Drugs, Rock N Roll, Art, Motorcycles & Rattlesnake Hotdogs

Home Room. Location unknown. Somewhere in downtown Los Angeles near West Hollywood, Korea Town and Echo Park. My gay friend had ditched me for some gay event. So I found myself all dressed up, all made up and all alone. I decided that alone or not, I was going out. So I hopped into my red convertible, flipped the top down and cruised over to the venue. I knew it was the right spot by all the artsy-looking 20-somethings mingling outside the entrance on the street. I walked in. To the left was a table with a stamp and a sign: Stamp Yourself in. The first room was a Haunted art exhibit, the most notable of the pieces being a coffin with a dead bloody mannequin inside and some wooden posts from a fence, which made the backrest of the bench. The second room held a beautiful small female singer in a puddle in the middle of the stage, draped in a long dress, with a velvet shawl over her bird-like shoulders. The peacock feathers of her headdress jutted from her ears and chains dangled past her broken eyes. Surrounding her were two cellists and a drummer. The next singer creeped around the stage and into the audience like a spider with her long skinny black-tighted legs singing songs in a language no one understood, but everyone felt. I was in the back of the pressed together crowd. A tall man in black with greasy hair told me to push forward; it was my right. Like a motorcycle I darted through the couples and hipsters until I made my way to the front.

Afterward, Greasy-haired guy invited me to the Medusa Lounge next door. It looked like it used to be a church with its Gothic ceilings and stained glass windows. I had a frilly Indian suede feathered poncho on that I got from my ex-boyfriend's dead grandmother. As I danced the fringe shook and as I span, the fringe spread out around me like a protective halo. Some young guys were dancing in a circle and let me in. One of them had blonde curly clown hair with red suspenders. Another had a black bowling hat and black boots. They did some break dance moves and invited me back to their place for an after-party. It was a good sized house with a huge backyard and random sheds. We drank some beer, hit a bong and snorted some blow.

The Red Suspenders shared that he is an aspiring stunt cock man for porns. He was one of the last to hit the hay, leaving Bowling Hat and I alone. Stunt Cock kept texting me throughout the night from his room that I should go in and attack him and that Bowling Hat wouldn't mind. That was pretty awkward, since I thought he was a cool guy, but I wasn't into him like that. I offered Bowling Hat a ride home. Mostly I just wanted to get out of there cuz Stunt Cock was being a fucking weirdo. So we went back to Bowling Hat's house. He just moved in and had only halfway painted his room blue over the yellow. He had however assembled an old West Bar in the kitchen from which I ordered a milk in Das Boot. We went to his room and watched “Game of Thrones,” but for some reason it didn't make any sense at all, maybe I was too fucked up, maybe I was too tired when I saw the last episode. Still, we watched it until I could barely keep my eyes open and went to bed.

Bowling Hat had the hugest bed I have ever seen, California King he said. It was on the floor and had dark blue sheets I sank into. As I moved, I swam; the sheets and blankets, rippling around my body as I squirmed around. He was a stand-up guy maintaining a good distance between himself and I, only touching me once to stroke my head as we said our good nights.

I was woken up in the morning by a paraplegic chihuahua in a diaper scuttling around the bed. I was a bit freaked out initially, but Maybelline grew on me. Once I got used to the whole dead legs thing, she was actually pretty adorable and she scooted her little diapered butt after her rubber chicken so fast, she could give any dog a run for his money. She even had a little wheel-chair. I didn't get to see her put it on though.

Bowling Hat was hungry though, so we hopped on his motorcycle and sped through LA, past the homeless with their cardboard S.O.S. signs and Mexicans selling their wares, past graffiti installations on the entire side of large buildings. I could smell the Chinese food wafting from the stores with their chickens noosed in the windows. I felt the chilly overcast air prickling my skin. We drove to Wurstkuche in downtown for Mango Jalapeno and Rattlesnake-Rabbit Bratwurst sausage hotdogs. Bowling Hat ordered the Rattlesnake-Rabbit and let me try a bite. I couldn't say what it tasted like, it just tasted like seasoned meat. It was good. Better than chicken. The water alarmed me with its surprise Cucumber flavor. On the way back I clenched Bowling Hat between my fishnet thighs and held his jean-clad body close to mine as my suede tassels trailed behind us. Our bodies moved and rolled as one as we found the right balance between ourselves, the bike and the open road.

The Little Porcelain Doll and the Cowboy

The little cowboy shot into the toystore. “Bang! Bang!” he yelled, shooting at imaginary Indians with his wooden gun, when something caught his eye and made him jerk to a stop. He adjusted his red cowboy hat and bent over to peer at a little porcelain doll with raven black curls, big painted eyes and a pouty red mouth. He took his hat off to show her respect. She made him forget all about the Indians. He had to have this pretty little doll in the ruffled white dress. He went home and emptied out his piggy bank and returned to the store with just enough for the doll. The toymaker apprehensively turned her over to him.

The little cowboy was very gentle with his new doll, kissing her softly, whispering sweet things into her little seashell ears, running his fingers through her raven locks. But as time progressed he grew restless: he started to see Indians hiding in the shadows again. He brought her with him on his adventures and eventually forgot all about her fragility. The kisses became less frequent; he said obscenities not meant for little seashell ears; he pulled at her raven locks; her once fine frilly dress became tatters. He dragged her through the mud with him hunting Indians, until one day they found themselves surrounded, outnumbered 50 to 1. He was in hand to hand combat with the Indian chief when she slipped through his grasp and fell onto the linoleum floor where he abandoned her shattered in pieces.

The little boy’s mother found the porcelain doll, collected her broken parts and lay her outside the door of the toy store. The toymaker came out and saw what was left of the doll; he shook his head and brought her inside. He glued her pieces back together as best he could, but there was a piece missing right in the middle of her chest. It was hidden under her dress, but when the wind blew it came into this hole and chilled her insides. She had never felt so hollow.

The toymaker put her back onto her shelf and turned out the lights. She sat in the dark still feeling broken and hollow. The big toy store was so lonely. She missed her little boy, despite all of his mistreatment of her. She missed his soft kisses and his sweet words. Why couldn’t he have remained gentle with her? Diamond tears ran down her porcelain skin, smearing her painted eyes. If she had been a better doll, more beautiful, if her locks had been silkier, her lips a deeper red, perhaps he would have remained sweet with her. She wondered if any other little boy would ever want her again, ever make her feel so loved. She wanted someone to hold her tight, to make her forget about the piece missing in her chest, but she didn’t know if she had the strength to be broken again. After all, she was just a little porcelain doll.

The Scene: The Birth of a Lifestyle (just the beginnings of a rough draft)

Oakland, CA. 2011. For me, as for most of us I'd guess, it all started with Art Murmur. This was years ago, before it became mainstream, when it was actually about the art and the starving artists, which was all of us, really. Everyone in the scene is an artist; you have to be. What else would you say when you meet people? They ask you what you do and you can’t say you’re unemployed or you work at Pizza Hut. You definitely can’t say you have a real job like a bank teller or therapist, like me, that would be a dead giveaway that you’re not living the life. If you’re not an artist, you have to pick up something. We believe everyone has an artist in them; they’re just too preoccupied with work and the mortgage to let the artist out. Art is just the expression of life. Between fashion, tagging, photography, writing, music, there’s something for everyone.

Last month at the Murmur I overheard someone say "This is more of a place to be seen." Sadly it’s true, we hardly even make it into the galleries anymore now with all the yuppies sucking out all the oxygen in those small little holes in the wall that were never meant to hold so many people, never thought they’d become so populated. I hate it, we all hate it. God damn gentrification. We knew it was coming. It’s the natural progression of things. We started it. We didn't want to, but it's unavoidable. You find something cool, hip create something and along come wanna-bes who fucking just snatch it away from you ’cause they can’t create anything for their fucking selves.

The only thing to do is to move on and create something else, something newer and edgier. Some of those yuppies have got to have enough dough to buy a piece though. I know my friends and I never did. Not that we didn’t want to, but we just couldn’t afford it. At least the yuppies are good for the artists. Now up in Hayward they talk about it, people come from all over the East Bay, families come. It all began when a group of local art galleries opened up their doors at night to let us in. We drank, smoked on the streets and discussed the art. Back then it was just us, twenty-somethings, overeducated with no prospects, looking for inspiration, looking for something to give a damn about.

Well, we found something, or rather we made something. Pretty soon our loitering, our random houseshows, they took shape, they took up a life of their own. A lifestyle was born. After the Murmur, we decided Oakland was the place to be. Berkeley was so lame. Just frat parties, drunk sorority girls and beer pong. No intellectual night life to speak of. Oakland's scene was different. So different.

I went into Mama Buzz, a hole in the wall little cafe that oftentimes held shows, played its own part in making the Oakland underground scene what it was, anyway I walked in there to see what was good with my friend. A big twenty-something Mexican guy with untamed black curly hair to his shoulders and a beard, but twinkling eyes, like Santa Claus, approached us. He was wearing what I would later recognize as his MiguelfromOakland uniform: tight jeans and a red plaid long sleeve. He commented on my friend’s UC Davis sweater. He wanted to get a gig there to show off for some girl he liked who went there. My friend said he might be able to hook it up so they exchanged numbers and MiguelfromOakland invited us to a houseshow he was playing at across the street that night. That might have been my first houseshow. Well, the first houseshow when I knew what was happening anyway. I remember going to one a while before and hearing the girl I was with say "Wow! Every hipster I've ever known is here!" I thought that was a weird word she used: hipster. I didn't understand at the time what it meant.

I didn't know that MiguelfromOakland was one of the main players in the scene. His name made sense to me then, but now that I'm only ever in Oakland and see him in Oakland, it seems a bit redundant, like wearing Cal gear to school. We know you go to Cal, that's why you're here, we go to Cal too. Big fucking deal. But anyway, so I walk upstairs, it's a small apartment, full of twenty-somethings dressed grungy urban, some have feathers in their hair, some wearing mismatched vintage clothes it looks like they dug out of the trash. This was before I learned to appreciate the style. It's an acquired taste. But once you get it, you realize how hard it is to actually pull off. To make it look like you just carelessly threw a bunch of random old clothes together and it just happened to all work is hard. It's difficult to try to look hip while also making it look like you really don't give a damn about looking hip, but it's just something that kind of happened on it's own randomly, almost naturally, because you're just that hip. Then if you manage to put some irony in there somehow, you're golden. But that's level two, if you can even manage level one. One time I saw a chick with a toy lobster in her hair. Like this thing was almost actual size. That was freaking awesome. I wish I had thought of it.

So we are all squeezed into this smokey rickety wooden attic, some people standing on the edges, most of us sitting, smoking, drinking - mostly PBR – pot aroma fills the air, lingering around us. We listen to MiguelfromOakland's beautiful poetic song verses put to acoustic. It's like nothing I've ever heard before. And the ambiance, the mood of the room, everyone was just relaxed, chillin, no one was trying to holler at anyone, no one was trying to pick anyone up, no one was trying to start a drinking game or drunkenly encouraging his buddy to drink more, everyone was just there for the music and the people. After two years of suffering through lame frat parties, this was like heaven. This was a night life, a lifestyle, with heart and soul.

I moved to 30th and MLK, right in the middle of the scene, right next to the Fuzzplex, a house famous in the scene for it's underground houseshows. My location was ideal for biking anywhere, once I got the flats fixed on the vintage Schwinn I bought off the homeless guy at the Murmur for $20. The homeless are good for that, selling you shit you never knew you needed, usually in some state of disrepair. Last week I bought a neck massager off one. When I plug it in it makes a noise like it's working, but it's in Japanese or Chinese or something so I really don't know which buttons to push to make it work, if it even does work.

Ruby Room is another hole in the wall we adopted. Real dark little bar that you can smoke in. I think that’s why we picked it. I think that’s the best part. There’s a room away from the bar with a few tables so you can smoke and not feel bad about not ordering any drinks. There’s a pool table and on the other side of the glass wall is the DJ and a little dance floor. When there’s no houseshows or warehouseshows, it’s a good place to kill a Monday or Tuesday night in any case. One of the bartenders just fought at the Hipsters vs. Punks fight last week. It was legendary. And I don’t use that word lightly.

On it’s facebook event page the event had 358 people attending. It was the biggest event I’d ever seen in the scene, besides Art Murmur, of course, but like I said, that’s mainstream nowadays. This was still underground. No Urban Outfitter, American Apparel mainstreamers to be seen. That’s how I like it. Besides, they wouldn’t dare show their faces in a biker club. I’d say the 358 was pretty accurate. Every person I had ever seen in the scene was there. It was massive. The streets were full for blocks. The place was packed up to the ceiling, out to the backyard, onto the roof, and out the front. The only thing I ever paid full cover for. It was $5. Usually me and a few friends scrounge up what change we have and tell the door that’s all we have. That’s how it works. We’re all broke. We don’t shop at Goodwill just because it’s hip you know; we really are broke. I once found a cardigan on the floor at the Alameda Antique Swap Meet. I wore it. It’s a good cardigan. Best find.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the fight. So I walk into the East Bay Rats Club, everwhere seems to be hard ass looking punks. Where are the hipsters, I wonder? I get a little scared at being outnumbered. But I finally find my friend Jeremy. He’s supposed to play later on that night in his new band Faux Real. I’m excited to hear him play. After finding Jeremy, more faces start to distinguish themselves from the crowd. After the hipster style started to catch on, the originals from the scene were forced to become even more alternative and grungy to distinguish themselves from the mainstream. It was hard to tell the hipster from the punk. But for the most part I knew because I recognized them from the scene. But for the fights, when they had taken off all their jackets and accessories, it was really hard to tell the difference. I was on top of the roof now, with the best view. Everyone was trying to figure out who was on what side. Someone said to watch the swagger. That helped.

The hipster has a laid back, noncommittal, James Dean kind of swagger, whereas the punk has a hardcore, let’s do this shit, kind of attitude. Anyway, as the night wore on and the planned fights had already occurred, random people went up to fight, so that it was no longer necessarily hipster vs. punk. That didn’t stop the punks next to me from yelling “Kill the hipster bitch!” though. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hide my face or kick ’em off the roof. I just tried to tune it out. Fucking jerk-offs. This was all in good fun. There’s no real rivalry between us, at least not from our side. The Punks had obviously won, despite the refs lame attempts at making it seem equal by saying one fighter won, when he most obviously did not. Kinda pissed me off. Credit should be given where due.

All the fighters shared the same two mouth guards. The ref would pick it up off the floor of the ring after a fighter spit it out and stick it back in their mouth. It was all very unhygienic. But I guess what do you expect from punks? Near the end of the night I was feeling pumped and wanted to fight. I spread the word. I even asked Arianna, my friend about my size, to fight. She didn’t want to. She was wearing heels she said. I was too I told her and a skirt and tights. It was hard to find someone to match my 5’2” 100 pounds who wanted to fight. When I thought all hope was lost, my friend found a little hipster girl for me to fight. A friend of a friend. I said yes, next round. At this point I was front row with my friends. I left to take a piss. Both johns were out of toilet paper so I went to the bartender to ask for napkins, but he actually gave me two rolls of toilet paper. That’s how I judge a place. Fancy shmancy if they have extra toilet paper. The first to open up was the guys and I was sick of waiting in line so I shoved past the guy in line. He whined about it. I was there first anyway.

By the time I got back, the chick who I was gonna fight was already in the ring with some tall lanky punk chick with short choppy black hair. Just by the looks of her, you knew she was gonna win. It wasn’t really a fair fight. The hipster chick and I would have been a perfect pair, pound for pound almost. But she didn’t want to wait for me. So instead the punk chick picked her up and body slammed her on the floor. That was the best, worst move all night. The punk chick didn’t look that strong, but apparently. Ow. Hipster chick got back up though. She got beat pretty bad, but she kept getting up. The crowd was begging for the ref to call it, but he refused. Hipster chick lost though and totally passed out on the ring floor after the fight. She was hella drunk. Her makeup was smeared all over her face. She had a tiny body, but her face had huge features, big pouty red lips, big eyes, and big hair, they looked too big, clowny with all the smeared makeup. Her features were right on the borderline of being too much or gorgeous. I couldn’t tell, could go either way. I wondered what she looked like all made up. My friend had to haul her off the ring floor to make room for the next fighters. That was the best fight of the night though.

BFR

Berkeley Fiction Review Issue 29 is now available and it looks awesome! This will be the last issue of the BFR I work on. :(

"I'm Sorry I'm Insane and Weird and Utterly Immature and That the Word Utter Makes Me Giggle" available

Now available in Breath and Shadow. Click the link in the right corner under poems.

Come Visit Me in the Psych Ward now online

"Come Visit Me in the Psych Ward" is now up on Clockwise Cat, you can follow my link for it under my poems sidebar.

I unknowingly published a poem!

So I was googling myself today to see what prospective employers might dig up, since I am graduating in a week (woo-hoo!) and will thus have to resign myself to real work.

Anyway, I found that Berkeley Poetry Review published my poem Pumpkin. I think it's sort of odd that they didn't tell me about it, but whatevs, it's cool. That's my 6th poem to be published. :)