Gus Lee Roth, 57, is an 8-bit videogame system repairman and occasional parking lot night watchman in Los Angeles, California. He is also Dave’s older brother.

Blink. Now blink again. No problem, right? Definitely not something to feel self-conscious about.

Now, think about how every time you blink, your eyelashes are acting as tiny little fans, pushing forward a little burst of air that has collected behind your eyelids. And imagine that little burst smelled like a mix of spring thaw and bong water.

Buddy, you now know what it is like to live with E.O.

E.O., or “Eye Odor”, is a rare medical condition that attacks the eyeball region of Jewish men between the ages of 50 to 75. At least, that’s what I’ve been able to piece together at the moment, seeing as I’m the only person I know of who has it. There has to be more of us, I’m sure, but it’s hard to get more information on it when I haven’t been officially diagnosed. Let’s just say that when you fix up old Sega Master Systems for a living, you don’t have a heckuva lot left over for medical insurance. If only I had a millionaire relative who remembered where he came from, and how when he was fourteen, his older brother bought him and his pissant friends their very first dimebag, and gave him four extra days to pay him back for it to boot. But I guess I just ain’t that lucky.

Speaking of being unlucky, I’m 99% sure that E.O. is sexually transmitted. If you want specifics, I think I got it from the women’s bathroom attendant at “Exotic Choices” Gentlemen’s Club & Buffet. Cuz my eyes were fine when I walked into that joint last October. But the next morning? Funk Vision City, brother. You do the math.

I tried to get in touch with the lady in question a couple weeks later, to get me a little more information on what the hell was going on. So I headed back to Exotic Choices. I would have called her, but she refused to give me her name or number. Which is ironic when you think about it, because she made me show her four pieces of I.D., plus a photo of me backstage at the “Party ‘Til You Die ‘80″ tour, before she would give me a rushed and altogether unremarkable B.J. in one of the stalls. Can you believe the women in this city? I don’t know why I stay here.

Anyways, when I went back to find her, the stripper manning the salad bar told me that she had been fired for getting it on with a customer at work. I didn’t ask any more questions, but secretly, I hoped she was talking about me. Not because I was jealous or anything, but because I wouldn’t wish this condition on my own worst enemy, man, no matter how many times he bragged on the radio about that fifteen second cameo he had in that one stupid poker scene on The Sopranos. Seriously, E.O. is a living hell.

For one thing, it’s really messing with my job. I have to wear sunglasses all day to keep people from running for the hills, which sucks because (a) I work in the customer service industry, where trust is everything, and people don’t want to leave their priceless childhood heirlooms with someone who won’t look them in the eye, and (b) the lenses act as some sort of deflector shield, redirecting the smell straight down into my own nose. It’s gotten so bad I even thought about wearing nose plugs, but the sunglasses look weird enough as it is.

And I haven’t even mentioned the fact that my lady slaying skills have been severely affected. For example, the last girl I was with made me wear a damn eye mask while we were doing it! Unreal, huh? It was humiliating. I told her that I wasn’t paying her to make me feel like a freak, but you know how high and mighty L.A. girls get. So there I am, going about my business like I’m Ray freakin’ Charles. On the positive side, I have a new found respect for the guy, because I found it crazy difficult, and I only had one thing to focus on. I have no idea how he was able to both sing and play an instrument at the same time. Now that takes musical talent!

I guess all I’m trying to say is, be careful out there, fellas. If my story can help one person avoid E.O., it will all have been worth it. And if anyone out there is, or knows of, a doctor who has any idea how to treat this beast, do me a solid and drop me a line? My eyes are starting to randomly change color, and I know that can’t be a good sign. Seriously, penicillin eyedrops, yoga, I’ll try anything.

Now, I don’t exactly have a fixed address at the moment, but I can be found most weekdays from 11:00 to 3:00 (rain or shine) at Maricela’s Discount Flea Market on South Eastern and Whittier, Booth #88 (next to the lady with the pornographic ashtrays).

Until then, keep it in the short stuff, duffers. And remember - if it ain’t 5150 or later, it ain’t real Halen.

Peace,
GLR

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Photo by Gary “289″ Cherone.