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Basically, the story Dax and I told that day on German TV, in tag-team fashion, was this: Before 22 Goats left on tour, I threw a Halloween party at my small beach bungalow. I dressed as Shaggy from Scooby Doo—a nod to one of my lifelong nicknames. Dax and Violet dressed as Napoleon Dynamite and Pedro. And Colin, our resident gym rat, came dressed as Tom Cruise in Risky Business, wearing nothing but a button-down shirt, tighty-whities, and tube socks. But, of course, Colin being Colin, he wound up ditching his shirt after a few shots of tequila, and thereafter spent the remainder of the party showing off his ripped abs in nothing but his underwear and socks . . . Which quickly gave rise to a new nickname for our chiseled drummer—Underwear Model—a nickname that followed him around throughout the entirety of our tour.
Clive chuckles. “It seems someone at Calvin Klein saw that German interview, Colin. And now . . . ” He smiles. “They want to make you an actual underwear model.”
“No,” Colin says on a breath, his dark eyes wide.
Clive laughs and nods. “They’re offering you a major ad campaign! Print, digital, and a huge billboard in Times Square!”
“Holy shit.”
“And you want to know the pay?” Clive pauses for effect, his dark eyes sparkling, before saying, “A half-million bucks.”
Well, that’s it. We all lose it. We’re pounding on Clive’s desk. Grabbing Colin’s arm and shaking him. Losing our minds, basically. Because, as much as we razz Colin for this or that, we know this is a huge thing for him, personally. Colin has worked harder than anyone I know to transform his body over the past several years—to tighten and sculpt his middle school pudge into a goddamned work of art.
“We did this,” I shout at Dax. “You and me! We cast some sort of ‘Underwear Model Spell’ on our boy on German TV!”
Dax is dying of laughter. “We’re warlocks, dude! We’re magical beings, Fish Taco!”
“Quick!” I reply. “Let’s go back to Berlin for another interview and, this time, say Colin’s new nickname is ‘Smart Guy.’ God knows he could use some help in the brains department!”
Colin quips, “Yeah, and while you’re at it, you should probably say your new nickname is ‘Big Dick.’ God knows you could use help in that department.”
I laugh with glee, along with everyone else. It’s a reference to yet another inside joke among the three of us. I’m not small, I don’t think. But I’m not packing a donkey dick like Colin, either. I’m just an average dude with an average dick. And, through a series of events one night in our teens—events involving tequila, a hot tub, and Colin’s brilliant idea to throw my briefs and shorts over a fence—Dax, Colin, and about eight other people—are well acquainted with the precise size of my package.
“So, I take it that’s a yes on this offer?” Clive asks Colin.
To my surprise, Colin doesn’t shout “Yes!” Instead, he addresses Dax and me, his dark eyes looking earnest. “I’m only going to do this if you’re both one hundred percent cool with it.”
“Of course, we are!” Dax shouts.
I add, “Are you kidding? We insist you take this gig, if only to prove we’re warlocks.”
Dax pats Colin’s stomach. “Show off these washboard abs in Times Square, son! Get yourself paid!”
Colin exhales with relief. “I just don’t want you guys thinking I’m selling out or tarnishing the band’s brand.”
Dax scoffs. “We don’t have a brand. We just have the truth.” He nudges my arm. “The same goes for you, Fish Kebab. Don’t let your washboard abs go to waste because you’re worried about our ‘brand.’ If you want to make some ducats on the side, then do it.”
I roll my eyes. First off, my brain is literally incapable of worrying about our brand. That’s way above my pay-grade, dude. Also, nobody’s going to be hiring me in this lifetime to model underwear. I’m a fit dude, thanks to all the skateboarding I did with Dax in my formative years—and, these days, thanks to our grueling touring schedule and daily surfing sessions whenever I’m home. But I’m no dark and smoldering Casanova, like Colin—a guy everyone says looks like a tattooed version of that cartoon smolderfest from Tangled. And I’m certainly not a perfectly symmetrical golden god, like Dax, either. I’m just a normal-looking dude. The one who provides the everyman comic relief in our music videos and interviews, while Dax and Colin turn up the heat.
“Why are you rolling your eyes?” Dax says. “Who knows what offers you’d get, if Clive puts feelers out for you. Seriously, Clive. See what you can get for Fish Head, would you? Ever since Colin put him on protein shakes a while back, he’s turned into quite the heartthrob.”
“It’s true,” Colin says, pinching my cheek. “Thanks to me, you’re a babe magnet now, Matty-boy. You’re welcome.”
