Richard Marx is even better than plastic bags!

Richard Marx in: Untitled and Unabashed

By Sarah Hutchings.

Marxie was feeling pretty darned chuffed with himself. He was all decked out in a brand new outfit, one that screamed 'sex'- due to his new talking belt buckle. As he waltzed up to the studio, he kicked up clouds of dust and swung his hips suggestively. He waltzed right through the front door, looking at the doorman with a conspiratorial "We both know that you know who I am, so lets not stand on ceremony" wink.
"Excuse me sir, I'll have to see some identification," the doorman said.

Marxie chuckled appreciatively at the jest and continued walking until physically prevented by the guard.
"You'll be sorry when you find out who I am." he sulked, and reached for his wallet. After much struggling, the pocket of his strides had to be cut away, as the tightness of his fringed leather cowboy dacks made the retrieval of his wallet difficult.
"Go through to level 1", he was then instructed, without so much as a "Sorry Mr Marx, can I make it up to you.....in bed?" to which Marxie could then reply "Thanks, Mac, but my bread ain't buttered on that side." which incidentally was the title of a song he was working on.

When he found the sign announcing the "Watso Barhuvian Show", he kept right on waltzing, not reading the small sign under the door that read "Today: When the music dies....has-been rock stars".
Walking onto the set was like walking in on the climax of one of Marxie's dreams. Starship, Heart, Europe, Mr Big, Roxus, Dragon, Bad English - these were but a few of the bands milling around talking muso-speak.
"Hey man," called out a fellow with hair to rival our hero's, known only to him as 'Zack', "How's it hanging?".
"Dead centre, straight down." Richard replied.

"Wait a minute......straight up" he amended this banter when Lita Ford walked by, in a leather dress with a small heart-shaped hole cut out in the middle of her chest.
"Hey honey, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" he greeted her.
"I love your trousers," she replied, "they'd look even better crumpled up on my bedroom floor."
"Do you sleep on your stomach?" he asked.
"No." she replied.
"Then can I?" this witticism brought a girlish chuckle from the hard rockin' vixen, who then posed a question for Richard.
"Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"
"Neither. It's a boner. Will you have sex with me?" he cleverly returned and they ran off together to consummate their acquaintanceship in the broom cupboard.

"Rock stars! take your seats!" a man with big headphones and a clipboard yelled. On a shiny stage there was a row of seats, all with a little sticker announcing its intended sitter. Two hours later, all the seats were filled, with a little help from the clipboard man. Conversation flowed down the line of rock stars like the sweat that runs down a muso's forehead and drips off his nose after a good, hard hammer-on.
"I heard that Foxy's leaving Gravy.....yeah, signed to CockRock Records........LA.......Blew their minds......had sex with lots of girls" is a sample of the conversational fare.

When the star of the show, Watso Barhuvian,
walked onto the stage and delivered his trademark show starter - "Hi, my name's Watso Barhuvian, but you can call me later," the chat continued.
"Guys, please," Watso begged but the musos were having a great time, flasks of Beam had been extracted from trouser pockets, cocaine was being snorted, even Richard's contribution of Salt n' Vinegar chips was appreciated.
"Hey Mr Later, what's that brown spot on your pants?" one of the brighter musicians called. Watso was disconcerted, and twisted around to check. Izzy Stradlin hit him over the head with a chicken drumstick and all was chaos.

The lunatics had taken over the asylum - this was Richard's moment. He signalled for silence. Those who had passed out obliged.
"This is my new song," he said to the camera, unmanned because the crew had rushed off to find an ambulance and the police. He pulled a guitar from behind his ear and began to play his song.
"No my bread ain't buttered, it ain't even margarined, what ever gave you the idea, that men induce my cream-" he was cut off by a policeman, who tried to apprehend him. Richard chucked a Sid Vicious and whacked him on the head with his guitar.

Police batons were no match for the instruments the musicians now pulled out from every nook and cranny. Even bullets were no match for the amount of studs, belt buckles and hair that protected them. In an unrealistic finale, after conquering the police - who now lay unconscious on the stage - all the musos zoomed off in their cars to Richard's place, where the partying didn't stop until everyone had vomited at least twice, chucked a TV out of the window, eaten one of Marxie's goldfish to show off to their mates, and passed out in an unflattering position. This load of old cobblers gives weight to the old adage - that the guitar is mightier than the baton. I thank you.



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