A quiet hush, a me-ma-me, and a clearing throat – all wisps slicing the quiet preparation behind the curtain. On it’s other side things are vibrant and full of life – youth dancing and feasting in celebration of 
another happy season, these things take so long year to year. The lights are dim, but spirits are high. The butterflies are well alive in everyone’s stomach as they stand silently with eyes closed, they mentally prepare – lines, lyrics, jokes, timing – timing is everything. Not every act is given three full stages across in which to perform, but ever since they were signed by a man in Topeka they’ve had a regular thing going here nearly every day. It’s a rough gig, but they love it. There’s the announcer, almost time. Heads tilt back with those eyes still closed, pulling deep nasal breaths into the lungs – socks will be rocked, possibly knocked, yes there is possible sock rock knocking. You can hear the dead lights quietly whir into place, and the clink of the stage curtains unlock and prepare to part.
It’s getting quieter outside now, the audience is ready, the “let’s do this” in the air is palpable – remember that word for your next spelling test, two “A’s”, two “P’s.” Mitzi looks down to her sneakers and kicks the ground with her toes, ruffling her pom-poms then faces forward. Fatz is sitting in front of his branded keyboard – rumored to produce any sound in the world at his command – and he lightly dances finger tips over each key, careful not to touch them, as he mouths the words to a song. He weaves his large gorilla hands together, lets loose a rapid stream of pops, winks at Mitzi, then gives the stage hand the nod. The curtains open among the blare of upbeat music and colored lights, the audience erupts in applause. The Rock-afire Explosion has taken the stage, and at ShowBiz Pizza Place, the show has just begun.
…
Not many people know this, but I am personally responsible for what we’ve come to know as a nation, as the “ranch dressing” craze. That’s right, me. I am the founding member, forward commander and spiritual leader in the ways of ranch dressing. In our trans fat world we as a species have come to use ranch for a myriad of delicious foodstuffs. It’s a dip, it’s a seasoning, it’s a spice, it’s sometimes a salad dressing and occasionally it’s a beverage. We’ll dip anything in ranch dressing – a popular dipping substance for things like french fries and potato chips, the starchy elements more or less a delivery device for this milky-salty substance handed down by God in a decree establishing two things: he exists, and for he so loves the world, he has given us ranch dressing. My long fight to the world we now enjoy wasn’t an easy one mind you. Not always have I been a pioneer cast in bronze at the top of your local library’s steps and my visage wasn’t always carved into stone in your capital building. I was chastised endlessly for my use of this lettuce topping as a more versatile condiment. I remember family dinners, holidays, and restaurant outings for years where I was looked upon with disgust for my request for ranch dressing. “You want what for your fries? Salad dressing?” the waitress would ask. “Ugh, that’s disgusting, why would you dip pizza in that?” the school children said. “Please, put your clothes back on and shower that stuff off,” the police would say. Before Cool Ranch Doritos hit the shelves in 1987, they looked over photos of my work, and sitting calmly back in their leather chairs the executives couldn’t speak, they could only mouth the words, “My God.”
Scholars, historians, food companies, and likely most clinically-sane people might disagree with me, however my fear of asking for ranch dressing with my food is now a thing of the past. My earliest memory of enjoying the substance was at a long defunct pizza restaurant called ShowBiz Pizza Place. It tore into our world in 1980, the brain child of a southern hotel magnate and an eccentric young animatronics expert who was selling the idea of hydraulically controlled robots at trade shows for covert military assassinations, and failing that, children’s parties. The idea was to create a destination for hungry young children to beg for on their birthdays, and at ShowBiz their wish would be granted. The restaurant was an ordeal of goodly size, a large arcade with actual stand-up video games, skee-ball ramps, rides like a helicopter that rose into the air a few feet and made much noise, and a ball pit so your kids can jump in and grab a healthy mouthful of hepatitis. There was a full bar-type-thing for ordering food – namely pizzas and breadsticks, and you dined on these things inside this mini-auditorium of sorts. The “show room” was filled with long brown wooden tables with orangish-red tops, and the chairs were set around it – the birthday boy or whomever sitting at the head.
At the front of the room spanning nearly all of it’s width was a set of three stages. On these stages was an expansive set of moving parts, pieces, memories, and nightmares. The highlight and commanding fixture of the ShowBiz Pizza Place was on these stages – a fully fledged animatronic stage show called The Rock-afire Explosion. Driven by forces unseen the Rock-afire Explosion was a fully scripted, acted, sung, and orchestrated stage-show for children. It was the equivalent of a real-life cartoon playing right there before your very eyes – talking animals and other miscellaneous fixtures moving where they might otherwise not. Fatz Geronimo was the frontman, a large gorilla wearing a sparkling tuxedo and sitting behind his keyboard. There was Mitzi Mozzarella, a cheerleader and also a mouse, who sung back-up vocals. On another stage was Billy Bob Brockali, the ShowBiz Pizza mascot – a large hillbilly bear wearing overalls and playing a home-made bass guitar, all right outside of the filling station he manned with his friend, Looney Bird. Beach Bear stood to the left of Fatz behind Mitzi – playing that guitar and wearing those shorts like only he could. My personal favorite character, Dook LaRue, was on the center stage to the right of Fatz – a dog who not only played killer drums, but did so while donned in a home-made silver space suit. The far right stage is where Rolfe deWolf and his hand-puppet Earl Schemerle honed their craft in front of a large rainbow, of course only when not singing along with the rest of the gang.
These soldiers of fortune, these animal spirits come-erectus, these musical beasts were the defining memory of the establishment. You could walk right up to the stage and touch them – even though you weren’t supposed to, but they were real – they existed. They put on a show full of skits, comedy, and music. Seeing these things as a child had convinced me that I was in the future – it was only going to get better from here. I mean, if we have the technology to construct large singing animal robots – then I had imagined that surely by my twenties they’ll be able to walk down from the stage, take a bow, and interact with the audience, eat pizza with me, and pass around hugs. But, alas, no. These days, the Rock-afire Explosion plays no longer – and today were savvy pizza-related business men to try and resurrect the magic, we’d just have a large LCD video screen playing montages of Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers wearing their sister’s jeans and having tickle fights on skateboards. It hasn’t been the end for the band however, not entirely.
…
It was here at ShowBiz Pizza that my love for ranch dressing was born. They had breadsticks at this restaurant, as most places that serve pizza do. However, the breadsticks here were of magical quality – just soft enough, a light crumbly topping, a pan of them sliced into little rulers – a foot long and half an inch thick – and whether it was the restaurant policy or not – one time they were delivered to me with a small side of ranch dressing in addition to the marinara. The ranch was of high quality as well – not this mayonnaise tasting garbage you can buy in the bottle at the grocery store – no, this was most certainly made in-house and was kissed by an angel right after the lamb, Jesus himself, bathed in it. Now I’m sure this wasn’t simply a mistake. I’m willing to give credit to whatever long haired stoner discovered this formula in the back room by accident and failed to market it. Between tokes on that fine purple haze, he prepared for himself a basket of breadsticks during his lunch break – and before he could eat one a waitress grabbed up the delights and served them to a table – my table. Stoner, this is a gift, and forever a part of my soul will be connected with you. May your life be of endless fortune, and your bud be forever sticky. I ordered the breadsticks and ranch here at this restaurant every time I returned, and I’ve been searching for an equivalent my entire life, having yet to be satisfied.
The arcade itself was of little use to me outside of one machine – the Super Mario Bros. machine. Besides being a nearly impossible game to beat, let alone pass the first level, something about that game captivated my entire childhood. I would fill up on bread sticks, then head directly to the Super Mario Bros. machine and feed it every gold quarter-sized token I could find in my pocket. The image of that video game and it’s position in the restaurant’s floor plan is so perfectly etched into my consciousness I don’t think it’ll ever leave, it’ll just sit as a memory, tucked into a corner of my brain, snuggled between the time I saw my first boob and one particularly awful Butterfingers theme song. One memorable Christmas saw me outfitted with everything you can possibly apply Super Mario to as a verb – from bedspread to trash can, a Super Mario Bros. star died in my room, and the resulting supernova was an eight-bit glory, assuming that’s vaguely how stars work. I don’t remember how old we were when we stopped going to ShowBiz Pizza, either by decree of the parents or by decree of oncoming puberty, it just ended one day. I do know the restaurant stood in service for many years after my patronage had been removed, and I always wondered how those singing animals were doing, or if their act had changed. The animatronic band, The Rock-afire Explosion, unwittingly sealed itself into a part of my soul – not a big part mind you, but there are many parts, and their essence occupies a fragment.
…
A few weeks ago I was sitting in my office and working on the computer doing things with pixels and data when a waft from some unknown place perked in one nostril and out of the other – just like you’d see in a Warner Bros. cartoon. The smell was of pizza, specifically, ShowBiz Pizza Place pizza – a smell I hadn’t enjoyed for at least twenty years or more. How strange it was that I remembered – was it some strange sewage backup that triggered one of the toothpicks holding my brain in place to poke the “pizza memories” spot, or was it something else that made me remember them? Immediately I craved pizza, and on top of it, the breadsticks with magical ranch dressing I knew I’d be unable to acquire. From this I started thinking of ShowBiz Pizza Place, and my thoughts were quickly turned to The Rock-afire Explosion. I had remembered seeing on the all powerful YouTubes some videos of the old band. The animatronic stage show, now an antique, has largely been run-down and destroyed over the years – save for a dedicated base of fans who make it’s restoration, history, and protection their call in life. When God is handing out tasks and loves, there is no argument, just a simple glance at your ticket – and if it says “Rock-afire Explosion enthusiast,” you simply glance up with a smile – and stride on with your day knowing that you’re now “that guy.”
The YouTube videos weren’t largely of the Rock-afire Explosion as we used to know them – instead, an enthusiast had acquired the show and learned it’s archaic programming technology and instead of having the animals play a birthday party, they sing – in perfect sync and rhythm, Usher or Madonna songs. Every player has been animated to sing their part – lead, backup, and to play the instruments exactly as the Top 40 songs are heard. It’s astounding to watch, and while it’s creepy you’ll not turn your head from the screen as you’re viewing what happens when enthusiasm and love marry inside of a hobby. The Google machine showed me the way to something quite special – the illumination to every question I had about the band from back when I was young, and believe me I had a lot of questions. My parents were suffice to answer most of my questions about life with, “I don’t know, they’re talking robots or something. I think they use circuits or whatever.” I asked a lot of questions when I was young, and understandably my folks didn’t want to answer them all – however, giving me partial answers was a hobby of theirs, and it’s something that they think it far too hilarious to ever admit. Did you know that water and ice cubes are made of the same substance? Right, I learned that the hard way – common sense stuff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go disinfect this paper cut with mustard and ground-up match heads.
The documentary, aptly titled “The Rock-afire Explosion” was branded with the same retro-groovy logo that the band used on stage, a magnificent throwback with hot-colors and carefree flourish. You can buy the movie online, or download it for ten dollars from rockafiremovie.com – and if you have any tie to this subject matter I can’t recommend it highly enough. It was strange for my wife and I watching the movie, as it didn’t necessarily blow my socks off as a documentary – but I found it a deeply emotional experience. In it we’re introduced to two very interesting and different characters. One is the father of the band and CEO of the now nearly-defunct company Creative Engineering, Inc. – Aaron Fechter, and the other is the man who’s unstoppable passion for those corners of life we easily forget, the Rock-afire enthusiast Chris Thrash. For those listening as opposed to using your human eyes to read this, here’s the audio from part of the documentary’s trailer, from the YouTubes:
(audio clip)
Aaron Fecther appears to us as a middle-aged and very tanned ferryman over the remains of the company he founded, raised, and collapsed all while he was likely still enjoying puberty. He wasn’t so much responsible for it’s collapse as were the powers that be – the ones who formed ShowBiz Pizza Place and forgot to include in their business model how money might be made of the venture. In the documentary half of his camera time is spent sitting at some messy workshop where someone used to do some mysterious something in the effort to construct The Rock-afire Explosion, tools everywhere. The other half of his time on film is spent with the camera following him around the enormous multi-floored multi-roomed building he once commanded three hundred employees in while he seems to be exploring it along with us while holding a giant flashlight. He strikes a tragic figure on screen, part of you feels the frustration of those who lost their employ under his watch, all while we see Aaron move from room to room, picking things up off the floor and marveling at what it did, and who might of worked on it.
It conjures images of the aloof CEO who’s unsure exactly the name of the girl who brings him coffee – “Oh, we have a department that does that? Who knew?” However, Aaron isn’t unaware – he knows the use and placement for every bolt, fluid, paint, and tool in that massive building. Aaron is an inventor, a scientist, and the souls of The Rock-afire Explosion were conjured with his wand, but in the film he seems more interested in their guts than in the emotion the band as a whole creates. This is the quietly tragic part. Mr. Fechter roams the untouched halls like he’s been sentenced to do so, giving tours and explaining how things were “back then,” when life was felt inside and out of it’s confines. His robes are tattered and the chains around his neck wear heavy. He feels the pain of those who lost jobs while he was in charge, and his personal penance is to leave the building untouched – the loss touches him deeply. It literally appears as though one day in the late eighties the entire staff simply turned to dust, coffee cups still on their desks, the gold-woven contract Aaron has signed with some traveling bean salesmen fizzling to ash in front of his eyes. Aaron Fechter runs his fingers over their desks and weeps for what could have been, knowing what he knows now. Make no mistake, Aaron loved his business, and his employees – “the golden days,” but now there are hallways without light, and places I’d want more than just a camera crew with me to explore.
But what happened? Why are things this way?
You see, in 1984 another restaurant chain we’ve all heard of, Chuck E. Cheese, was entering bankruptcy. ShowBiz Pizza Place acquired the failing company, and after a few years decided to rebrand the entire business using it’s moniker. The Rock-afire Explosion was ordered removed, destroyed, and in some cases – given new skin as a show called Munch’s Make Believe Band, a bastard demon show that nobody with human emotion cares to remember, and in some cases the robots were re-skinned as Spider Man or Garfield. The documentary plays for us a grim video tape the existing ShowBiz restaurants were provided with that showed them how to handle the Rock-afire show. In it we hear a monotone narrator use terms like, “destroy the parts you’ve removed, as they will never be used again,” which in reality sounds like, “beat the parts while using anti-robotic slurs, spit on their corpses, and burn down their family home.” I found a pointed sadness in this ancient VHS tape, as in a few shots we can see two men carrying the fully de-skinned robots up and off of the stage. As they’re carried into oblivion, the loose and lifeless neck joints on the robots tilt from side to side, creating for those with more imagination what appears to be a saddened glance down at the men carrying them, as if to say, “Where are you taking me? What have I done wrong?” In true Orwellian form, the company referred to this merging of the stores into Chuck E. Cheese as “concept unification” – seriously. Likely the video tape viewing was followed by “two minutes of hate,” then celebrated over a few shots of “victory gin.”
The shows went into obscurity. A ghost of memory that I remembered now and again, always with the thoughts “what ever happened” and “no, these breadsticks will not do.” A few shows still linger and exist across the globe, usually malnourished and cornered in a bowling alley somewhere to be forgotten. One show still sits in West Virginia at a place called “Billy Bob’s Wonderland,” and the show is neglected to the point that it can serve only to poison your otherwise happy dreams, the paralytic and malfunctioning robots on stage apparently there only to frighten people. You can see them on the YouTubes, but I recommend you keep your soul pure, and avoid the video.
Where is the savior?
Enter Chris Thrash. An Alabama-boy in accent and cadence, Chris is a short gentleman, mild lisp, glasses, unassuming, balding Rock-afire expert who’s life is spent largely devoted to the band. He lives a simple life consisting of a small house and a limitless supply of Mountain Dew, shared with (whom we also see on camera) his equally shy wife. Chris worked extra jobs, overtime, and did all manner of roller-rink-deejaying in order to save enough money to build a shed in his back yard, and acquire one of the last few still-in-the-boxes unsold Rock-afire Explosions that has been sitting in Fechter’s warehouse for all these years. In rides Chris on his white horse, saber slung into the earth, he triumphantly announces, “I have made it so they can’t take it away from me again.” When he said this line on film, it strikes deep. No, no they can’t take it away from him ever again – because Chris Thrash has not only acquired a Rock-afire Explosion, but he’s learned every inch of the mechanics and programming – giving it new life and his careful hand checks the silicon, tests the joints, lubricates the hydraulics, and adjusts the sets. Again, from the documentary trailer:
(audio clip)
Chris strikes a character on screen that’s quite polarizing, and part of you understands his manic devotion to something he remembered loving, something to give your life a purpose and dedication. You hear things like, “Chris throws free pizza parties in the shed in his backyard for neighborhood children,” and you begin to wonder if he’s finished sharpening the finger-razors he’s attached to a leather glove – but no, Chris Thrash is doing God’s work. He smokes cigarettes and drinks only Mountain Dew (according to him) – so how long he’ll be on the planet is debatable – but make no mistake that when Chris Thrash leaves this coil, poems will be written in his honor, and his march will be played out by animatronic deities.
…
Browsing the magical YouTubes I found a number of songs that The Rock-afire Explosion had been now programmed to play, mostly pop songs. I found a clip titled “Shakira – Hips Don’t Lie,” and had a listen – this was more than just Shakira.
(audio clip)
The first comment summed up my initial impressions, or as “wolfman801” put it:
“This is literally horrifying. Why would a loving God allow something like this to happen?”
Indeed wolfman801, indeed. However, the video linked to a website that had something called “show bidding,” where people would request songs then by some form of currency exchange, the winner has their song programmed into the Rock-afire Explosion by Aaron Fechter – using from what as far as I can tell is either the original voices or close replicas. It would be an understatement to say that the community that has formed around the defunct ShowBiz Pizza and The Rock-afire Explosion was shy and a little awkward with a dash of geek. However, we all have our passions – and because of these brave introverted soldiers, I’ve relived a set of memories I’d otherwise thought turned to vapor long ago.
But never fear.
If you’re ever near Phenix City, Alabama – see if you can’t find 3928 US Highway 80 West. There you’ll find the ShowBiz Pizza Zone, Chris Thrash’s new restaurant. Stocked with pizza, video games, and those long tables, Chris has been bringing the joy of The Rock-afire Explosion and the memory of ShowBiz Pizza Place to an entire new generation of children who flock to his business for birthday parties – singing, dancing, and rocking out to the original band’s tunes mixed in with a few of the new.
Maybe I’ll visit one day… see if he’s got bread sticks on the menu.
… …
The band playing Madonna’s “4 Minutes”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVVEVzXMYvE
Own the documentary, “The Rock-afire Explosion:
http://www.rockafiremovie.com
“The Rock-afire Explosion” documentary trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yNitSBXzsA
“Amy’s Birthday Party”, brief tour by Aaron Fechter:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGcq2A3ur30