In this very first episode of Ricky B. The Rock N Roll Rat: Podcast Edition, we meet Ricky, who stumbles for what to say on the big show until he remembers a funny incident from the other day in which his boss, Big Mike, butts heads with one of the other studio rats, Jeff, who somehow got a much better deal on tickets to see the Dalai Lama.
And then chaos and hilarity ensue when Mrs. Mike finds out what Big Mike paid for his ticket.
Podcast Script (not including ad-libs):
Hi, I’m Ricky, and I’m a cheese-o-holic… haha, wrong meeting.
OK, so the Cartoonist figures we should do, like, a podcast or whatever, and I guess I gotta do what the Cartoonist says, so… um… she didn’t tell me what I’m supposed to say in a podcast, though…
Well, I guess I should tell ya a bit about myself. I’m Ricky, like I said. I’m coming at ya not live but pre-recorded from the famous Rat Trap Studios here in Ratsville, Ratland… and I’m recording this in the control room at like 3 in the morning ‘cause finally there’s no one else here.
Big Mike, that’s my boss who owns this joint, you’ve definitely heard his work, he produces a lot of the big rock bands you hear on CRAT and the other big rock radio stations, y’know, like HV/AC and Nickelrat and he did the last Bon Jovi album too but I don’t think that really got much airplay, though… but anyway, Big Mike went home hours ago… well, maybe he didn’t go home, he probably went to the boobie bar, but that ain’t none of my business and he said he was going home, like, sooner or later. Er… no, that was Saturday he was here. Er… wait, he was here earlier… was he? Never mind, it all blends together, man.
I’m the go-fer here, well, I guess I’m the runner, officially, but that makes it sound like I’m some sorta jock and I ain’t, haha. I hate the exercise wheel, man. Screw that; I ain’t spending an hour running in place gettin’ all sweaty for nothin’, man…
Um… what else… I’m a rat dude, obviously, but aren’t we all? Unless you’re a mouse dude listening from Mouseton across the canyon but I don’t know why you would be.
Well, my buddy Myles is half rat dude, half mouse dude, but he’s an exception. Usually that doesn’t happen and… well, it’s a story for another day, maybe Myles can come hang out and tell us what’s what. Or if my girlfriend Baby Rattsen comes here, she can tell ya cause she’s his cousin… on the rat side of his family, of course. Obviously.
Well, maybe not, cause if I get Baby here when we’re all alone, we ain’t recording nothin’… at least not for a podcast, haha… We’re going up to the designated make-out spot in the loft. Obviously.
Anyway, then Jeff’s the main mix engineer and he supervises the recording engineers, though usually he leaves them be and goes to meditate somewhere while they do their thing so long as Big Mike’s not up everyone’s ass, anyway, Jeff went home half an hour ago, then I had to mop the floors and clean the bathrooms and kitchenette and shit before I could sit down and track the show..
I guess you don’t need to hear that boring stuff.
So… what else… I been working here since I was 16. Before that, I just hung around in the alley behind hoping to meet famous dudes and get autographs and sometimes that worked but mostly I got chased away by Big Mike til one day he fired the intern for spilling coke in the faders and I don’t blame Big Mike ‘cause that shit’s expensive.
Anyway, he came out to yell at me like usual or so I thought but instead he said, “If you’re gonna hang around here like a bum all day, you might as well mop the effin’ floors” and I said “Cool man” and that’s it, I was working in show biz.
(Echo/delay FX)
Cool, huh? We got all kinda FX boxes, man… but I’m just using that one cause it’s the one Jeff left plugged in for doing guitar overdubs tomorrow and I don’t wanna mess shit up and get yelled at in the morning.
It’s cool to do the podcast here, though. At least, Jeff said it was OK. Don’t tell Big Mike, he’ll expect me to pay for the studio time.
Um… what else do ya say in a podcast… woulda been nice for the cartoonist to leave instructions beyond “figure it out.”
Oh yeah: the noise stuff at the beginning and end of the show is from the Cartoonist, from her old industrial rock project like 10 years back. I don’t really care for it myself, but hey, it’s free.
And apparently we’d have to pay a license fee to use something, y’know… good, like the Sex Pistols or whatever. So… yeah… so much for anarchy.
Oh, I got it. I could tell ya a funny story. Like this one time me and and Baby, we were parked down by the river and… wait, no, that’s a dirty story and her ol’ man might hear this and put a bullet right between my ears, so…. Never mind. Forget I said anything.
What else… lemme think… um… shit, I gotta come up something good for the first podcast… drawin’ a blank here… I mean, lots of funny shit happens here at the studio but you’re not really s’posed to talk about that shit… clients, ya know… definitely can’t tell any stories about Big Mike’s side chicks neither, I’ll get shitcanned for that if Mrs. Mike hears about it… I mean, I’m sure she knows, but… y’know.
Ooh… I got it. I know what I can tell ya and probably not get my ass kicked too bad for it. It’s a good one, man.
So I was minding my own business at work yesterday morning… well, OK, so it was 3pm, but that’s still morning by recording studio standards… anyway, I was minding my own business and rolling some Tampax-sized joints in advance of today’s session with Simpin’ Simon so he wouldn’t be too pissy when he showed up at the crack of 1pm today.
I’m talkin’ Simon’s latest session as a record producer working with clients, not his stupid band Wankoff Allot, I mean, no one gives a shit about them… and I won’t get in trouble for saying’ that because Simon doesn’t either and he said so on Twitter, it’s just a way to scam 50 G’s of government money from the FATRAT music biz grant program every few years. Everyone knows that.
So, anyway, Simon’s latest is for some dumb indie pop girl group and he’s probably bangin’ like 3 of the chicks and he wonders why Mrs. Simon makes him sleep on the sofa.
And Big Mike wasn’t supposed to be in because I forget why but he showed up anyway and hauled off hollering at me cause his Mercedes was muddy and why didn’t I wash it yet. Well, I mean, he just got there and I washed it last week and… well, when Big Mike gets in one of his moods there ain’t no logic in nothin’ he says, so I just nodded and mumbled sorry and I put Simon’s blunts in the drug drawer and went to get the car washing kit but Big Mike blocked the control room door and kept yelling for no good reason.
Well, he never has a good reason, I guess, other than Mrs. Mike is always yelling at him so he has to share the wealth or something, I dunno.
Anyway, it was about then that Jeff came in from untangling the mess of cables our last client, Nolan Penn, left in the drum booth, dragging a big clump of XLRs behind him. (We call Nolan Penn “No Peen” behind his back, cause he’s an asshole and a few years back we had a girl intern here who slept with him and reported back afterwards… I personally suspect she was probably exaggerating cause she was bitter after he ditched her for the new big titty blonde receptionist at RattWerk Records, but what do I know?)
Probably I was supposed to untangle ‘em and roll ‘em up, but… well… Saturdays, man. I was busy getting wasted with the last band. It’s called networking.
Anyway, so Jeff’s dragging the XLRs and he says, “Aw, c’mon, Mike, chill out. Ricky’s just doing what I told him.”
“Chill out? CHILL OUT? I’m very chill! I’m always chill! And furthermore I’m going easy on the kid!” Big Mike smirked and stuck his fat potato nose in the air, chest puffed out like it always is when he’s about to say something really stupid. “In fact, I’m extra chill because I’ve been to see the Dalai Lama this morning!”
Usually when Big Mike has one of his pronouncements like that, he expects us all to be really wowed. I had no clue what he was talking about, but I did my best “oh, wow, cool!” because I know what’s good for me. Jeff, however, is never fazed by Big Mike’s posturing, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s got a few of his own gold record credits, I bet Big Mike would have fired him long ago for not being suitably impressed.
Well, that and Jeff is Mrs. Mike’s nephew, so Big Mike is kinda fucked there.
Anyway, Jeff just raised an eyebrow and said, “Yeah? Me too. Where’d you sit?”
For some reason Big Mike didn’t answer. I’m guessing that means he was stuck at the back with the plebs or whatever, but he started sputtering about how they didn’t have a VIP package for this Dolly dude’s show—wait a minute, why was there a concert at 10 in the morning? I didn’t think the arena was even open that early—and Big Mike kept going on and on about that as Jeff just stood there untangling and coiling.
“Who the fuck ever heard of a big stadium show without a VIP meet and greet? I’d pay another 10K to have a photo with the Dalai Lama any day, man… and then write it off for business expenses.”
Jeff nodded. “Me and my dharma group were very touched by his words on compassion and happiness. It was a great blessing to be so close to His Holiness.”
“Pfft… compassion… where’d you sit, kid? Nosebleeds?”
Jeff’s serene Zen smile took the slightest turn for the mischief. “My dharma group managed to score a block of 15 tickets in the front row.”
Suddenly, for the first time in the 5 years I’ve been working at the studio… well, the 5 years I been getting paid to work at the studio, I worked here a couple years before that for free like I said earlier, anyway, for the first time since I known Big Mike, Big Mike was speechless. For a whole minute.
I was starting to worry this was one of them seven signs they talk about in the horror movies when suddenly Big Mike erupted in rage: “YOU SAT WHERE?!?!?”
Ah… back to normal… but Big Mike wasn’t done. “I told my secretary to get me the best seats in the house at any cost and YOU got the front row?!?”
“Uh huh.”
Big Mike was shaking, teeth grinding and forehead veins popping. “But you paid 25 grand a seat, right?”
“Naw, man. We paid 50 bucks each.”
“GAAAAAAHHHH!!! My secretary said front row tickets were 25 grand and all sold out!!!!”
Jeff shrugged. “The lama who runs our dharma group had the tickets and only asked for 50 bucks.”
It was taking all of my effort to not snicker, but I managed somehow, knowing that if Big Mike caught me laughing at him he might well rip the patchbay right out of the wall to bash my head with… and then I’d have to fix it, rewiring and soldering all those hundreds of cables and jacks and all before Simon arrived tomorrow… well, today, but when this happened yesterday, today was still tomorrow if you know what I mean.
“Well if you paid 50 bucks for front row, why the fuck did my upper balcony ticket cost me 10 grand?!?”
Jeff paused his cable coiling to stroke his whiskers. “Strange… I’d heard the upper balcony was going for 25 dollars a seat.”
Big Mike was hyperventilating now, nostrils flared and his scraggly moustache hairs fluttering in the breeze of each panicked breath. “Jesus fuck tabernac… the Ticketmaster fees can’t be that bad! $9975 per ticket now?!? No wonder Robert Smith has such a hissy fit about them!”
Jeff just looked at Big Mike. I got the impression he was also squashing a laugh. But he just said, “Where’d you get your ticket? Stubhub scalpers?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, my secretary got it. I gave her the money.”
“Maybe she went shopping with the change.” Big Mike spun around and glared at me. Jeff shook his head at me from over Big Mike’s shoulder.
Oh shit… but it was too late and I guess the penny dropped because Big Mike went huffing and puffing and stomping out of the control room, slamming every door on his way out to his Mercedes—did I mention that he drives a Mercedes? It’s very important that you know Big Mike drives a Mercedes—so hard the building shook.
Jeff clucked his tongue at me in disapproval. “That may be true but it wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Ricky.”
“Well, um, I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”
“You know Big Mike can’t handle truths.”
“Well, yeah.”
There was a heavy silence for a few minutes and I resumed rolling Simon’s joints while Jeff carried on with his cables.
Then the curiosity got to me and I blurted out and asked him, “So, you got to see a sheep speak?”
“A what?”
“I thought Dolly was a sheep.”
“Huh?”
“I saw it on TV once. They made a sheep named Dolly. I didn’t know it could talk.”
“That’s different. I went to see the Dalai Lama speak.”
“I didn’t know llamas could talk either.”
“No, Ricky, he’s a—”
“Do llamas spit when they talk? I heard alpacas spit.”
“No, the Dalai Lama is a spiritual leader.”
“What’s that about? Church?”
“A spiritual leader is a role model for how one ought to live.”
“Ah, OK… You mean like Sid Vicious?”
“Uh… not exactly…”
“More like the Ramones, then?”
Jeff chuckled and shook his head.
“Well, I hope you’re not talking about the Clash. I can’t stand those guys, all holier-than-thou and all that political business. And you know damn well their best songs were the ones Mick Jones wrote about his girlfriend.”
“OK, Ricky, I think you’re missing the point.”
“Naw, man, ’Should I Stay Or Should I Go’ is a classic but the rest is trash.”
Jeff sighed. “The Dalai Lama teaches us to be happy by being compassionate and helping people and—”
“Oh. So he’s like Bono or whatever?”
Jeff had to think about that. He even stopped coiling cables a few minutes, head tilted and his nose wrinkled up.
Finally he said, “Well, I suppose, but the Dalai Lama is an actual monk and he talks about letting go of our attachments.”
“Oh, that’s a terrible idea, Jeff.”
“Suffering comes from attachment.”
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.”
“No, Ricky, it’s the clinging and the desire that—”
“I’m telling you, Jeff: letting go of your attachments is a very bad idea! That’s how I broke my arm playing on the monkey bars when I was a little rat!”
Well, Jeff kept insisting that wasn’t the same thing but I told him that I might not have gotten good grades in science class but I understood gravity first-hand… well, OK, it was because of “no hands” actually, but you know what I mean.
In any case, it didn’t matter much because just then Mrs. Mike popped into the studio, looking for Big Mike.
“Where’s Asshole?”
I figured it was best to let Jeff field that question.
“He’s not working here this week, Aunty Brandi.”
“Bullshit, he’s always here!”
“Well, he popped in earlier but left already.”
“I’m searching the loft.”
“Alright. Go ahead.”
But of course Mrs. Mike didn’t find him anywhere in the studio. And she might not have found him at all yesterday except Big Mike always has to have the last word so he came roaring back into the studio to once again flip out on Jeff for having gotten a front row ticket for 50 bucks.
And when he did, he was met by Mrs. Mike right inside the control room door.
“What the fuck are you doing here? I told you not to bug me at work!”
“You’re not even working here this week. And what the fuck did you take ten grand out of our vacation fund for?!”
Big Mike straightened up: time to try that same smug routine on Mrs. Mike. “I went to see the Dalai Lama this morning.”
She wasn’t impressed any more than Jeff was. “You spent 10 grand to see someone you can watch on YouTube for free?!?”
“Yes!”
“That money was for my Turks & Caicos getaway!”
“Pfft! It’s my money, I’m the one who works!”
Well, that set all hell loose, because like Jeff said earlier, it may be true but it wasn’t a nice thing to say, so Mrs. Mike started hollering and chasing Big Mike around the lounge, armed with an upside-down mic stand to beat his brains in with. And not one o’ them flimsy tripod ones, I mean one o’ them mic stands with the big heavy metal circle bases.
Y’know, usually Big Mike’s more of a waddle slowly kinda dude, but he sure can run fast when Mrs. Mike is raticidal, so he managed to keep just out of reach as she chased him around and around the studio and eventually out into the parking lot up the neighbours tree, whereupon Jeff tiptoed out to the lobby and bolted the front door shut.
And then I kept rolling joints and Jeff kept coiling cables til the neighbours called the cops on Big Mike and his missus and eventually they both left and the cops left and we studio rats had some peace and quiet to light one up up and relax.
Er… I meant to finish setting up for Simon’s session today. Yeah, that’s what I meant.
So it was a pretty typical Sunday… except at least I didn’t have to wash the mud off Big Mike’s Mercedes, so there’s that.
Haha… so… yeah… um, that’s kinda what I got for today.
Dunno how often we’re gonna do this podcast thingy cause it’ll depend when I can have the studio to myself or to me and my buddies and that depends on clients and whatnot. Maybe monthly, maybe a couple times a month. We’ll see.
And maybe the Cartoonist will actually tell me what I’m supposed to say in the podcast and that’ll help.
Um… oh yeah, I guess I should plug the, like, website and stuff. So, the website is rickybtherocknrollrat.com And I got a Facebook page the Cartoonist made, it’s Facebook.com/rickybtherocknrollrat And I got an Instagram, it’s ricky_b_rat and so’s my twitter and there’s a YouTube but I dunno what the URL is, just a whole long buncha random letters and numbers and shit, I think. Dunno, I’ll have ta ask the Cartoonist, but so far there’s nothin’ on YouTube yet other than this one show, so….
So, like, follow those and the cartoonist posts a sketchbook cartoon every Sunday and maybe she’s gonna put more stuff there, dunno. But she’s also working on, like, a comic book or graphic novel or whatever featuring me. I like comic books, man, they have less, like, big words in them than regular books. My kinda thing, ya know.
I’m hoping there’s boobs in the comic book, that’d be real swell.
Anyway, um, I gotta crash and get a couple hours sleep before Jeff gets back here after his morning Zen class and expects me to help him set up for the guitar stuff or whatever. Catch ya next time, enjoy the weirdo industrial stuff the Cartoonist slapped in at the end. Or not, haha.
Links
Follow Ricky on Facebook: Ricky B. the Rock n Roll Rat Facebook page
And on Instagram: Ricky B. Rat on Instagram
And on Twitter/X: Ricky B. Rat on Twitter
But also on YouTube: Ricky B. Rat on YouTube
And of course on Rumble if you’re into that: Ricky B. Rat on Rumble
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