Seein' as how this is the MOAB, and seein' as how the veracity level fluctuates, let me tell you about my old buddy Pete.

Pete played the banjo, which is in itself a sign of impending something or other. And while he wasn't a bad banjo player, let's just say that if they were keepin' score the banjo would usually win, usually bein' three times out of three.

Then one day ol' Pete got himself a gig. A real, paying-cash-money-so-you-can-report-whatever-amount-you-like-to-the-IRS sort of gig. And at a hundred bucks plus dinner and drinks for an evenin's work, Pete thought it was pretty good.

Gave Pete a bit of a swelled head. He took to callin' himself things like "Doc" Pete and "Lonesome" Pete and such, because he thought that they added something to his banjo pickin'. He also took to wearin' Oshkosh overalls and clodhopper work boots, because he felt that was more "banjo-y" than blue jeans, a work shirt, and sneakers. Pete was startin' to look at the Stars, thinkin' that this was just the beginnin', that (dare I say it?) someday he might even be on "Barn Dance" or "The Grand Old Opry."

Then he got the contract in the mail. He was to play at a place called "Shady Acres Club", giving a nice 90 minute concert of traditional banjo music to a private gathering there.

That was fine with Pete. And as the day of the concert drew nearer, ol' Pete was practicin' every moment he could get, and that was sometimes hard to do since Pete worked at the sewage treatment plant.

Pete drove out to the Shady Acres Club on the day, or rather evening, of the concert. He was a little surprised by the wall around the place and the wrought-iron gate, but it was, after all, a private club. Sort of a high-toned country club, he figgered.

At the gatehouse a naked man stopped him. This was unusual, because Pete had never stopped before for a naked man. (Why I can vouch for the truth of this statement is another, and somewhat sordid, story.)

The naked man invited Pete to state his business, and when he learned that Pete was the entertainment for the evening he invited him to leave his clothes in a locker at the gatehouse. Nobody, least of all his friends and acquaintances, thought to mention to Pete that Shady Acres was a nudist club, and the contract didn't state it. The contract did, however, make it clear that Pete was to "abide by the rules and regulations of the Shady Acres Club" and that meant, the gatekeeper pointed out pointedly, performing in somewhat less than deshabille.

Pete was ready to do anything, almost, for Fame and Fortune, and so he cast his doubts (along with his overalls and the rest of his clothes) to the wind, so to speak. When he was undressed and ready to perform, the gatekeeper took Pete and his banjo up to the clubhouse in a little golf cart type of thing. Pete kept his banjo case placed strategically during the journey, and during the walk to the hall, and while he was waiting in the wings, and during his intro, and while he walked on stage. He sat on a stool, carefully took the banjo out of the case, placed it carefully in his hands and lap, and looked up.

There were about 200 naked people looking at him. Naked people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and sexes. 200. Naked. People.

Pete gulped and shifted a bit on the stool. He cleared his throat to make his first statement to the audience, and in a high falsetto said something like "Hll o   ladiesan gen men my first Rocky Top."

And he laid into his rendition of "Rocky Top." Now, this was his strong peice. He'd been playin' it for ten years or more and he could hammer it out like a house a-fire. Usually, that is.

But right in the front row, naked as a jay bird, Pete had seen his old flame, Rita. The last time he'd seen her like that was when she'd sent him off to the Army with a real "Soldier's Farewell" that had thwarted the saltpeter in the mashed potatoes for two solid years. And the old memories came flooding back (so to speak).

Ol' Pete was risin' to the occasion, as they say, and the audience had probably never heard anything like it. As Pete played "Rocky Top," his banjo risin' on his lap, pushin' forward like a friendly dog.

It was a good thing Pete had played "Rocky Top" so often, 'cause his mind was on Rita and that farewell. His fingers, though, were doin' exactly what they'd done so often before, and those steel strings were movin' like nobody's business.

Problem was, the vibrations from the banjo and the memories of Rita were exacerbatin' Pete's problem. He couldn't stop, he couldn't stand up, he couldn't think of anything to do but play "Rocky Top" over and over.

After about the fourteenth rendition, Fate took a hand. Or something. Pete, being all sweaty in the spotlight and from his perdicament, slipped off the stool. He fell to the floor, and his, ah, problem, got caught in the banjo strings. The steel banjo strings. The steel banjo strings he was still playing.

I'll draw the curtains of charity over the scene that followed. Pete got his hundred, the club felt they owed that to him. The hospital expenses were considerable, especially the surgery. Worse, he was hard put to explain to his wife what had happened, how it had happened, and why the ambulance arrived to find him stark naked, held by a stark naked Rita, in a hall full of people who were clothed.

For you see, when the ambulance had been called, folks either left for their cabins and rooms or got dressed, so as not to embarrass the EMTs. And Rita, a trained nurse, was the first to arrive and try to give first aid.

Pete's given up the banjo for something safer. He now works on the local police bomb squad.