I had heard a bit of the new album. My first reaction was that their playing has gotten much better, their vocals are now absolutely dead-on, the songs tended to be more piano-driven than previous albums, and that Rick Rubin didn't fuck up the whole thing like he did with Metallica. He actually made it good!
But that's not what I'm here to write about. I wanted to talk about how I messed up Scott Avett's 33rd birthday. Or his cake at least.
I was working hospitality for the Avett Brothers June 19 show in Akron. When working hospitality, you tend to have to do some really weird things for celebrities. The Avetts, as far as I could tell, were not in any way demanding.
But it was Scott Avett's Birthday. And I was told to go to Fairlawn and pick up a special birthday cake for Scott.
After 40 minutes of trying to find this Cold Stone Creamery or whatever it was, I had to convince the people working that there actually is a cake there that I need to pick up. Even though I had no description of it. "It's a cake for Scott." "It probably says something like 'Happy Birthday Scott'." "It is under the name Avett!!!"
*no dice*
I call the promoter, who sent me on this mission, and he puts me on the phone with a guy named Joe. Turns out the cake was under his name. He tells the cake artisan (I don't know the proper euphemism) his card number over the phone, purchasing the cake. And I, to seal the deal, buy 40 candles... Because there's no way to buy just 33.
I load up this ice cream cake and realize that it will very likely melt along the way. So I make it my mission to find a cooler.... and some ice...
It takes the better part of an hour and this cake is rapidly melting. But sure enough, I find ice to put in this cooler and the cake BARELY fits in it. A tight squeeze. The confined quarters of my newly acquired cooler insured that this cake WOULD NOT MOVE and was secure for the rest of my journey to and through Akron.
Upon arriving at the Akron Civic's back door, I lifted the top of the cooler to see a beautiful, pristine, undisturbed ice cream cake--slightly softened by hour long journey it had taken. Beautiful. I did a good job.
I delicately placed my hands on both sides of the cake and, in my obstetrical best, gently lifted the desert.
It fucking exploded.
The thin plastic shell which was separating the softened frosted exterior of the cake and the unforgiving walls of the cooler fucking exploded. The cake flew out and crashed top-first in the cooler. Frosting was everywhere. Ice cream was everywhere.
Did I mention that it looked like the cake fucking exploded?!
I freaked out. I wrapped my hands around the demolished cake and threw it back into its original container. It was a shapeless blob of half-melted ice cream with a few random spatters of what was meant to be decorative icing.
I was covered in it. And I mean, covered. From my elbows to my fingers... I tried to talk myself down. "Get it together, Doug. We need to get you cleaned up. Do you have any napkins?" I responded to myself, "No. No napkins. No paper towels. Not even any towels."
I knew I had to get cleaned up somehow and there was only one way to do it. Logically, the best way to remove copious amounts of ice cream cake from one's extremities is by eating it. Eating it all. As fast as you can.
So, I went at my forearms like corn on the cob.
And when I was at the very peak of hardcore forearm icing gormandizing I heard a voice from behind me in a half-angered, half-disbelieving tone. "Wait, what?!"
I turned around to see a disgusted-looking man who was obviously the aforementioned Joe, who ordered the cake.
I now didn't just have cake on my hands and arms, but on my shirt, on my pants, and all over my face. Especially around the mouth.
I couldn't offer much of an explanation other than, "The cake exploded!" and "I got you candles!".
Although obviously disgusted, Joe took the cake and candles without a scalding word. (which would be well deserved)
And so, there I stood, bewildered--that after hours of work in chasing this cake and trying to properly transport it (for one of my favorite bands); I had, in the home stretch, blown it.
And not to mention that everyone now thinks that I'm some fat kid that couldn't transport a cake more than 10 miles without going at it like Kobayashi.
