they call me mister. But the teeth thing doesn’t bother me.

"Just what exactly are those things?" I say as I point to one of the large brown animals eating weeds in front of a trailer park home.

"Those are our houses," she tells me.

Surprised, I just point to the large brown animals now walking toward a tree.

"That’s a tree," one of the little girls tells me.

"That’s good," I tell her, "But I’m talking about those animals."

"Oh," she says, looking at me like I’m a retard. "That’s an elk."

I break out laughing.

"What’s so funny?" asks Wendy.

"Anne Elk," I tell her. She doesn’t get it. Then again, I think the whole Monty Python thing is only for guys. Pussy guys, of course.

"So those things just walk around wherever they want?" I ask the little girls.

"Yeah," one tells me. "They come down from the mountains when they’re hungry."

"But they’re huge," I say. "Aren’t you afraid of them?" Besides the fact that they may bite, they have big horns on their heads.

"Those are called antlers," she tells me, smugly.

I thank her for her information, and Wendy and P.J. and I walk toward the herd of elk to check them out a bit more. As we do, they all stand still and focus their eyes on us.

"I don’t think this is such a good idea," Wendy says.

"Sure it is," I tell her. "They’re just overgrown deer. In fact, they look like reindeer. I bet they’re really nice. Like Rudolph, Prancer, Dancer and Flasher."

"Flasher?" Wendy asks.

"Vixen, whatever," I tell her.

As we approach the elk, P.J. suddenly starts to shy away, no longer barking, almost whimpering. "Pussy," I say as we start to make our way across a small wooden bridge to where a very large elk stands, with even larger antlers. His dead black eyes fix upon me and my dog.

"George," Wendy whispers loudly, "please don’t go near it, it looks angry."

About seven feet from Anne Elk, P.J. and I stop. I do notice that it’s large in the front, even larger in the middle, then large again at the end.

"Hi," I say to the animal, waving at it like I do to dogs on the streets of New York all the time. It just stares at me with its cold black eyes. "I’m from New York and we’re just visiting," I explain to the Elk. Silence. "Anyway," I say to the animal, "I was just wondering if me and my pal, P.J., here, could come up and perhaps pet you?"

Suddenly the Elk puts its head down and aims its antlers right for my chest.

"Is that a no?" I ask. Meanwhile, P.J. is on the ground and pulling toward the motel as fast as he can.

"George..."

Suddenly the elk throws its head in the air and lets out the most blood-curdling scream I have ever heard. It sounds like a cross between Janet Leigh in the shower and me after my doctor lubes up his rubber glove.

"Time to go," I say to Wendy and P.J. as I quickly back up, those black, cold eyes watching me very closely.

At first we walk away slowly. Then a bit quicker. Eventually we run. We step in piles of elk shit but we don’t care.

Later we’re told it’s mating season, and we’re lucky it didn’t try to butt heads with me over Wendy. Lucky is right. I’d have kicked its ass.

On the last morning of our visit to Colorado, I leave our room at the Hobby Horse to start up the Daewoo. As the clock blinks 12 a.m., I notice the digital thermometer reads 17 degrees F. I look around and still see plenty of elk. I figured they’d be there; they’d spent the whole night before screeching at the top of their lungs, which in turn made P.J. screech at the top of his lungs, which in turn made me screech at the top of my lungs, which in turn made Wendy screech at the top of her lungs. At me.

As we left Estes Park, I noticed lots of them crossing the town’s main streets, ignoring the walk and don’t walk signs. In fact, I almost hit one because of the morning fog.

"Fucking animals," I yell. "Can’t they fucking read?"

Then I remember Fatass and that I’m in Colorado. Maybe I was being too harsh. After all, this isn’t Floriduh.

Harsh is how they make them in New Hampshire, as witnessed by the latest Queers album. Called Pleasant Screams (a Ramones reference ya think?) on Lookout!, this thing rocks. The Queers are in top form with tunes like "See You Later Fuckface," "Psycho Over You," "Generation of Swine," "Homo" (a great punk-pop diddy) and my favorite new Queers song, "Molly Neuman." The music is fast and hard, and with lyrics about Ms. Neuman (of Lookout!):

The Queers prove their punk rock roots are here to stay. You go, Joe!

Like the Gang of Four? Me too. Like the Cure? I don’t care for them much, either. But I do like the new UDET CD on Scalpel. This trio plays music much in the vein of those bands, only a bit updated. Angular guitars, beats that turn around on a dime and vocals to kill for. The CD makes this a band I really want to see live. And they’re from New York!

Remember the Lunachicks? Well, ever since one of them tried to beat me up, I haven’t been their biggest fan. But now that that’s all water under the bridge, I’m really getting into the girl group’s new projects. This month I got their ex-lead singer’s new self-released CD, Theo. And it rocks. Not really in that punk/metal sort of way, but more of in a "modern rock" sort of way. Theo does tunes like "Rats," "Hell" and "Bleed," and while being heavy, they have a very pop sort of sense to them. Plus, she’s got great tattoos, and a cool voice. You go, girl.

Speaking of chick singers, the Midnight Creeps outta Boston got a new CD called Punchin’ Skanks At the Venu on Filthy Fifteen Records, and it’s recorded live. These guys, made up of two penises and two vaginas, rock like the Lunachicks used to, only none of them ever threatened to beat me up. (Yet.) Cool songs here include "The Kids Are Screamin’," "All For One and Fuck ’Em All" and "Dirty Animal." They’re kinda like a modern-day Germs, only their Darby has boobies, and they don’t have that little circle thing as their logo.

Out now on Earache is the new CD from Hate Eternal called King of All Kings. I really really wanted to like it. I mean, Slayer hasn’t done a really decent album in years, and Metallica sucks Fatass’ ass. So I put this thing in, prepare to find a goat to sacrifice, and get ready to conjure up the dark one. Instead, I hear another Cookie Monster sing to music that makes no sense, either in melody, or in math. Kids these days. Satan should be ashamed of himself.

Got a new one from the Ramones. Huh? Yeah, that’s right. The Ramones. Actually, got four of ’em. They’re re-releases, and the one I’m gonna plug here is Subterranean Jungle on Sire/Warner/Rhino. Okay, it’s the same thing as the original, but it’s got new old songs I’ve never heard before like "New Girl In Town," "No One to Blame," "Roots of Hatred," "Bumming Along" and "Unhappy Girl." Now, I gotta tell you, I’m a huge Ramones fan. Really. But there’re reasons you don’t release songs sometimes, and when you hear these, you’ll know why. Of course most of these tunes are demo versions, but still, they’re works in progress. While it’s nice to hear Joey sing again, while Dee Dee and Johnny pound away at their instruments, we all know they can and did do a lot better. So this is sort of a letdown. However, it’s still a must-have. Just ’cause it’s the fucking Ramones. And they created punk rock. So there.

On Bulge out of Green Bay comes the Leg Hounds’ new CD ...Date Your Daughters. You know, I bet these guys do. They’re cute, they play poppy punk and I bet they even get your daughters spreadeagled on your beds. They play tunes like "Makin’ Out" and "Backseat Love." If I were you, I’d check your sheets for their jizz stains. Okay. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

On TFEC Records is a double CD release by Reagan’s Polyp. They were an early-90s hardcore band who, it seems, are still around. Their tunes are about as funny as their name. Like "Take Off Your Pants," "They Installed Teeth in My Ass" and "Put On the Cockring." You listen to it, you decide. I’ll just drink your beer.

Local faves Bitchcat sent me their self-titled and self-released CD with five songs on it. It’s really fun and cool. And really rockin’. Their song "T N’ A" may be my new favorite tune this month.

And finally, got the new Maninblack CD with one song called "New York, New York, USA." It’s really great, for one song. The singer, Andre, used to be in an Oi band here in the city called the Press, and now I guess he fronts these guys. Their song sounds a lot like "Rock n Roll Radio" by the Ramones and "Saturday Night" by the Bay City Rollers. A lot. So much so this song could be a hit. Actually, I expect it will. It’s a lot like an Andrew W.K. song, too. Smart and stupid. I bet these guys are doing car and beer commercials in no time.