I Bite "the Biggy One"?

I'd heard the stories about Mason Jar owner Franco Gagliano and his temperamental impersonation of Godzilla on coke (a shorter, squatter Godzilla, that is). But I didn't believe them because I hadn't experienced any firsthand.

Now I do, because now I have.
Here's my story:
It is Saturday night, February 3, the second of two dates the Plimsouls are scheduled to play at the Jar as part of that '80s L.A. hip-pop band's "comeback tour." Where I'd rather be is at Electric Ballroom grooving to Mother Hips, or at Aqua Lounge, a new club in Tempe I've heard nothing but good about. Where I am, however, is standing with New Times photographer Tim Archibald in the entryway of the Mason Jar, listening to Franco tell us we can't come in.

Now, there are two things you should know at this point. The first is that the Plimsouls' manager had called me the day before to remind me that a reviewer ticket and a photo pass under the name "New Times" would be waiting for me at the Mason Jar. The second is that about three weeks before the Plimsouls show, Franco called me a cocksucker on the phone when I refused to write a feature article on one of the many walking-corpse L.A. metal bands he periodically resurrects onstage at the Mason Jar.

I believe his exact words were, "I put a lot of ads in there with you guys--you keep being a cocksucker and I'm going to get you fired." Anytime I get called a nasty name and threatened with unemployment in the same phone call, I tend to take notes as soon as I hang up--it's a compulsion of mine.

But let's get back on track here.
Turned away at the door, Tim and I make for the parking lot. Franco follows us out. "Hey," he barks. I turn around just in time to here Franco spit out something like, "YoutellthebigguyattheNewTimesthathesucksthebigone."

You have to understand that Franco is speaking about warp eight, but I think a direct translation is: "You tell the big guy at the New Times that he sucks the big one." (Oral manipulation of male genitalia seems to be an overriding concern of Franco's these days.)

"The big guy at the New Times," I repeat, for purposes of clarification.
"Yeah," Franco says, "the big guy."
Now who might that be?
Tim hazards a guess: "You mean [New Times, Inc., co-founder] Mike Lacey."
"No," says Franco, "nothim."
I take a stab at it. "[Phoenix New Times editor] John Mecklin?"
"No, no, no," says Franco. "The music guy fromAlaska."

I don't know whether to laugh, throw a punch, or glow with pride. On the one hand, Franco is telling me I suck. But on the other, he is referring to me as "the big guy at the New Times." Bigger than Lacey. Bigger than Mecklin. My God, I started to wonder, am I that cool?

Such delusions are fleeting, however, because it's hard to feel even a little bit big-time when you're standing in the parking lot of the Mason Jar arguing with Franco Gagliano. I decide it is best to just clear up the situation, which, in the space of a few seconds, has degenerated into a "Who's on first" skit with me quickly growing tired of playing Abbott to a Costello in spandex and gold chains.

"Oh," I say, leaning in a bit, "you mean me."
To his credit, Franco barely flinches before he sidles back toward the door. He does, however, fire a parting salvo.

"Wellyoubitethebiggyone."
Now, you have to understand--Franco was moving away from me at the time, and Saturday-night traffic on Indian School Road was typically heavy. But I'm almost positive that what he said was, "You bite the biggy one."

I'm not sure what a "biggy one" is, but I could hardly argue with him that night. Instead of seeing the Hips or swimming through the liquid interior of Aqua Lounge, I got shut out of the Mason Jar and wound up playing fetch with Weegee, Tim's wonder mutt.

Which, in the end analysis, was probably a better way to burn a Saturday night than watching the Plimsouls--a band that, like many of the touring acts that play the Mason Jar, is a "Million Miles Away" from its time and place in rock history (still, thescene would have made a decent column, and I'm admittedly bitter). When I gotto theJar just after 11, Franco was cutting the $10 cover in half to try to draw acrowd, so I'll chalk up our little unpleasantries to abad night at the till.

But let's examine the logic here--Franco wouldn't let me and a photographer in to cover a concert at his club because he was pissed off that I hadn't covered a concert at his club.

Do with that bit of brilliance what you will. Me, I'll be a piece of pie to pick out in the clubs from now on--just look for the guy in the purple madras shirt with the neon-green logo on the back that reads, "The Big Guy."

God, I still love the sound of that.--David Holthouse