Tiny Tim (Herbert Khaury)American Singer and Music Historian

This one time back in the mid-nineties, I was coming home from seeing Robert Plant in the Meadowlands when I got a serious case of the munchies. Luckily, the Blimpie in Kearny, NJ, was just around the corner. Around that time, Blimpie had launched their “Quick Bite” menu, which included a 6-inch BLT sandwich for $1.59, which I must say was a fantastic deal. Using the crumbled up bills and change that I had lingering in my pockets, I ordered half a dozen of the BLT’s and began to chow down.

As I devoured my sandwiches, I overheard a conversation between a group of three guys wearing torn jeans and band t-shirts. They were discussing how shitty Van Halen had become since Sammy Hagar took over and that they had, in their opinion, “sold out.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but still being somewhat inebriated from the Robert Plant show, I decided to add my two cents. From what I remember, I attempted to point out that while Roth-era Van Halen was undoubtedly classic (with hits like “Hot for Teacher” and “Jump”); it was only after the addition of Hagar that the band became a true American hard rock staple.

I don’t exactly remember how the conversation went after that because I suddenly found myself waking up in the dumpster behind the Blimpie with a massive headache, covered in the remains of my BLT sandwiches. After carefully extracting myself from the dumpster, I noticed a rather large, long-haired man sitting on a discarded box next to me, watching.

“Excuse me sir, but would you like some help,” he said to me. At that moment, I recognized the man as musical novelty act Tiny Tim. I paused for a moment, pointing at him. “Yes, I do have a familiar face, if that’s what you’re about to say,” he said. With his help, I got up and managed to brush of most of the sandwich remains.

“You’re Tiny Tim,” I managed to say, still reeling from the headache.

“You’ve caught me,” he said, smiling. “Yes, I am the artist best known as Tiny Tim.”

I just went on staring at him for a moment. He looked exactly like he did on TV and in photos: an overweight, 6-foot tall man with long wavy hair and a large nose. He was even wearing a tuxedo and bowtie. The only thing that surprised me was that he wore dark eyeliner and white face-paint.

“What are you doing here?” was the best I could come up with.

“I’m here for a musical event, sir.”

“Oh… why are you wearing makeup?”

“The musical event to which I referred to is a performance by the thrash metal band known as Gwar.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Is there anything else?” he asked politely.

“Yeah, do you want to blaze?”

“Why of course I do, sir.”

* * *
In the alley behind Blimpie, we sat down and smoked a couple of joints that I had been saving. Several of the joints had been crushed when I’d been assaulted by the David Lee Roth jihad. As I smoked with Tiny Tim, he told me all about the iconic metal band Gwar, which up to that time I’d only heard mentioned in passing (at the time being deeply devoted to classic rock… and joints).

“So I don’t get it,” I said to him as the pain in my skull began to subside, “why are you seeing Gwar?”

“Oh, well that is because it is their RagNaRok N Roll tour to promote their new album.”

“No, I mean why are you into Gwar? Aren’t you all about playing old music and promoting old artists?”

“You see, sir, I’m a connoisseur of all different styles of music. Why would one limit themselves to musicians like Mister Irving Berlin or the great Mister Billy Murray, when music is a constantly evolving organism survives on variety,” he said.

I was taken back for a minute (although it may have been a concussion). “I never really thought of it that way,” I told him.

“Why yes. A single person may not like a particular style of music, but I can guarantee you that there is at least one song out there in the entire discography of all music ever, that they will enjoy. It is for that reason that I like to expand the range of my music taste every chance I get.
“I must say sir,” he told me as he passed a joint back to me, “this is truly excellent weed that you have obtained.”

“Thanks,” I said, “it’s the shit. So tell me about Gwar.”

“Oh, well… Gwar truly started when Mister Dave Brockie, at the time in the band Death Piggy, met Mister Chuck Varga and Mister Hunter Jackson. They provided Death Piggy with the props and costumes that would eventually carry over into Mister Varga and Mister Jackson’s side project, known as “GWAARGGGH!!!” but eventually just shortened to Gwar. Now the lineup of the band went through several abrupt changes early on—”

“—no, I mean, what’s Gwar all about? Why are they so great?” I said.

“Ah, very simple, sir. Gwar started as a punk rock band focusing around absurd stage shows, but eventually grew into thrash metal as the 1980’s progressed. To be perfectly honest, sir, it is mostly about the stage performances.”

“Yeah?” I prompted, taking another hit.

“Oh of course. You see, each band member has an over-the-top alter ego, you see, and they came up with epic back stories involving the alter-egos as characters. Additionally, their stage antics would involve comedy segments where they would ridicule effigies of current celebrities or figures in the news.”

“That sounds fucking crazy man,” I said.

“Oh it is, I assure you sir,” he replied. “You see, people can be very critical of music, especially any music derived from the punk scene. Aging hipsters attach themselves to one aspect of music and feel that that is the ultimate expression, but in truth, you must constantly evolve into something new for music to truly retain its greatness,” he said, taking the joint. “That’s why I’m always moving on to something new. I’ve been seeing Gwar for almost a decade now. I’m always entertained, but I’ve been moving on recently.
"There’s an alternative band called the Butthole Surfers that I’ve recently been getting back into. They are similar to Gwar in that they have their roots in the 80s hardcore-punk scene, but they’ve taken their music in all kinds of different directions. Only now are they really being recognized for all that they’ve done for music.”

“Wow man,” I said. “You’re fucking right. I never really thought of it that way. It’s like my mind’s been opened up to a whole new understanding of music.”

“It may just be the concussion,” Tiny Tim said to me, handing me the joint.

“You think I may have a concussion?”

“Hold on,” he said, standing up. He placed his massive palm on my forehead, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then drew his hand back. “Better?”

I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times. “Yeah, it’s a lot better… how’d you do that?” I asked him.

“Well sir, when you learn enough about music, you start to understand how to apply its power for the benefit of all mankind.” He said, looking around.

“What?!”

“Hmmm?” he said. “Oh, don’t mind me. I say silly things sometimes.”

I put my lighter away, as we’d finished the remaining joints. I stood up and checked to make sure I had my wallet on me, which I did. Then I looked over to Tiny Tim to thank him for his help, and he was gone.

* * *
In the Blimpie, I asked some of the staff if they’d seen him and where he went.

“Oh, Tiny Tim?” they asked. “Yeah, he shows up every once and a while to root through our garbage for discarded food. Usually we have to send one of the new guys out with a broom to scare him away. Is he out there now?”

I shook my head and decided to order more 6-inch BLTs.

As much as I didn’t quite understand the meaning of the encounter at the time, meeting Tiny Tim had a profound impact on my life. While I didn’t immediately go out and buy any Gwar albums, I started listening to more progressive music. Years later I would start to get into the music of the Butthole Surfers and listen to the occasional Gwar song for fun. I view it as either a result of my encounter with Tiny Tim or as an inevitable progression of taste; it’s difficult to attribute to change to just one factor. Maybe, in the end, that’s what Tiny Tim was all about.

And that was the time that I smoked a bowl with, was healed by, and heard the message of the great musical messiah: Tiny Tim.

Mikhail GorbachevFormer Soviet/Russian Leader

About a year and a half ago, I ran dry of herb and needed to restock quickly. I called all my usual guys and the only one who could help me out was Rooster. At the time, Rooster was a very sketchy connection between some equally sketchy dealers in Pine Hill. I didn’t quite trust the guy, but he always managed to get me stuff in a pinch, so I kept him around.

Anyway, we got to some random apartment in a run-down complex. I expected that we’d just meet the guy, pick up the stuff, and be done with it; but you never know when you go into these kinds of situations. So we got to the apartment and met Rooster’s contact, Moses. He invited us in.

The apartment was miniscule. Moses offered us a seat on the couch. We sat there and waited, uncomfortably. Next to us was an open doorway leading into the small kitchenette. In there was an overweight woman with tattoos running up her arms and a massive star-of-David pendant around her neck, conversing with Moses and another skinny black guy. Also in the corner was an elderly man with a bright red wig, a prosthetic arm and a tracheal voice-box. I still don’t really know why, but the guy with the fake arm and the voice-box scared the living shit out of me. They drank beer and carried on for several minutes before Moses came out to tell me and Rooster that his “boy” would be arriving with the stuff shortly. He offered us beer and then went back to the kitchen.

For another ten awkward-as-hell minutes, Rooster and I sat on the couch and waited. We made some small talk, but Rooster wasn’t really the kind of person that you had productive conversations with. He liked to talk about cocaine, and I told him a thousand times that I wasn’t into that kind of stuff. Luckily, Moses’ “boy” arrived, but Moses and Rooster would need to go meet him at another apartment. In the meantime, I’d have to wait.

So I was waiting around in this living room for Rooster to get back for about twenty minutes. People kept walking by me to either leave or go somewhere else in the apartment. I tried to at least smile at them and say ‘hello,’ but they didn’t acknowledge me even when I made an effort. It started to get unbearably weird, and then I saw a stout foreign-looking man with a distinctive birthmark emerge from the bathroom. It took me a moment to recognize him, but I realized that this man was former Secretary General of the Soviet Union, Mikhail Gorbachev. As he left the bathroom, he waved his hand in front of his face and announced, “In there, you should not go.”

I stood up and greeted him, offering to shake his hand, addressing him as Mr. Gorbachev. He threw up his hands as if he were in trouble, “You’ve got me,” he chuckled, “I have no money, only coupon to Red Lobster. You would like?”

“Nah, I’m good, bro. I’m just shocked to see you here,” I told him.

“Shocked? So am I,” he said. “I sign up for new HMO in Russia, suddenly only pharmacy I can visit: Mr. Moses, Pine Hill, NJ in America. How ridiculous. This man Moses, not even doctor, I must believe.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “What are you picking up?”

“The chronic,” he said, opening a Ziploc bag containing a full ounce of the most beautiful weed I’d ever seen. “You partake, no?”

* * *
We didn’t even ask if we could blaze in the living room, we just lit up and nobody questioned it. The weed that Gorbachev scored was top notch. After the first hit from the former Soviet leader’s pipe, I began coughing violently.

“Is good, da?” he asked me. I nodded, unable to speak. “Da. The guy told me, ‘Is Diesel, is good,’ I say to him, ‘it better be, no?’”

“…Is that a question?” I asked.

“Eh…. No. Sometimes my English, still not so good.”

After taking another hit, I inspected the pipe. It was a dark wooden tobacco pipe with a bowl that was painted bright red and featured a golden hammer and sickle on it. “That’s a pretty sweet pipe there,” I said.

“This thing? Bah. Khrushchev gave to me in ’65… fine craftsmanship, so I keep.”

“So wait, Khrushchev blazed?”

“Are you not kidding?” Gorbachev asked me.

“I don’t know… I mean… I’m not kidding if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Ha! So little do you know,” he chuckled. “Entire Kremlin was nothing more than smoke shop. We sit around hitting massive hookah in the center of General Secretary’s chamber. We call it ‘Soviet People’s Hookah,’ which was misnomer for it was only for us.”

“Really? That’s what you guys were doing in there?”

“Of course,” He said with a shrug. “After missile crisis in Cuba, Khrushchev re-thought whole socialism plan. We were out of rubles, Americans shove missiles up our ass, China whining about us not calling… we stopped caring.
“Krushchev, he says: ‘If we invest monies in marijuana, we would be straight up baked for next couple decades.’ Nobody had better plan, so that became plan.”

“That sounds fucking awesome,” I said.

“Was good, yes,” Gorbachev said, then started laughing hysterically. “This one time, Brezhnev bring large tray of brownie edibles as gift. But before he can give them out, Chernenko already started eating them. Before we can stop him, Chernenko already has eaten half the brownies.” He laughed again. “Brezhnev’s face turn red like beet… was hilarious. He chased Chernenko all around Moscow with antique WWII Rifle and bayonet shouting, ‘taste the people’s fury, pig!’
“Oh such times take me back.”

“That’s crazy. The whole time we thought you guys were going to parachute Spetznaz commandos into our backyards.”

“Like Red Dawn? Da?” Gorbachev said, inhaling, and then exhaled: “Wolverines!” I started to laugh. “By the end, whole Cold War was joke. We could not care less. Americans, though, you go and elect cowboy actor Ronald Reagan and pretend to get all tough.
“He says ‘Mr. Gorbachev, tear down wall,’ so I pretend I don’t know what he mean and fuck with him, you see. I say ‘Wall? What wall? You want wall down? Why did you not say so in first place? Let’s tear down wall. Whole thing was fucking mess to begin with. Let’s make it big thing, da? Bring in your David Hasselhoff… hold concert… it would be like German Woodstock.’ Then he said, ‘okay’ and that was that.
“Of course, took several years to book Hasselhoff for show. Something about Knight Rider TV-movie deal, I do not know.”

“So that was it?” I asked. “That was the end of Soviet Russia?”

“Hmmm? No,” he said. “In truth, everybody died. All the old guard, they died off one by one. First Brezhnev, then Andropov, Podgorny, Chernenko… eventually just me, Vasili Kuznetzov and Yeltsin. And Yeltsin, he would not smoke the chronic. Yeltsin was all about the drink. Eventually, I kick him out for breaking Miami Vice collector’s plates in fit of drunken rage.
“Then just me and Kuznetzov, let me tell you, the man was pussy… always whining about not getting good hit. Never before have a met a man who does not understand concept of ‘puff and pass.’ Such foolishness! Finally, I become so fed up, I call Yeltsin and tell him: ‘fuck it, is all yours,’ and give him country.”

“That’s crazy,” I said.

He laughed. “Is crazy, right?”

* * *
Around then, Rooster and Moses came back. Rooster, looking pale and worried, told me that we should go right away. I said goodbye to Gorbachev and we exchanged Myspace usernames (he still hasn’t responded to my friend request). On the drive out of Pine Hill, Rooster told me that he had accused Moses of short-changing him on the deal and that he just barely got back to the apartment without being cut up. I asked him if he got the weed, but he just shook his head. I tried to explain to him that I had just met Mikhail Gorbachev, but he didn’t know who the man was until I described him as, “that bald dude with the fucked-up birthmark on his head.”

“Is he famous or something?” Rooster asked me. I decided to drop the subject right there.

And that was the time I smoked a bowl of headies with Mikhail Gorbachev at a shady apartment in Pine Hill, NJ.

Dick CheneyFormer Vice President of the United States

Sometime last year I was on my way back from Histori-Con ’09 in NY and I ended up stopping at the Houlihan’s in Weehawken, NJ. Every time I come back from any gaming convention in NY and I’m just over the bridge into Jersey, I start to desire bar food at restaurant prices.

I started on a Wings & Things appetizer sampler, and then I realized that there were five suits crammed into the booth behind me. When I looked at who was sitting there, I was shocked; it was none other than former vice-president Dick Cheney and a contingent of black-suited, mirror-shade wearing, secret service agents.

Shrugging aside the newly arrived Wings & Things, I approached Cheney’s table. The booth was overloaded with secret service personnel. The former vice-president looked up at me and uttered a few choice words: “What the fuck do you want?”

“You blaze?” I asked him, gesturing toward my face as if holding a joint.

* * *
Several minutes later we were lighting up a bowl on the bench seating of my 1990 Oldsmobile station wagon. Two of his secret service guys were in the back seat. They weren’t smoking, but that didn’t matter too much in a sealed vehicle.

For several passes of the bowl, we didn’t say anything. It was a very Zen moment, but Cheney eventually shattered it and asked me: “So what, are you like some deadbeat or something?”

“Sure,” I said. “I mean. It beats doing stuff, right?”

“True dat,” he said and took another hit.

“How about you?” I said.

He laughed. “What do you mean?”

“Well what if I asked you the same thing, right? Like, ‘so what, are you the prophesized antichrist?’”

Cheney laughed again. “You’ve got the wrong idea, friend,” he said with an awkward grimace, that I quickly realized was his version of a smile. “All I did was try to create stability where there was none.”

“Yeah but, dude, there’s no real stability anywhere.”

He smiled again; still a frightening visage. “Then you do get it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you said it, there’s no stability. We don’t live in a stable world. It’s like that Men in Black movie with… ummm… Ice T, was it?”

“Will Smith.” I said.

“No no, he was a rapper.”

“Yeah, Will Smith,” I said. “Remember, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince? Parents Just Don’t Understand? He even had a sitcom, the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.”

“Was that the one with Urkel?” Cheney asked.

“No, that was Family Matters. Remember, Fresh Prince had that catchy theme song: In West Philadelphia born and raised / On the playground was where I spend most of my days… ” Cheney suddenly joined in: “…Chillin’ out maxin’ relaxin’ all cool / And all shootin’ some b-ball outside of the school / When a couple of guys / Who were up to no good / Started makin’ trouble in my neighborhood / I got in one little fight and my mom got scared / She said ‘You’re movin’ with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air.’” Both of us switched to squeaky, high-pitched voices for the last line, and then laughed until we were out of breath.

“Yeah, I remember that shit,” Cheney said, lighting the bowl for another hit. “…what was I talking about?”

“Men in Black,” I offered.

“Oh right,” he said, exhaling. “In that they’re telling him how, like, the world is always about to be blown up by aliens, or some shit like that, and the only way people could get on with their lives was not to be told about it. You see what I’m saying?”

“So we’ve been threatened by aliens before?” I asked.

“It’s just an example, all kinds of crazy shit is always going on. If it’s not aliens, it’s the Koreans, if it’s not them it’s the French…”

“But aliens have threatened us?”

“Just drop the thing about the goddamn aliens, okay?” he said.

“Alright, alright…” I dropped the issue. He was only the slightest bit bothered by the question, but seeing the potential in his eyes for a terrifying outburst of anger, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I also decided not to inquire why the former vice-president of the United States, and possibly secret ruler of some New World Order shit, was quoting Men in Black.

Cheney took the piece to eyelevel and looked down the chamber. “This shit’s kicked, dawg,” He said in the lamest ‘hip old uncle’ voice I’d ever heard. “Let’s get order some food or something.”

“Dude,” I said. “We’re at Houlihan’s already.”

“Fuck… Houlihan’s,” Cheney muttered.

* * *
Back in the restaurant, we were sitting at a booth across from each other, with one of Cheney’s bodyguards sitting next to each of us. The remaining secret service personnel sat at the booth I had originally occupied. The former vice-president browsed through the menu, while I poked my cold Wings & Things platter with a fork.

“What the fuck is an Itty Bitty Burger? Why the hell would I want them to make a hamburger smaller? I know it comes with a few of them, but if you want more of something why not just make it bigger? I just don’t understand America anymore,” he said, then looked over at me dissecting my food. “What’s your problem?”

“It’s kind of cold,” I said. The server walked by at that moment, a pimple-faced gangly kid with the beginnings of a mustache. “Excuse me, could I get this heated up?”

“Oh man… I don’t know,” he said, scratching his scraggly hair. “I mean, I think… like, you might have to buy another one… or something… let me check with my manager—”

“Listen, you little shit-stain,” Cheney blurted out, gesturing at the server with a fork, “you put that fucking food back on the burner for him or you and all your stupid little minimum-wage friends here will be strapped upside-down to the ceiling of a rape-room in a Ukrainian ‘Re-Education’ Center so fast that your family will still be expecting you home for dinner! You understand?”

The server, terrified beyond belief, nodded, grabbed my food, and ran back to the kitchen. I began to crack-up.

“What?” Cheney asked, with a grin. “Sometimes you just have to represent.”

For the rest of our encounter we ate our food (Cheney, out of curiosity, decided on the Itty Bitty Burgers) and discussed Battlestar Galactica, Entourage, and the latest season of True Blood, which Cheney felt “was too far out there.” Eventually, Cheney’s schedule dictated his departure. We exchanged Xbox gamertags, shook hands, said we’d keep in touch, and that was the end of it. As Cheney’s limo pulled away, I could faintly hear the music of the Fresh Prince blasting from its sound system. I waved as it passed, but its tinted windows prevented me from seeing if my gesture was returned.

And that was the time I smoked a bowl with Dick Cheney at the Houlihan’s in Weehawken, NJ.