Friday, May 20

Does anyone remember those commercials form the mid- to late-’80s-you know, the ones with the piping hot frying pans, the eggs, the depressing monotone voice, the whole “This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs” nonsense? Come on, you remember-they were funny as all hell.Anyway, Calendar remembers (which is rare these days), but we think we might be a little abnormal-we remember watching those commercials as a little Alf-T-shirt clad munchkin, circa 1987, and not being mortified by the prospect of our brain frying up like so many yet-born chicken embryos. Nope, instead of being disgusted and incensed, we just got a little hungry, walked our 7-year-old events-listing butt to the kitchen, took a big bong rip and made ourselves some eggs-over easy, of course. Such childhood memories help explain Calendar’s subsequent addiction, rehab, relapse and lifelong friendships with Robert Downy Jr. and Scott Weiland. Our psychiatrist seems to think such memories are invaluable to our progression as human beings…but we think he’s a crack-head, and that therefore his opinion is to be taken with a serious, crack-rock sized piece of salt.

We think that our addictions can only be explained by tracing their long and swerving trajectory throughout the drug-induced haze of our youth and young manhood. The way we see it, Calendar’s addictions aren’t really our fault. Nope, we’re merely the tragic byproduct of our surroundings-our mother was a junkie baboon, our father a pill-popping rhino and every uncle, cousin and step-sibling we’ve ever known has been sold to support the mescaline habits of our grandparents (no lie: ol’ granpappy Calendar has eaten so much peyote, he’s permanently convinced that the apocalypse is nigh, and the four horsemen are running crop circles through his cornfield).

Obviously, Calendar ran with some Bad Company back in the day. We had this one friend, Steve, who was especially notorious for his habits-the kid would routinely raid his mother’s medicine cabinet and go on eight-day-long Advil binges. He had a band, like most ibuprofen fiends, but they sucked. Calendar was sure that Steve died a long time ago due to a terminal inability to become inflamed, but apparently we’re wrong-Steve and his band of misfits play tonight at Suede (1612 Ute. Boulevard) for $20 at 8 p.m.

We’re not really sure why, but the whole musician-on-drugs thread runs heavy through our substance-abused childhood. Calendar knew this other kid, Tyler, who played a mean French Horn. He was going places, we swear, until the day he got hooked on LSD and enrolled in the School of Rock, where he now teaches the youth of rich yuppies how to play clich classic tunes of narcotic inception, like Pink Floyd’s: The Wall. His touring troupe of teens plays tonight at Lo-Fi Caf (165 S. West Temple) at 8 p.m. for $7.

As for Calendar, well, our personal drug of choice was always The Happies-those little buggers could get us out of even the most terrible of bad trips. We haven’t had any contact with them since we cleaned up our act…two days ago…but, as luck would have it, The Happies are playing with Maxfield at Kilby Court (741 S. 330 West) tonight at 7 p.m. Tickets at the door.

We suppose the question must be asked at this point, “After such a long and deliberate life of abuse, where do you go from here?” The answer is really pretty simple-Calendar’s next stop is a Dr. Phil Special: Escaping Addiction tonight at 7 p.m. on CBS.

Saturday, May 21

Even though Calendar’s experience with addiction lends itself most primarily to the liberal community of illicit substance abusers, we understand that dependency is a tragedy that befalls everyone from desperate housewives to racist rednecks.

Case in point, tonight’s inexcusable showcase of misogyny, oppression and testosterone-fueled compensation for penis envy: Ultimate Combat at The Station (8925 S. 255 West). Bring the Pabst Blue Ribbon, the stupid arm-band tattoos, the masculine insecurity and $20 tonight at 6 p.m. Be there or risk being called gay by your ignorant neighbors.

Then, pile all your inbred in-laws into your big red Ford F-78950 and head on over for a hee-hawing’ good time over at The Rocky Mountain Raceway (2100 S. 6555 West) with tonight’s NASCAR Dodge Weekly Racing Series.