Thor's COVID Guacamole
Once upon a stretch of time, in the two thousand teens, myself, my wife, and two of our closest friends decided while hanging out one Saturday evening that the contents of our nerd-riddled, and explicit conversations, would better be served as a gift to the public in the form of a podcast. Exactly what the world was missing: nerds in a basement swearing and complaining.
Turns out, and I'm not at all biased, it was comedic gold. We were christened "The GIF of Assholes Podcast" and produced twenty or so rib-tickling, side-splitting, leg slapping episodes of comedic brilliance.
Notice the subtle way I designed the GIF loading circle to look like an asshole? Nice.
Throughout the podcast's life we had many recurring themes, mostly inside joke we forced into episodes with very little context, or regard for our audience. Once such recurring motif was our love and admiration for the living legend, Thor.
To clarify, I'm not talking about the mighty Marvel Comic's Avenger, portrayed thirty seven dozen times in the unending onslaught of Marvel superhero universe movies by a beefy, hunkerific, Australian actor person. No, I speak of a different Thor. The only true Thor... Jon Mikle Thor, the Rock n' Rollin', body-building, movie-staring Thor that hails from the great northern territories of Canada, not Valhalla, or Midgard, or wherever that phony Thor inhabits.
The Thunder Hawk himself.
Having lived into our thirties (at that point) only ever knowing the "traditional" Thor, fellow Asshole Matt brought to the GIF's attention that he had recently watched a documentary film on the Netflix about this body-builder Jon Mikle Thor, and the insanity that had been his career up until that point. The film, for starters, featured Thor's time as a body-builder, nude waiter/stripper who was "outsized" by another waiter, kidnap victim, and rock god. This is only the first fifteen minutes or so of the film. I implore you to watch "My Name is Thor." It's a wild ride through one man's life, who is determined to entertain by any means, or cost, necessary. It's full of crazy, but ends up being a portrait of an endearing man. An endearing man named Thor.
We were enthralled. We tracked down and consumed all things Thor. Things like his starring role vehicle "Rock n' Roll Nightmare," a movie that will absolutely blow your mind, or his Conan the Barbarian like comic books, and, of course, the multitudes of rock albums he's produced.
We fucking love Thor.
The documentary turned out to be an injection of popularity for his sword-swinging, heavy metal rockin' career and it wasn't long after that Thor himself announced a tour through America, featuring a stop in the GIF of Assholes base of operations: Denver, Colorado. Of course we attended, and subsequently, had our asses rocked by the Thunder Hawk himself. This was but the first of three times Thor would grace us, and our state with his presence.
The second time was such a scene of pure magnificence. I don't think a single event could capture the pure essence of what the GIF of Assholes was all about, but if one could, it would have been that night.
Thor performed at the then newly refurbished, punk rock venue, Streets of London (RIP). We arrived to find the establishment sparsely populated, with every TV in the joint tuned to an episode of the classic nineteen hundred and eighties television sitcom "Alien Life Form," or, "Alf," a show chronicling the misadventures of a harry, cat-eating puppet from outer space, a GIF obsession. This particular featured episode is one where ALF joins a satanic cult. Soon, the opening act for the night took to the stage. A lone performer slowly walked to a single microphone and proceeded to yell Alice Cooper songs at us, accompanied by poorly recorded, vocal-less versions of the real Alice Cooper songs, while flinging pocketfuls of confetti at us like some kind of dime store Tom Waits. In between his shrieking he would cue up commercial advertisements the real Alice Cooper had lended his voice and character to.
This was as close to true art as I have ever been, or would likely ever be. It was, simply, amazing.
After that performance, Thor fucking rocked the place, naturally, but the third time Thor landed in Denver was perhaps the most memorable.
It was early March of the year two thousand and twenty. Thor had recently released a second documentary film. This one was about the impact on his life the first documentary had. To celebrate its release he would be spending two evenings in our fair city. The first night would be a screening of the new documentary followed by an "intimate" and acoustic performance of Thor classics. The second night would be a full-on, Thor rock show. These were not-to-be-missed events, except for GIF-er Matt, who had somehow reached his Thor limit, crazily enough. So, the remaining three, myself, my wife Desirae, and Don "Moon Kick" Austin, hurled ourselves into the dark for Thor in Denver, night one.
We arrived promptly at the predetermined location: a bar in the South Broadway vicinity of Denver going by the name "Grandma's House," another "theme" bar, multitudes of which were popping up in the gentrified parts of town, full of themes that are kind of clever when you first hear about it but who's luster quickly fades when you realize "theme" means "nine dollars for a beer." Grandma's House was one such place. Fashioning itself to resemble your dear departed grandmother's house, complete with floral pattern wallpaper, old wooden furniture, doily festooned surfaces, and drinks served in various kinds of jam and mason jars, which, again, sounds cute in theory, but when you pay eighteen American dollars for two bears, each in a different sized jar, you start to question the businesses devotion to the theme.
Just… look at it.
Upon arrival we found Grandma's House to be packed to the rafters with people jubilantly expressing themselves. I was stunned. While we Assholes hold Thor in the highest regard, let's just say the rest of the world has been slow to catch on. Fools. However, upon entering the establishment, we quickly discovered all of the inhabitants were there for some sort of knitting and drinking shindig. These are the kinds of events theme bars deploy to seduce modern yuppies into their snare. The yuppies are powerless against its pull. Theme bar pay dirt. No knitting for us. We were there for Thor, whom, a not-rude-at-all staff member informed us was in "the back," signaled by him pointing hastily to the back.
"The back" was not Grandma's sewing room, or your father's perfectly preserved boyhood bedroom. No. The back was just that, the back room of a bar, fashioned in concrete with barrels of beer, powerful, flat, overhead lighting, and fold out chairs with tables strewn about randomly. Seated behind said collapsable furniture sat Thor, in his street attire, and a handful of associates, a bag of tortilla chips, and a bowl of guacamole. Not knowing what to expect, or how to proceed, we took our seats in front of the crowded folding table, facing away from Thor and his crew, towards a pull-out projector screen, where presumably, Thor's latest film would be shown.
While we waited, staring at the blank screen, from behind us came the unmistakable sounds of somebody under the sway of a cold virus. That somebody was Thor himself, hacking and wheezing and sniffling. As well as being the God of Thunder, Thor is also a polite Canadian, so naturally he offered us some of his tortilla chips, and guacamole, which rested in the open bowl directly below him. This being early March of two thousand and twenty we'd already started to hear rumblings about a new infectious disease making its way across the lands. It still felt distant enough as to not cause us immortal Americans any real concern, yet, but still, the word was out. Perhaps accepting chips and guacamole from this sickened Canadian rock God wasn't the best of ideas.
We declined and said "thank you."
A steady flow of Thor's admirers trickled in, none seeming to taken with Grandma's Houses decor motif. Once all the folding chairs were occupied, the new documentary film begun.
It was equally as captivating as the first documentary, albeit with far less budget. To our mutual surprise, we appeared in the film! Spread throughout its runtime was footage recorded at various live Thor performances. One of which was during Thor's first appearance in Denver, at the Streets of London, amongst the crowd was the rocking out and smiling visages of the GIF of Assholes, immortalized forever as Thor enthusiasts.
How fucking rad.
After the feature, Thor took to the stage. By stage I mean a cleared space on the concrete floor. Accompanied by an assortment of acoustic guitar carrying young riffraff, they began to perform a handful of classic Thor standards. Ever the professional, and enthusiastic performer, Thor naturally brought his aye game, and, the house down, though he refused my request to perform the song "Shit the Pants," my personal favorite. It's a little ditty he wrote and performed with The Ass Boys in "My Name is Thor" which contain perhaps some of the best lyrics ever written:
"The time has come to shit the pants
Spread your meat
Take a squatting stance"
In the film he compares his lyric writing prowess to that of Bob Dylan's. I'd requested the song's performance at both previous performances to no avail. Despite the lack of "Shit the Pants," The night was one to remember. That was just the first of a two night experience.
Upon the second evening, having felt her brush with airborne germs too close for comfort, Desirae bowed out of that night's Thor performance, leaving just Don and myself to partake in the festivities. The second night's events were to be held at the long standing Tennyson Tap, situated kitty corner from what was once the locally renowned Elitch Gardens Amusement Park before it was tore down in the nineteen hundred and nineties and relocated in order to make way for condos and chain coffee establishments. A place Coloradans of a certain age will wax nostalgic about for hours on end if you let them.
The poster I designed for the show.
Undeterred by the looming mega-virus, we enjoyed a night of full Metal Avenger rock glory. The Tennyson Tap's cozy, dimly lit, grime-covered interior could barely contain the enthusiasm.
Packed in like proverbial sardines amongst profusely sweating strangers, and in some cases, bleeding, Don and I made light of the fact that we'd all be catching COVID that night. How could we have known mere days later the full threat of COVID would be acknowledged and we'd all be sent home to hunker down and wait it out?
Now, I'm no virologist, or have any real knowledge of how viruses spread, but I can't help but wonder if a contract trace was done in Denver, Colorado those two nights would it have led to a freely shared, open container of guacamole at Grandma's House? We may never know. What is known is that was the last live performance I attended before COVID, and would be for the next two years.
"Shit the Pants" was not played that night, either.