Our world is teeming with mysteries both complicated and confounding. Was there ever a “lost” city of Atlantis? Will we ever prove the existence of extra-terrestrial life? What the holy living hell are the writers of The Office huffing this season? Seriously, did you see that wedding episode? Holy Mother of God, was that painful. I’m pretty sure that “mental picture” gimmick gave me swine flu. Also, why would a paper company have a haunted house for area children? Way to lay some lazy groundwork for a series of uninspired “wacky costume” jokes. And that “viral video” thing with Kelly, Andy, and the new receptionist just makes me want to drive to Memphis and blow up Graceland (which is the ultimate way to express your dissatisfaction with a prime time sitcom).

The aforementioned mysteries, however frustrating, pale in comparison to the ultimate riddle plaguing our great land at the moment. It concerns a group of artists from the West who rose to prominence in the early days of a period I like to call “Bonzo’s Time.” Their product was complex in architecture yet simple in delivery; occasionally, it was clad in spandex and soaked in beer. It pleased many, though, like a sweet-smelling rose or warm open-mouthed kiss from a teenage runaway in the bathroom of a Wichita bus station. A few years ago, this group cast out one of their own for reasons unexplained, leaving him to roam California’s purgatory with nothing more than his stylish mullet, ever-present five o’ clock shadow, and novelty bass guitar shaped like a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Of course I speak of the great Michael Anthony, founding bass player for the once mighty Van Halen. What did poor Mike do that angered the brothers Van Halen so much that they tossed him out like he was yesterday’s Debbie Matenopoulos? Why now, when I look at pictures of America’s former greatest party band in the world, do I see three geriatric old men sharing the stage with a teenager named Wolfgang? Why, when I pick up my controller to play Guitar Hero: Van Halen, do I have no option to play as the man who gleefully fingered the bass strings on “Panama” like they were a gaggle of drunken hookers in the pool house at Mickey Rooney’s 73rd birthday party? Why can I not see the life-like chest hair and stubby stage strut of Van Halen’s “everyman” on my TV screen?

No one knows. Not Confucius or George Will or the man in the fucking moon (Norman Fell). What did you do, Michael Anthony? Why have you been stripped of your red badge of awesome? What was the crime you didn’t commit?

Could it have really been that line of hot sauces you put out? How could the scowling Dutch brothers find fault with that? Everyone loves condiments. Flavor enhancers should be bringing people together, not tearing great unions asunder. Unless Eddie had his own brand he was secretly working on and you inadvertently trumped him. The hot sauce market is already quite crowded. I’d be pretty pissed if I spent countless nights laboring over a hot stove in the garage only to have a Coke/Pepsi thing break out in my own back yard. No one would stand for TWO Van Halen-related cooking items on the market. Remember a few Christmases ago when both Tommy Shaw and Dennis Deyoung came out with their own independent home grilling systems? You still can’t put two Styx fans in a room and not have a fight break out.

Perhaps you should have checked with Ed before you started bottling your stuff, Mike. Yet I am not blaming you. This is most certainly not your fault. Ed should have just manned up and put his sauce to the side. After all, how many more accolades does he need? He played on “Beat It”, he was in RoboCop, he had the distinct pleasure of nailing Valerie Bertinelli for a number of years… as far as I know, Mike, you’ve never had the pleasure of getting up some sitcom star’s wizard sleeve (unless those rumors about you and Sandy Duncan are true, in which case, way to go, home skillet). Mr. “Eruption” should have let you have this one. I mean, for crissakes, Sammy Hagar has those damn slacks he makes everybody and their sister wear, and I’ve never heard ANYONE complain about that EVER.

My advice to you, Michael Anthony, is to call Eddie up right now and be firm but direct (I’ve always found that’s the best approach in hot sauce-related situations). Say, “Listen, Chief, I need to know right now if it’s this hot sauce thing.” If it is, offer to help him out getting his own brand started. Maybe Eddie Van Halen was just scared of dealing with retailers and merchandisers. Reassure him. If he’s worried about the bottom line or profit margins, explain that it doesn’t matter as long as people are getting off on your wild sauce. Tell him he has nothing to fear—he’s already got name recognition! If things get heated, just offer to buy him out and hope his price isn’t too high. You don’t want to have to sell the Jack Daniels bass.

Now, if you call Ed and it turns out hot sauce has nothing to do with why you’re currently Van Halen’s leper, well, shit man. I don’t know what to tell you. I guess you’re on your own. Remember, though—if those knuckleheads in Anvil could rebound, so can you. Keep smilin’ and playing those tasty bass lines and everything will work out. Just don’t count on The Office to lift your spirits this season. The writing is going south faster than a horny Pittsburgh adolescent during a drunken game of Spin the Bottle behind the old, abandoned furniture store.

Watch: Michael Anthony bass solo [at youtube.com]