Mr Max Message 2/09


MR. MAX’S MESSAGE • February 2009

Wow, we now have a president that I feel proud of. The show at C3 on inauguration night was quite the scene. Members of MoveOn came out in droves to take in the Cambridge contemporary performance and create the most successful night the café has had yet. If you’d like to see the group video of “Heal This Nation (Yes We Can),” go to and use Obama as the password.

March is the one month of the year that we put out an online-only issue. The feature story, CD reviews, live reviews, 5/10/15/20, Rita and Lolita’s Our Eyes on You, the Big Shot, and Mr. Max’s Message will all turn over on March 1, 2009 to compile our 289th issue. All our advertisers switch over to banners for the month. If you’re interested in hopping on the banner trail in March or before, give me a call—(617) 524-4735.

Just two shows in February for my favorite group of artists—and both are west of Boston. On Valentine’s Day (2/14) we hike out to Mocha Maya’s Coffee House and Espresso Bar (47 Bridge St., Shelburne Falls, MA 01370) to spread the love to a side of the state we haven’t hit yet. Then a week later (2/21) we stop at Great Brook Farms (356 Main St., Bolton, MA 01740) for an afternoon (1-3pm) performance.
And now, the story for February, from my book of short true stories…

When I got to New Bedford (it was my first time taking the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard from there) I stopped for gas. When I took the pump out from its holder the liquid fuel was already coming out. I quickly shoved it in (like many males do) and noticed that I didn't have to hold the lever. After a few moments of casually leaning on my car—gasoline started squirting out of my tank. The pump was not stopping! I yanked the pump out—it was still ejaculating gas full force! I looked for a safety switch and found none—I put the pump down on the ground as it quickly saturated the entire area. Good thing I wasn't smoking. I ran into the Exxon mart screaming to the woman attendant to shut off #14. She did. The gasoline soaked into the cement and pavement and evaporated right before my eyes. I negotiated with the woman about how much I should pay. She was fair about it, though I later realized I could have probably threatened some kind of lawsuit and paid nothing. I got back to my car and pushed it away from the area, figuring any little spark could be fatal. Just then some bozo in a red pickup truck drove by and flipped his cigarette butt out the window. I saw it coming in slow motion and hopped in my rolling car, quickly started it, and moved from the area as red flames shot up filling my rear view mirror. The fire latched onto the pump and within five seconds the whole gas station went up with a bang, followed by a black mushroom of smoke. I caught the ferry just in time to wipe the ashes and soot off my rear window. My stay on the Vineyard wasn't quite as exciting.
Okay, the pickup truck never appeared and the fire never happened—I had to do something to give the story a little zip.

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