One is hard-pressed to find a more festive American than Andrew W.K. The muti-talented musician, artist, motivational speaker and TV host announced his arrival with his 2001 debut I Get Wet, and its narcotically-catchy anthem, “Party Hard.” The ensuing decade saw the classically-trained musician release a slate of hard-charging rock albums celebrating the time-honored art of partying, as well a record full of J-pop covers and an album featuring only improvised piano pieces. He has published advice books and delivered motivational speeches at some of America’s most prestigious universities, including Yale, New York University and Carnegie Mellon. Anything but a vapid party animal, Andrew’s unwavering positive attitude and magnetic charisma saw him recently commanding headlines amid rumors of a State Department appointment as Cultural Ambassador to the Middle East.

In Part II of This Post:

The big night had finally arrived: Party-time at Mike’s. Kathi was there. Copious amounts of booze and weed were there, too. What I didn’t tell Mike and Kathi, however, was that my brother was also present. He was in Mike’s bedroom, awaiting my signal–a few lines from that Foreigner song, “Hot Blooded”–to send him bolting for Mike’s closet, where he’d have ringside seats for the whole down-and-dirty.

Part III—The Final Chapter—The Score as Recounted in 33 1/3 RPM:

Once I’d belted out the lines to that Foreigner song I headed out, waited in my car, which was parked down the block.

I flipped on the radio.

As I listened to WMMR play rock block after rock block of Van Halen, The Stones, you name it, I thought about Mike.

Wondered how he was fairing with his de-virginizing.

Hopefully he was relaxed. Going with the flow. Glidey as KY.

Hopefully, he wasn’t petrified.

Hopefully, he wasn’t on top of Kathi, looking down at her with fearful eyes.

Crazed eyes.

Manson eyes.


No, hopefully things were going well for my friend, Mike.

Hopefully, every move he was making was suave.


Hopefully, he’d suddenly become empowered with a strange animal 7th sense.

And hopefully, my friend, Kathi, was being gentle with this creature.

Taking him into her home.

Stoking him. Stroking him.

But also whipping the beast when needed, to really put him in his place.

Mostly, however, I wanted Kathi and Mike to share in an experience that would ultimately rank amongst the Top Ten in their Guinness Book of Flings.

Oh, and of course I felt a bit bad about pranking them.

But hey, it’s like DJ Pubes sez:


Time passed.

The radio played Ozzy, the Grateful Dead, the Police.

Finally, I spotted Mike leaving his place to drive Kathi home.

I booked back inside.

“So how did it go?” I said to my brother, who was sitting on the edge of Mike’s war-torn bed.

He shook his head. “It was crazy.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

This was where things got really interesting. This was where my brother recounted the whole affair in a way that I’d never even considered.

He revealed the whole play-by-play through the songs that had been playing on Mike’s crappy bedside radio alarm clock.

“First,” said my brother, “they started making out to Cheap Trick’s ‘I Want You to Want Me.’”

“Next, clothes started coming off to Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”

“Then Mike groped Kathi to The Clash’s ‘Rock the Casbah.’”

“Then he put the rubber on to Van Halen’s ‘Animal.’”

Sure, I was way into my brother’s whole Sex D.J. approach to recounting the events, but I was ready to cut to the chase.

“What was playing when they did it?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” said my brother.

I nodded.

“You’re not gonna like it,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I said. “Tell me.”

“James Taylor’s ‘Handy Man.’”


“Are you serious?” I said.


“Jeeeeeeeezus,” I uttered.

To think that Mike’s finest hour had been christened by “Handy Man” was tragic. He should’ve had the foresight to purchase a decent stereo, where he could’ve had control over the musical accompaniment to his de-virginizing.

He should’ve been playing Deep Purple.

Or better yet, Pink Floyd.

That would’ve been just the thing to woo the sleepy-eyed stoner girl that was Kathi.

But no.

It had to be J.T.

Good thing they weren’t trying to have kids or anything like that.

Had it been encoded with “Handy Man” DNA, Mike’s sperm would’ve been all messed up.


It would’ve been way too sensitive for this world.

It would’ve been forever lost inside Kathi, left to roam her uterine halls, scribbling love poems all over her pink walls.

* * *

A few weeks passed.

Then came a night when Mike, my brother and I were partying over at Mike’s place.

We were sitting on his bedroom floor, smoking and drinking.

Once again, tunes were provided by Mike’s crappy bedside radio alarm clock.


And wouldn’t you know, no lie, just as we’d sparked up a freshly packed bong, that song came on the radio:

“Handy Man.”

My brother and I lost it.

“What’s so funny?” said Mike.

My brother and I, still laughing hysterically, could only shake our heads.

“C’mon,” said Mike. “What gives?”

Once we’d finally gathered up our words,


We confessed to what had happened.

Of course Mike was pissed.

Of course he was mortified as hell.

But he did admire our initiative.

“I’m gonna get you guys back,” he said. “Don’t know how, but one of these days I will.”

To this day, however, Mike’s never been able to prank us the way we pranked him that night.

That’s okay. I’m sure one day he’ll get his due.

But until then, every time I hear that song, “Handy Man,” I can’t help but get all happy.

My face splits open with a great big greasy banana peel grin.


Sometimes I even sing along with the words, as I recall my best friend’s de-virginizing.

And in those fleeting moments, as much as pop song time will allow, I also wonder what goes through Mike’s head whenever he hears that song.

In Part I of this piece:

My best friend in high school, Mike, confessed that he needed help getting laid. It just so happened that I had a friend, Kathi–a real sex-bomb cherry–who I figured to be just the girl to top off his virgin sundae…

Part II: The Hook-Up

After explaining my hook-up idea to Mike, I contacted Kathi.

It didn’t take a lot of convincing to get her on board.

That Kathi: Back in high school she was a tried and true all-American party girl.


But even with Mike and Kathi being up for the arrangement, it still took some work on my part.

A lot of back and forth calling to finally set a date.

One Saturday Mike had tickets for a nitro funny car race.

The next Saturday Kathi was scheduled to go to a nitrous oxide party.

Finally, after a couple weeks had passed, I phoned them both and, said:  “No more dickin’ around. You’re getting together this Saturday. And that’s final!”

Once the date was secured I devised a plan.

I made sure it was easy as A-B-C easy as 1, 2, 3.

That way no one would back out–especially Mike.

Still being a virgin, no telling what crazy excuse he might concoct at the last minute to bail.

Maybe he’d suddenly need to change the spark plugs in his primer-blue Nova.

Or floss his dog’s teeth.

Or get some weird-ass tattoo on his back.


Yeah, with Mike, no telling what weird shit he might come up with at the last minute to dodge his de-virginizing party.

So I kept the plan simple.

Since the two of us pumped gas at the same local station in town, and since I’d be working day-shift that Saturday, and Mike, evening shift, I made him give me his house key.

Told him that by the time he arrived home at eleven, I’d be there with a case of beer, some weed, and Kathi.

And once I made the formal introductions I’d be gone.

The plan was a charm, it would go off without a hitch.

Especially since Mike’s parents would be out of town that weekend.

“So you ready to rock and roll?” I said.

“I think so,” said Mike.

With that, I produced a box of condoms.


I slapped the box in his hands, and said: “Hit a home run, slugger.”

Mike ogled the condoms, then looked me right in the eyes.

I’d never seen him so happy.

The grinning Halloween pumpkin of his absolute joy rose straight into the sky.


“Thanks,” he said. “No one’s ever done this for me before.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “I just want you to score.”

Once I left Mike I phoned Kathi to fill her in on the details.

Here’s the hitch though…

What I didn’t tell either one of them was that I had an additional part to my plan.

We’ll call it Plan B.

This Plan B involved a little pranking.

Like I’ve said before: Mike and I loved to prank each other.

Another person who loved pranking was my brother.

So I decided to get him in on the action, too.

Told him that before picking up Kathi I’d drop him off at Mike’s.

He’d hang out in the bedroom while Kathi and I waited in the living room for the soon-to-be-de-virginizedto get home.

Once Mike arrived and I’d made the introductions, my brother would duck into Mike’s bedroom closet, where he’d have box seats for the whole down-and-dirty.

“Are you up for it?” I said.

My brother’s face went all Christmas in June.

That’s because he also knew Kathi.

Sure she was a bit trashy.
But still, she was hot.



“But how will I know when they’re coming to the room so I can duck in the closet?” he said.

We mulled over possible signals I could call out.

Shouting Whippoorwill would be too random.
Mike would definitely sense something was amiss.

Ditto with calling out a line from our favorite Vonnegut novel, Slaughterhouse Five:

“They crawled into a forest like the big, unlucky mammals they were.”

Finally we came up with an idea.

I’d sing a few lines from that Foreigner song: “Hot Blooded.”

“Perfect,” said my brother.

And so we were set.

And so the big night finally arrived.

It was party time at Mike’s.


And after I’d snuck my brother into Mike’s bedroom,

And after I’d picked up Kathi and introduced her to Mike,

And after we’d downed a few beers and smoked a little weed,

Kathi and Mike were ready to go at it.

So I made my exit.

But not before I playfully belted out those words.

The words that would have my brother bolting for Mike’s closet:

“I’m hot blooded, check it and seeeeeeeeee. I’ve got a fever of a hundred and threeeeeeeee.”

Coming Soon, Part III…The Score, as Recounted in 33 1/3 RPM

Just the other day I heard that James Taylor song, “Handy Man,” on the radio

For reasons I’ll eventually explain

That sappy song has left an indelible mark on my memory

It all started with virginity, a true love of music

And, of course, Mike

Back in high school Mike and I were best friends
One way we expressed our friendship was through listening to: Pink Floyd, Neil Young, and Van Halen

Still another way we expressed our friendship was through partying


We’d spend hours and hours drinking and smoking while listening to: Pink Floyd, Neil Young, and Van Halen

Yet another way we expressed our camaraderie

Was through constantly trying to one-up each other in the prank department

Here’s what I mean

Let’s say we were pounding beers one night
Mike might spit in my bottle when I wasn’t looking
And would only reveal his trick after I’d polished off my brew

Then to retaliate
The next time we were drinking
Maybe I’d sneak one of my grandmother’s estrogen pills into his Miller
While he was obliviously rocking out to the stereo

Maybe I’d confess to what I’d done after the fact
Or maybe I’d just sit there and watch

Wondering whether he’d sprout tits before the night was over


Oh we thought we were funny all right
Mike and I thought we were one great big fucken laugh factory


But then came a time in twelfth grade
When we needed to get serious about life

“Can you help me?” Mike said one night
While the two of us were driving around in his primer-blue Nova
Listening to Pink Floyd’s, Animals

“Help you what?” I said

“I, um. I mean…can you…um…can you help me…um…you know…um…”

Before I continue let me tell you something about Mike

He was a beautiful soul, would give you his drugs
Or the shirt off his back

But straight up
He was a complete social retard
He was the sad, rainbow-headed child lost in society’s huge sea


Now back to our conversation

After I’d machete-cut my way through the jungle
Of Mike’s “ums” and “you knows” and dense dead air
I realized what my sad, rainbow-headed friend was trying to say

He needed my assistance in getting laid

“I think I can help,” I said

Mike’s face grew brighter than his Nova high beams. “You serious?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Her name’s Kathi.”

“Who’s that?” said Mike

Of course he’d say something like that
Bless his soul; he was a complete social retard

But I knew Kathi
A lot of guys knew Kathi


She was a natural blonde
She was stacked

She was a twenty-eight-year-old white-trash vixen
Shoehorned into a baby fat-bearing high school girl’s body

What I knew then, and what Mike would soon come to realize
Was that Kathi would be the perfect sex cherry to top off his virgin sundae

Something else about Kathi

Throughout high school the two of us were friends—good friends

But we never made it

That’s because Kathi and I knew better than to fuck around
Otherwise things might get too deep between us

And the way we figured
It would only be a matter of time before we’d disappoint each other
And that would ultimately lead to a great big crash-and-burn


Kathi and me

We appreciated our friendship much too much than to trash it like that

That’s why we just stayed friends
Good friends

And good friends know things about each other

Like with Kathi, I knew she loved sex

And my other good friend, Mike: he needed sex

Another thing I knew about Kathi: she loved to party

Ditto with Mike

Put all those things together, I thought
And maybe I could bring some joy into the lives of two dear friends

While also starting a brand-new chapter in Mike’s ex-virgin life

But that would take a little work on my part

And a little scheming

And maybe even a little pranking…

Coming Soon…Part II…The Hook-Up