I think it was back in the summer of 2005 when I last saw Grandpa. He had just returned from London and we celebrated his arrival by going down to Trader Vic’s for pina coladas, after which we went home and knocked back a couple of cans of Alpo. There was a full moon on the rise, and I recall watching Grandpa’s hair grow out and his claws grow long while he told me about his concert adventures.

“Back in 2001 I used to hang out near whatever place that was having that night’s concert, say Deep Purple at the amphitheatre or Madonna at the sports arena,” said Grandpa as he plucked a piece of processed chicken from his Alpo and popped it into his mouth. “Sooner or later, some poor fool would come walking by, and I’d reach out and rip his lungs out, Jim. Then I’d take his concert tickets.”

I’d heard parts of that story before. It’s no secret that us werewolves love music, and it’s no surprise that we can pretty much take what we want. Snatching a fan’s tickets for Pete Yorn or Melissa Etheridge is easy. However, walking into the show and taking one’s seat while covered with coarse mangy hair and four-inch-long, bloodstained fangs protruding from the mouth, now that’s hard.

“Shucks, it weren’t nothing,” he said as he licked the last of the juice from the bottom of his can of Alpo. “My hair was perfect. Besides, I wore a disguise. I dressed as the most powerful man in the free world.”

“You dressed as the president?” I asked him, astonished because my grandpa didn’t look the least like George Bush, full moon or no full moon.

“Nah,” he replied. “You’re forgetting what year it was. I dressed like Vice President Dick Cheney.”

And then he told me about all the shows he saw, like Marcy Playground, Lisa Stansfield and Col. Les Claypool’s Fearless Flying Frog Brigade.

Yes, it was the perfect disguise, for you see, no one ever remembers what the Vice President really looks like. Every night Grandpa would hide in those bushes, waiting to snatch someone’s tickets for The Lettermen or Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros, and no one was the wiser when a rather hairy Dick Cheney walked through the turnstiles.

But that’s all in the past. The concert promoters took a dim view of werewolves hanging outside their venues, gutting fans and grabbing tickets for all the big shows like Eric Clapton and U2. Eventually us werewolves struck a deal with SFX. They would comp us for all the concerts, like Warren Zevon, Stevie Nicks and Tim McGraw, and we’d lay off of the fans. Of course, we still have to work security for Ozzfest, but that’s another story.

But I still remember Grandpa’s concert adventures. I still remember the blood and mayhem he caused as the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent. And if I close my eyes I can still imagine the terror he wrought as a faux Dick Cheney. Yes, I can see it all, the blood, the GOP buttons, the entrails, and the tickets for John Tesh.

But most of all, I’ll always remember Grandpa as the wolf in veep’s clothing.