Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Later on he might even dabble in some writing. “My memoires,” he says, an evil
twinkle behind the familiar silver-rimmed spectacles. “I expect to earn a huge amount
from people who pay to be left out.”
The last performance of the Whale Fat Follies was held on September 8
th
, 2006, and
Anchorage Mayor Mark Begich showed up with a proclamation declaring it “Mr.
Whitekeys Day.” Keys said, “If I'd known it was my day I wouldn't have eaten my dinner
over the sink.” Begich also awarded Keys the key to the city. Of Duluth. Georgia. Many
men wore aloha shirts. Many women wore many generations of Fly by Night Club T-
shirts. Almost everyone knew almost all the lyrics to almost all of the songs. “…the Fly
By Night Club, the palace of sin, you won't come out the way you went in…”
The next night there was a mini-Bluesapalooza with an invitation-only crowd eating all
the food and drinking all the alcohol that was left. My recollection of events is necessarily
a little hazy, but I do remember Gary the guitar player giving Ben Stevens a giraffe boo-
ger. Keys showed up in mid-celebration attired in a black-and-white print shirtdress taste-
fully accessorized with red shoes, red handbag and a red rose on his hat to belt out “Cale-
donia.” Back in the traditional aloha shirt he took one last stroll around the room sawing
away at the harmonica on a wireless mike. The music, as always, was quintessential blues
and rock and roll, “Green River” rolling into “Satisfaction,” with legendary Alaskan musi-
cians riffing on guitars and saxophones and trumpets and cut-off snare drums. There was a
whole lotta shakin' goin' on.
The Hall of Foam, gone. The Budweiser Tax, gone. Spamadillas gone, too, thank god.
Where the hell did the Spam theme come from, anyway? “I literally don't remember,”
Keys says. “It was the 60's.” Uh-huh. He will admit to being refused a tour of the Spam
factory, which sent him to corporate headquarters. “Some woman went down the hall say-
ing “There's a guy here who says he actually
likes
Spam.”
And for twenty-six years and 41 days, so did we.
So long, Keys, and thanks for all the Spam.
