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 Her Human’s Literary Efforts |
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| 20 Minutes Into The Future Do My Kisses Burn, Baby? |
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Mojo Rising Angela’s Cunt had served us well, we thought while climbing out of the manhole cover. Between us, we had $875 dollars in our pockets and a hankering to get roundly drunk. Takahashi asked Broadway Billy the Bum where we might find a bar at 6 AM. Without missing a beat, he mentioned a dive called the Ironweed on 3rd Avenue. Of course he’d know—Broadway Billy was one helluva late-stage alcoholic. So, we hailed a cab and made the short trip across town to 3rd and Bell.
"Fuck, Evie," Bart the Bagman said, "thanks for your tips, girl. You didn’t miss a single one. You can handicap a bird with the best of them." "Yeah," Broadway Billy added, licking his lips in an anticipation of the high-test wine about to pass between them, "I haven't had so much money in my pocket at one time since 1998." "Takahashi’s the atomic bomb," I said inappropriately. "Shut the fuck up, you shitheels," Takahashi said. "You’re making my cheeks feel hot, and I absolutely hate that noise." The Ironweed looked like it was bitten out of a slab of concrete. The décor was strictly Early Union Gospel Mission. A badly warped pool table dominated the floor, and the south wall was blanketed with mirrors advertising beer brands. Beneath them was a row of Naugahyde booths, largely populated by men and women who’d already passed out. The jukebox was split between Country & Western and Chicano—the martyred Santa Selena figuring heavily among the latter. It was a festering pustule of junkies and dangerous drunks, hustlers and pedophiles and crackwhores, a shoplifting Puerto Rican dwarf with a Glock tucked in his armpit and a half-witted Bosnian who molested large dogs, loons and vagrants and goddamned stinky Sterno drinkers. A Level III sex offender named Butt-Fuck Bootsy, just out of Walla Walla, gave Takahashi the TV Eye as we walked in, but my steely stare—my take-no-shit face—caused him to look away. Celeste Martinez, the drag queen, threw me a kiss and I returned it. "I don’t approve of drag queens," the Bagman said. "Why the fuck not, you shameless bigot?" I asked. "If they’re too good-looking, they break my heart. After all, they’re really guys." "You need to be dragged through the streets and have a broomstick shoved up your ass." "Sorry. Too gay." We sidled up to the bar, giving Dodi a friendly hello. Takahashi ordered a bourbon neat; the Bagman ordered a scotch and rocks; Broadway Billy, knowing no better, ordered up a glass of MD 20/20; and I asked for a martini. Dodi hit me with a snarl. Making a goddamn martini was more trouble than it was worth, and the Ironweed was no foo-foo silk stocking joint. Fuck it, I said, I’ll pay ten bucks for each one, plus the tip. I had a mind-raping jones for a martini, and money to burn. "Mind if I play the pull tabs?" Broadway Billy asked. "Hell, it’s your bread," I pointed out. "Do whatever you want with it." "I just don’t want you to think I’m some kind of cornpone rube." "Too late for that, Broadway Billy. Anybody who plays the pull tabs is an idiot. Nobody ever wins that shit. But go ahead: knock your headlights out." Takahashi leaned across the bar: "Say, Dodi—I don’t suppose you can smoke in here?" "Fucking stupid law," Dodi spat. "Well, it’s just past 6. The nicotine cops won’t be out for another three hours. So, go ahead." "Give me a cigar, Saavedra." I pulled a box of Antonio y Cleopatra Macanudos from my Swiss Army rucksack, and opened it. As Broadway Billy asked for fifty pull tabs, I distributed cigars among my small circle of friends. A grizzly, unshaven scarecrow that was hovering nearby asked if he could have one. Normally, I’d wave him off, telling him that if I gave smokes to everyone who asked for them, I’d never have smokes for myself. But I was feeling magnanimous—an artifact of our good fortune at the cock fights—and gave the little man a fistful of five. He was most pleased, and quite thankful, so I bought him an Olde English too. I was even tempted to light his cheroot with a $20 bill. While Broadway Billy received his stack of pull tabs, and began to break them open, Takahashi leaned over and gave me a deep, disreputable kiss. We hung on it for better than thirty seconds before Dodi set our drinks down and told us to get a goddamned room. We then separated, unwillingly, but Takahashi nevertheless continued to stare into my eyes, into my very soul. A sly smile broke across her lips as she placed her hand atop mine. I thought about how goddamned lucky I was to have this evil woman—this spider woman—on my arm. But we couldn’t look at each other forever, so we broke off the gaze. Broadway Billy was still opening his pull tabs. "That’s such a fucking scam," I said. "It’s just another fucked-up way for the state to fleece honest citizens." "Take it easy, Saavedra," Takahashi said. "Just let Broadway Billy have his fun. It’s no different than you betting 10, $20 dollars on a game of pool." "That is different," I said. "Pool requires some skill. Pull tab winnings are just blind luck." "Well, will ya look at this," Broadway Billy said, holding up a broken pull tab. My eyes widened. Takahashi gasped. Bart the Bagman slapped Billy on his back. The opened pull tab showed three windows reading $500 each. My heart almost stopped. How in the fuck—? Broadway Billy, smiling like an inbred Okie, threw the pull tab down and ordered a round for the house. Dodi’s mouth dropped open, and she said there was no way to cash the $500 in winnings. The Ironweed simply didn’t carry that much money in its cash register so early in the morning. Broadway Billy waved his hand reassuringly. "That’s okay, Dodi," he said. "I’ll just take it out in booze." And for that one Christmas Eve morning, the man who lived in a Frigidaire box behind the Hot Topic could feel important, could feel he was giving something wonderful to others. And that was good—very good. Merry Christmas, Broadway Billy. And may the New Year be your bitch.
Fast-Dancing with the Brawlers, Bawlers, and Bitches "Thirty-fucking-five on Angela’s Cunt!"
Takahashi was feloniously sexy, a fat Macanudo in one hand and a bunch of bills clutched by the other. Her Levis 501s were spray-painted on, and her tight knit top was just an afterthought. A pair of clown-nose-red fuck-me pumps supported her and rounded out the cruel-eyed, sex-queen look. A riot of bangles and bracelets danced on her arms, and a cloisonné rising sun emblem glittered on her chest. She was a Japanese succubus come to steal the souls of men from the Deadline to the Lava Bed and on toward the secret whorehouses atop Beacon Hill. "Give me forty on the Cunt, too!" I yelled. "Sucker’s bets," Cat Scratch Kobe said. "The Cunt’s an old man. Ain’t no more steam there, you two. Hell, he’s only got one eye." "Just take the fucking bets, Cat Scratch." "It’s your funeral, Saavedra. Yours too, Takahashi." I took a drag off my cigar, then a tug off my bottle of Stoli. The room was filled with smoke as thick as a pea soup fog on Telegraph Hill. The subterranean cavern was lit with a dozen naked light bulbs. Men and women screamed odds and bets as the rooster handlers unlocked their cages. Bodies jostled against each other, and the stink of sweat hung in the air heavily. All sounds were raw, bouncing off the filthy gray cement of the walls. The crowd consisted largely of drug dealers, low-rent whores, and second-story men with diamond stickpins. "You sure about this, Takahashi?" I asked. "Damn straight, Saavedra," she answered. "Angela’s Cunt is the bomb." A big, beefy guy with yellow teeth and a perspiration problem sidled up next to Takahashi. She gave him a kamikaze pilot grimace, but otherwise ignored the fireplug. He tried to engage her in conversation, but she was having nothing to do with it. He seemed to give it up, and faded into the crowd behind her. Takahashi immediately put any thought of him out of her mind, focusing instead on the upcoming battle. At 5 to 1, I could almost hear her think, 35 would bring a cool 175. Nice loot for 5 minutes’ time. Then the big guy reappeared. Before I could act, he gave Takahashi’s tightly-packed ass a big pinch. She squeaked loudly, and spun around with fire in her eyes. Without hesitation, she laid into him with a righteous right cross that sent the guy reeling. She then hit him with a bone-stunning left upper cut, and a knee in the balls. The fat man dropped to his knees, grasping his crotch, tears falling from his eyes, and moaned pitifully. Takahashi stood over him like the Angel of Death, daring him to get up again. "Let’s make this abundantly clear!" she announced. "Only Saavedra gets to pinch my ass, and even he’d better give me fair warning! Got it?" Very quickly, Creampuff Benny Yin opened Angela's Cunt’s cage, and the war-scarred rooster leapt out like a young Indian brave. His opponent, Irish Jack, was released from his cage and gave out with a cluck-cluck-cluck. The roosters eyed each other warily, and began to navigate circles around one another. It almost seemed as if they were sizing each other up; maybe their bird brains could. I glanced over and saw Takahashi biting her lower lip. She looked more beautiful than a call girl at the Four Seasons. And then, Angela’s Cunt charged...
The night is dark and desperate. Takahashi and I have finished with five hours of blood-on-the-walls rutting. What to do now, with Elvis Presley’s "Suspicious Minds" sensuously snaking out of my stereo speakers? Well, Takahashi has suggested rooster fights at the Wah Mee Massacre Arena deep beneath the streets of Chinatown. I’m to round up Bart the Bagman (1) and Broadway Billy the Bum (2), stuff a rucksack with Macanudos and bottles of Stoli, and accompany her to the appropriate manhole cover on Deng Xiao Ping Boulevard, down the rickety wooden ladder, and into the smoke-filled subterranean den of thieves and ne'er-do-wells—our people.
We’ve exchanged all of our money for $1.00 and $5.00 bills, and will be frantically placing bets elbow-to-elbow with low-level organized crime figures and hard-bitten B-Girls. Funky Billy Chin and Little Sammy Chong, owners of the Wah Mee, will welcome us with open arms stinking of pot stickers and Tsingtao. After all, Takahashi is the Duchess of Little Saigon despite being a cruel-lipped Nisei with a jacket for boosting ketamine from veterinarians. I’ve also become a favored presence at the rooster fights owing, in large part, to writerly talents which might very well immortalize the whole lot of these disreputable opium eaters in due course—using witty pseudonyms, of course. So, we’ve called the Bagman with our plans, and he’s promised to snag Broadway Billy. (The Bagman also has twenty-five hits of Ritalin, which shall figure heavily in tonight’s goings-on.) Takahashi is changing into her jeans and fuck-me pumps as I write this. She will very shortly curl her arm around mine, and make the five-block trek to the Wah Mee. We’re to meet the Bagman and Broadway Billy outside Viet Harry’s Café, and head over to Deng Xiao Ping from there. It should be a rollicking fine night, and I’m hoping to win enough money for a weeks’ worth of martinis and Cuban cigars. Wish us well, and know that Takahashi and your devoted narrator are in a kind of heathen love. PS: Takahashi says, "Put your money on a Rhode Island Red named Angela’s Cunt." Consider it done, my dear. Your prediction bears fruit, and we'll have martinis for a month! (1) The Bagman is my morphine connection and often stands watch while I rip off car stereos and pickpocket tourists. (2) Broadway Billy has been Takahashi's friend ever since he shivved a would-be rapist for her, back in 2001.
News from Metro Transit and a Comment on the Political Landscape There’s often occasion to hop the #15 and hie my happy butt down to First and Denny—destination: Café Minnie’s. When money allows, it’s nice to have breakfast there. Despite the fact that its bathrooms are always out of order, and its staff is composed largely of neo-punk chicks with scads of scars on their arms, Minnie’s has a nice atmosphere and pretty good food. The pricing ain’t to bad either, though not exactly cheap.
Anyway, on these days, the coach invariably stops at First and Cedar where it picks up an Asian lady of indeterminate age (I’m thinking the dark side of her fifties). At first blush, she’d be unremarkable but for her hair. It is what we once called "helmet hair," a congeries of waves and curls that looks like sculpted marble and is held together by half-a-can of Aquanet. The careful observer can actually see the beads of hairspray. She’s a rather slight figure, but her hair is enormous and so perfectly coifed that it’s almost painful to look at. The subject of a perpetually bad dye job, her hair shimmers like a brand new penny. (Allowing that it might actually be a wig, I’m inclined to think she’s almost bald underneath—that whole "compensation" thing, you know.) God forbid that someone should run into her hair; permanent bone damage would surely result. Furthermore, upon careful observation one takes note of her attire. Let’s call it early-60s Mimosa Drinker at Victor’s Purple Onion. She’s straight out of the piano lounge milieu—modestly dressed but the tiniest little bit edgy. Edgy for the time, that is; rather prosaic by today’s standards where half the birds in Seattle are nipping at any one time. In any case, her fashion sense—along with the appropriate too-much yet understated makeup—makes me feel like I’ve entered a time warp when she steps onto the bus. Someday, I’m going to have to strike up a conversation with her. She’s so divorced from the America of the 21st Century, and so firmly lodged in the time one side or the other of when JFK spilled his brains all over Dallas ("Dallas: The City that Killed a President"), that she strikes me as utterly fascinating. I’d like to know what she does for a living, where she hangs out (Daiquiris at the Mirabeau Room anyone?), and really her entire story. There’s a novel there, and I want to get at it. In other news: All three of Ron Paul’s supporters gathered outside of Benaroya Hall today, in one of the most pitiful demonstrations I’ve ever seen. (Lyndon LaRouche, however, comes close.) They held such signs as "Feminists Against Hillary" and "Hillary Takes Dirty Money" and "Hillary Raped My Cat" and so forth. The only thing that might’ve made this gathering more pathetic would’ve been rain. Yet today has been oddly and imponderably pleasant, and sunny, so the Paulines yanked their puds in relative comfort.
Seattle is, of course, a city of whores and con men, sleazy millionaires with the morals of rabid badgers, greedhead developers wrecking everyone’s view of Elliott Bay, and pot-addled hippies alongside more junkies per square mile than any other municipality in North America. It’s also a port town in the grand traditions of Jack London and John Steinbeck: horndog merchant marines cruising the makeup-heavy working girls of Pacific Highway; sailors from the Sixth Fleet duking it out with soldiers from Fort Lewis; white trash Puget Sound Debs angling for the man of their dreams at the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. We are graced with loons and dangerous drunks, hustlers and pedophiles and crackwhores, shoplifting immigrants with handguns tucked under their armpits, and shimmering half-wits who molest large dogs. Our roach-ridden residential dumps are top heavy with Level III sex offenders, the largest per capita such population in the world. Any licit or illicit drug ever synthesized can be bought at Third and Yesler, and the acrid scent of rock cocaine dominates the atmosphere of Belltown. In my own building, the infamous Morrison Hotel, our county medical examiner pays a visit three or four times a week—mostly to distinguish the murders from the suicides. Speaking of suicide, Seattle once more leads the nation—17.6 per 100,000 residents. In hard numbers, this represents 216 successful suicides a year, and 870 hospitalizations for attempted suicides. Some chalk it up to seasonal affective disorder, citing our nine months of rain and dark, sunless skies. Others suggest that it has to do with our lopsided population of manic-depressives, schizophrenics, and bankrupt millionaires. Self-euthanasia takes many forms here: leaps from the Space Needle, the Pike Street overpass, and the Ballard Bridge; hanging, wrist-cutting, and gassing; blowing one’s head off with .410 bores and suicide-by-cop amid countless other ways—some ineffably creative. Yet, nothing compares with the devastating beauty of our Puget Sound region, and some of the world’s mightiest mountains brood over this city. Seattle has its share of hipsters—some you simply want to strangle; but it also has a delightful coterie of eccentrics, liquor-crazed artists, and disreputable punks like me. Jack London once declared that Seattle is the city men go to for the purpose of rewriting their lives. They’ve been pushed to the northwestern edge of the continent by communities that can no longer stand their various brands of craziness. Seattle is a community of rejects and escapees, madly running from the Boulevards of Broken Dreams. And she welcomes the world’s rejects and refuse with loving, open arms. C’est toi, ma ville—Seattle!
PS: I've downloaded the classic arcade game, Asteroids, to my cellphone, and now I have time for nothing else. I've also downloaded Tetris and Solitaire. I'm doomed!
Mahalo, my friends!
Miss Evie Takahashi has finally bobbed to the surface, after several days of exponentially increasing worry on the part of your devoted (and nerve-shattered) narrator. She glided into the Bauhaus coffee shop like an Asian angel, knowing that she could probably find me there with my signature double caramel latté. As she entered, the entire clientele stopped all conversation and fell deathly silent since—after all—she is Evie Takahashi. Your humble storyteller immediately looked up, somewhat astonished by the sudden quietude, and felt his heart skip precisely twelve-and-a-half beats upon suddenly seeing the most strange and aggressively talented lover he’s ever had.
"Where the hell have you been, Takahashi?" I asked "Taking some time for myself," she responded "But why haven’t you called or anything?" I persisted. "You’re not the boss of me, Mr. Saavedra," she clarified. "Touché, Takahashi, touché," I allowed. She ordered a mocha from the emo chick at the counter, then joined me at my table. Placing one hand atop mine, holding her cup in the other, she proceeded to explain that she’d lost her apartment while at the Randall P. McMurphy Psychiatric Hospital. However, her advocate at that otherwise hellacious institution managed to wrangle another flat for her—deep in the shadows of the Ben Casey Medical Center on First Hill. It took her several days to move all of her worldly goods from one flat to the other. Perplexed, I asked why she didn’t ask for help—particularly from me. Didn’t she love me anymore? Hadn’t the sex been wild enough? Wasn’t... well... just wasn’t it all good? "I answer all questions in the affirmative," she said, pausing to take a sip of her well-wrought mocha, "but I just needed Evie Takahashi time. And—oh, yes—you’re not the boss of me, Mr. Saavedra." "Well," I responded, pausing to kiss her hand, "I’m glad you’re back. So can I assume that our mad, torrid affair is still ongoing? Will we still scandalize even the sex workers at Wild Wilma’s Wanton Women? Are we to continue investigating the limits of human endurance?" "To all questions," she stated with a coy smile, "the answer is an emphatic yes!" So we spent the next couple of hours jazzing up our bloodstreams with caffeine, discussing the upcoming AmeriKKKan Dictator™ pseudo-election, and recalling the humorous misinformation contained in Dr. Alex Comfort’s Joy of Sex. Then, on this night of not-too-warm and not-too-cold, we trotted around E. Broadway Avenue whilst window shopping and throwing dollar bills at beggarly beggars a'begging. Now, we’ve retired to my less-than-spacious flat at the Hotel Mo’, wherein dwell my cat and my fondest dreams, and that Takahashi lady is listening to ska as I write. I can’t be responsible for anything that happens beyond this point. Mahalo, my friends—and don’t let the bastards get you down! PS: All of the above said, my passion for ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} dumpsterdiva remains unabated.
Ruminations on a Strange Reality Called the Dog House Ah, yes, the Dog House Restaurant—how fond my memories are of that stellar institution! Alas, it disappeared sometime during my six year absence from Seattle (1992-1998). Now it’s merely another goddamned worn-out emo joint, filled with kids who look like Robert Smith and follow the exploits of Lenore, the Cute Little Dead Girl. An inveterate punk rocker, through the monochromatic prism of industrial music, I despise the entire emo scene to such a degree that I’m considering the purchase of an AK-14. Loony Louie's Pawn & Loan has 'em cheap.
But that’s not what I’m here to write about: I’m here to write about the Dog House, my precious love muffins. What a fine place! It was completely retro-50s, with vinyl booths and tabletop jukeboxes, but hadn’t been self-consciously designed that way; it was retro because nobody had thought to change the décor since 1957. Dominating the wall above the kitchen was an enormous sign that depicted a beefy woman holding a rolling pin and angrily waiting for a massive legion of running dogs to return home. (Dog House. Get it? A dog's house and in the dog house—eh, bien, moving right along...) The food was Basic Lowbrow America—country fried steak, for example, with mashed potatoes and green beans. Apple or cherry pie was part of the deal. One could also imbibe a kind of coffee calculated to burn the barnacles off ships. And all of this was served by these little old ladies with silver beehives and orthopedic shoes, always insisting that your skinny narrator eat more mashed potatoes. ("Starch, honey. What you need is starch.") The cook was this ridiculously emaciated 80 year-old man in a paper hat who delighted in hitting the bell as loudly as possible. You couldn’t buy atmosphere like that. The Dog House was the requisite destination for the after-hours crowd: The punks, goths, and rivetheads who wanted a nosh after the bars closed. Since the various scenes crossed-over, and were entirely incestuous, it was like having breakfast with your huge and very dysfunctional family. Until 1986, when Sable was born and baby sitters had to be paid, Anastasia and I were fixtures at the Dog House. Countless are the rising suns we greeted from within its hoary walls. Innumerable are the 3 AMs when Ana and I, having smuggled a flask of Jim Beam in, spiked the otherwise undrinkable coffee. Beyond calculation are the times when the whole bloody lot of us got into butter patty wars. The little jukeboxes—25¢ per song—featured such things as Sinatra’s "New York, New York," Dean Martin’s "That’s Amore," and Wayne Newton’s "Danke Schöen." We never tired of pumping quarters into the machines and, as an entire group, following along with the songs at top volume. From time to time, the sexier gawf chicks would hit the floor and swirly dance to Jackie Davis’ "Glow Worm Cha-Cha." I’m sure we gave the management gray hair, but we must’ve been worth $10,000 in business every Friday and Saturday. (After-hours on Sunday was reserved for the private fetish party continuations that had started at the Vogue.) The Dog House was where Annabelle convinced Guido to get a Prince Albert, prompting a disaster of epic proportions. The Dog House was where the whole gang watched Caligula on Michael’s portable VCR, while drinking Cokes spiked with bourbon and doing lines on Valerie’s stomach. The Dog House is one of the three possible locations whereat Sable was conceived. The Dog House was where Tiger hurled her 12-pound cell phone at me, destroying her device and making me not-quite-right for a week. The Dog House was where Kimberly, with a head full of acid, decided that witches were clawing at her back and, to battle them, spread a circular pattern of salt around her feet. The Dog House is where Daniel and Zoë fell in love—the Affair of the 20th Century. The Dog House was where Ana and I worked out the details of our divorce, sans any need for goddamned lawyers. The Dog House was the Center of the Universe. This, my friends, was life at its very finest! The clouds roll by and the moon comes up. How long must we live in the heat of the sun? Millions of people are waitin' on love— And this is a song about people like us —David Byrne, ‘People Like Us". Mahalo, my friends!
In Union We’ll Flower The woman who claims my heart will be a bad woman—bad in the grandest sense. She’ll know how to go one-for-one with me on bourbon shooters, be able to deal a mean game of poker, and enjoy the bullfights in Madrid as much as she enjoys the chicken fights in New Orleans. She knows what "Follow the Lady" means, and can dance like an angel to both Charles Mingus and Gary Numan. Her heart holds equal portions of bitcher, brawler, and bawler. She reads Mallarmé and Valéry while quoting Elmore Leonard and James Ellroy. Her poetry is puked, not plotted. Her closest friends are the shit-heels and con-men, the whores and thieves and irredeemable dopefiends, the cockroaches and the flying shit machines. She knows that God is away on business, and she chooses to live life like a holocaust. She has no idea what time it is, and doesn’t bloody care. She drinks too much, lives too hard, and wears experience in her eyes like the Légion d'honneur. She’ll break my heart a thousand times, and cobble it back together a thousand-and-one.
Rompiendo la monotonia del tiempo! In the meantime, this is my prayer for you: Imagination, a stern will, and lots of raucous laughs. I wish you a wild mix of people to breeze through and linger with over time. Be well, my friends—and watch out: The punch is spiked. Mahalo, my friends!
My favorite cause of death, as such things are recorded in official documents, is the one that reads: "Death by misadventure." There is so much meaning packed into those three words. The phrase is imprecise, and no one deigns to define "misadventure," but it hints at a person who’s lived his or her life without compromise. It suggests that the misadventurer went out dancing, holding a shot of bourbon perhaps, and possibly loving the world a bit too much. It cries out the names of James Dean and his penchant for driving too fast, Jimi Hendrix and a talent that burned brighter than any supernova, and the drug-crazed, gunslinging, peacock-raising Hunter S. Thompson who inspired two whole generations of writers.
The Angel of Death (who looks just like Bettie Page, incidentally, and goes by the name "Bubbles") tells me that misadventure is a damn fine way to go. The afterlife, she says, will find me swilling Knob Creek, smoking San Cristobals, and playing endless hands of poker with the likes of Jean-Michel Basquiat, Sid Vicious, and Edgar Allan Poe. There’ll be dancing girls and twelve kinds of cheesecake. Cable will be free and we’ll drink champagne from Dorothy Stratten’s slipper. The orchestra will consist of Darby Crash, Johnny Thunders, Kristen Pfaff, and Layne Staley. Keith Moon will handle the drums. The lady on my arm will be Mia Zapata. And this twisted, blood-on-the-walls party will last until the end of time. Mahalo, my friends!
Writing is my one obsession. And an expensive companion she is. She’s cost me friendships, family relationships, jobs, and any hope of communion with my fellow creatures. She demands nothing but the most rigorous solitude, and cruelly interrupts my sleep almost every night. Daily, hourly even, she thrusts meaningful thoughts from my consciousness and loudly demands that I pay attention to her, and to her alone.
But, without her, my life would be scarcely worth living. She forces me to be a careful observer of the surrounding world, and, in so doing, brings compelling color to my perception of humanity. She allows my tragically over-vivid imagination free reign to absorb and interpret reality. Moreover, she transforms me into an artist—encouraging me to leave the mundane things of existence behind, and ascend to dizzying heights within my mind. No, I cannot visualize a life without writing. Mahalo, my friends!
She’s bad. Her hair is a stylish mess. Her fingernail polish is chipped. Her lips are twisted into a perpetual sneer. She drinks far too many martinis. She smells of opium and tastes like cheap wine. She knows where the rooster fights in Chinatown are. She gambles against grizzly, cigar-chomping old men. Everyone in the room wants her, desires the unspeakable danger she promises. Her people are the drunks and the whores, the con-men and the Yakuza boys, the dopefiends and the card sharks. She can tell the future and grease the past. She can laugh and cry with a single sound. The cops are looking for her and the tongs want her contacts in the underworld. She’s Evie Takahashi—and she intends to be the death of me.
And here they come—the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Pestilence, and Death. "For her sins have reached unto heaven, and God hath remembered her iniquities." —Revelations 18:5 "They take a stab at romance "And disappear down Flamingo Lane." —Bruce Springsteen, 'Jungleland'. Mahalo, my friends!
Above-Average Intelligence and Technical Aptitude is a Traditional Prerequisite?font> "For postmodernists, that which gets presented as truth (e.g. this essay) is an invention, just a take on reality, that masks what I am really doing—tricking everyone in order to acquire and maintain power."
—Jason Slone, Theological Incorrectness. After countless years of torment, I’ve finally become comfortable with my geek status, embracing it like a cherished lover. This reassessment comes in the wake of a book I’ve recently perused, entitled Geek Chic. I ran across it at the Elliott Bay Bookstore—a wet dream of a book retailer if ever there was one—and picked it up in anticipation of laughing at the variegated manifestations of geekiness throughout American history. But, to my horror, I discovered that I’d actually liked and/or loved many of those hallmarks of geekhood without realizing that, indeed, I was (and am) a geek! Examples: 1) My first computer was a Mac II, followed by an Osborne and a Commodore Amiga—each the quintessential geek’s choice, 2) despite a predilection for punk rock, I was a huge fan of Depeche Mode, the Smiths, and the ever-angsty Cure—bands now universally recognized as gargantuan geeksters, 3) Blade Runner is the coolest movie ever made, Andy Kaufman was the world’s preeminent mind-fucker, and Neuromancer remains one of my most beloved novels—and if those choices don’t cry "Geekiness!", nothing does, 4) I’ve had a huge crush on Tina Fey for years, and an abiding passion for Vampire: The Masquerade, wherein I’m known as Vitaly della Malva, a cultured Ventrue originally turned by Grigory Raputin, the Mad Monk of Tsarist Russia, and 5) I wear glasses and boxer shorts, and I adore women who wear glasses and boxer shorts. I could go on, but you get the idea. Back in the early Eighties, while Anastasia and I were still married, we regarded ourselves the pinnacle of cool. After all, we’d rocked out to the Sex Pistols and Crass, spouted anarchist politics, and dressed like a pair of spree killers. But when we saw Gloria Mundi, Danse Macabre, and Bauhaus at London’s Batcave in 1981, we were suddenly confronted with something we’d never seen in AmeriKKKa: Mohawks had given way to pale, high-contrast makeup, Doc Martens had faded to make room for black-and-purple Rennaisance-era flourishes, and not a single kid was pogo-dancing—they were all "swirly-dancing," Ana observed, lyrically floating around with hands tracing patterns in the air. What the fuck? "Well," Ana said, "punk has been dead for over a year now, ever since Karl Lagerfeld produced a sack skirt with safety pins. Maybe this is the new thing. Anyway, the music is great, no?" So, in our continuing effort to reach new heights of hip, we bought a bunch of frilly blouses and Walter Raleigh thigh-boots in the King’s Road, took them back to Seattle, and proceeded to thoroughly scandalize the local rock scene. However, in time, other kids began to ape our style, and our beloved Vogue soon became indistinguishable from the Batcave. Naturally, we thought we were the last word in au courant—especially since my wife and I occupied seats at the apogee of our local scene—but we utterly failed to recognize that we’d simply crawled onto the biggest geek bandwagon in the history of western culture. Yes, Goths are geeks, purely and simply, and there’s not a single observer who’d dispute the point. Of course, the Illusion of Insouciance we’d cultivated was only reinforced by the advent of Industrial, Goth’s harder-edged cousin. The Princess Anastasia and I had always dug art-provocateurs Throbbing Gristle and Killing Joke, but became hopelessly enmeshed in Industrial with SPK’s Leichenschrei and Cabaret Voltaire’s Dadaesque Dream Ticket. Like any self-respecting Goth, Rivetheads wore unrelieved black, though of a more futuristic bent and dripping with metal appointments. Merde à la puissance treize! we thought, never realizing that we’d uncritically fallen into a crater of geekiness more expansive than China. The New Romantic queens realized it; the hardcore German skater kids, listening to Die Ärzte and Blut + Eisen, took us for geeks; the Phil Collins and pastel-wielding Miami Vice crowd identified our geekiness with no trouble. But we just assumed ourselves the Epitome of Innovation, the last word in postmodern culture. We completely failed to realize that, from Boyd Rice to Maurizio Bianchi, from ambient to techno, we were the biggest goddamn bunch of geeks in human history. However, since we ran only with our own crowd, we were content with our self-aggrandizing mythology and never failed to compliment Gwen’s massive beehive, Stephanie’s leather trenchcoat, Guido’s piercings, and Erica’s newest tattoo. Damn it, we were fucking cool! Nobody looked as frightening as we did! Now, I’m forced to reevaluate that era through the lens of Geek Chic, and realize just how geeky we were. And today? Well, I’ve recently abandoned my education in Network Design and Administration (geek, anyone?) for a degree in Creative Writing (über-geek, anyone?) and can only resign myself to the fact that, not only am I a geek, but my geekocity increases with each passing moment. These days, I wear skinny glasses and smoke Gauloises. I’m still Steve Jobs’ best customer while holding down a complete collection of Farscape DVDs. And a shimmering admiration of Stephen Colbert and Sarah Vowell only underscores my resident, inescapable geekiness. Eh, bien. My daughter still loves me, Evie Takahashi still wants to rut like rabid weasels, and my cat still thinks I’m the greatest thing since Friskies Supreme Supper, so who am I to complain? Being a geek indirectly absolves me of onerous responsibility (onerous, incidentally, is a really geeky word); I don’t have to be competent at anything except writing, reading graphic novels, and watching The Cincinnati Kid online. My task, as I see it, is to run all these godforsaken Seattle hipsters out of the geek scene; they’re in it strictly for the chicks, and wouldn’t know a Kraftwerk tune if it came up and bit them on their butts. I’m just the man to do it: Datapanik in the Year Zero, Über-Geek, Stalwart Four-Eyed Defender of Trash Culture and The King of Comedy. And let’s face it: If you’ve read this far, you’re a geek too. So walk with me, my friend, take my hand and let’s march proudly into the future with our PDAs and game consoles, ready to claim the happy mantle of GEEK! Weezer demands it! Beck insists upon it! And Winona Ryder will love us forever!
Evidently, I’ve forgotten to mark my calendar. This appears to be the 2007 Seattle Festival of Really Cheap Perfume. No matter where I’ve gone today, there’s been one kind of cooze or another wearing stinky-ass drug store perfume. Either that, or they’re wearing those $2.50 knockoffs—you know, the ones that claim to smell like, say, CK1 or Obsession but really smell like wet badgers.
The #15 (Downtown to Ballard, or thereabouts) was chock full of dime-pieces smelling up the coach with conflicting and equally offensive scents. And it was apparent that they’d actually bathed in the stuff, since the odor permeated every orifice of my being. Had Crazy Annie’s Army/Navy Surplus been open, I’d have invested in a gas mask. The whole thing reminded me of the WTO fiasco and those tear gas canisters the police dis-courteously shat upon a legion of retro-hippies and whatnot. And the bus was not alone. Breakfast at Minnie’s (two eggs over easy, two strips of bacon, hash browns, and an English muffin) was laden with a particularly noxious brand of perfume—the Apocalypse of Aroma—by an elderly woman also sporting a dye-job consisting of no color known to nature. To my disgust, the eggs seemed to suck up this woman’s ignoble incense like a Bounty paper towel, rendering any hope of finishing my breakfast quite beyond contemplation. (To those fans of Are You Being Served? among my readers, this old bag bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Betty Slocombe—she of the perpetually eerie and frequently changing hair color. My Mrs. Slocombe, however, was also graced with bright pink cat’s eye glasses bedecked by multicolored rhinestones. Sort of a Betty Slocombe meets Dame Edna scene. She made for a truly heinous dining experience, and I may never return to Minnie’s again for fear of seeing her once more.) I’ve also noted the this is also the Annual Seattle Thyroid Eyes Gala. I’ve encountered no less than 10 people on the #15, and the #36 return trip, with exceptionally large thyroid eyes. Nothing really wrong with that, of course, but a whole passel of ‘em can be quite disconcerting. All those people looking so surprised, you see. Furthermore, one or two of them were... you guessed it... awash in cheap perfume. I’m not sure what’s going on here in the Emerald City, but it’s inspiring a certain level of fear in my heart. What else will the day bring? The Feast of Heart Attacks? The Beaten-Up Whore Jubilee? The Pock Mark Jamboree? There’s almost nothing that Seattle doesn’t celebrate—a feature of the astounding number of career drunks in this burg—and they seem to multiply each year. There is, of course, the Annual Patchouli Festival. Don’t forget the University District Birkenstock Street Fair. And who can do without the King County Cops Shooting Unarmed Blacks Bacchanal? Your devoted narrator predicts a brutal day in Jet City.
One of my most cherished memories is this: It’s the summer of 1967, and Kiki has taken me to a gumbo palace on Tchoupitoulas Street in the New Orleans warehouse district. She’s promising me a po-boy and a few sips of her Blackened Voodoo beer—good times for your humble narrator at age 9! However, a zydeco band is playing, all of whose members know and love my 22 year old mother passionately, and they invite her up to sing a song. She drags me onto the stage with her, and tells them to fire up "Iko Iko." The percussion starts, then the zither. She pulls me onto her lap, and starts singing:
My grandma and your grandma Sittin' by the fire My grandma says to your grandma "I’m gonna set your flag on fire." The crowd goes nuts, and starts screaming Kiki’s name. But she pays no attention. She’s singing to her son—and only to her son—and the rest of the crowd are simply eavesdroppers. As she sings, she embraces me, strokes my honey blonde hair, and pulls me close to her breast. Her right leg bounces with the festive rhythm, giving me something of a roller coaster ride, but her arm remains firmly wrapped around my shoulder. I’m safe with Kiki. My mother's entire universe is keyed like a laser beam on her son—an illegitimate lovechild, the product of a two-week tryst, that she loves with blazing ferocity and the tenacity of a lioness on the veldt: Talkin’ ’bout, hey now! Hey now! Iko, iko, unday Jockamo fee no ai nané Jockamo fee nané The crawfish is boiling, the bourbon flowing, and the crowd clamoring for the pretty little Québécoise girl and her Crescent City son. Cajun French is flying about the joint like a flock of pigeons: Cho! Co! Cunja, baby! Fah-yu! Ga lee! J'ai gros couer! Ca c'est bon, Kiki! And the young black Creoles are dancing like voodoun priests and priestesses at stage's edge, shrieking, "Chere mo lemme t'oi, Kiki!" The music swells, Kiki pulls me close—her bright smile making me break into peals of laughter—and changes the last few words of the song: See that boy All dressed in green? He’s no boy He’s a lovin’ machine! And, as the song rumbles out, she begins to tickle me mercilessly. In front of God and Everybody, I fall off her lap and roll onto the stage. Kiki leaps on top of me and begins to pepper me with kisses, still tormenting my ribs with her tiny fingers. I’m about to pass out with sheer pleasure. And the crowd goes wild. "See that boy," someone screams, "all dressed in green? He’s no boy! He’s a lovin’ machine! And look at that mother of his!" |
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