Poor Impulse Control by dixē.flatlin3
It was recently brought to my attention that I have not published anything since February. The reasons for this lag are mostly due to the amount of extracurricular activities that I have undertaken in the past year. And thanks to the person who reminded me some people do still read.
Those of you who follow me perhaps know that one year ago I graduated with a business degree and got into beekeeping. After five years of school, and the constant academic writing that it required, I guess I was just plum out of shit to write about. But I need to pick up the writing pace again, in spite of the fact that the bees have been keeping me busy as, well, a bee.
Back in the day there was a 7-11 near the intersection of Yucca Street and Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood. A Google map search confirmed that it still exists as of December 2014. This was back in the 1990, when Lalaland was a-flutter with raves and underground parties. I believe that the group I was with had just left Bourgeois Pig when we stopped at the convenience store. We were en route to a party and had stopped off at the coffee shop to score drugs. Not sure if it’s still a big drug haven, but designer drugs were everywhere back then. So were coffee shops.
As I walked inside to purchase something, probably cigarettes, I somehow managed to drop several ecstasy tablets on the ground by the front counter. What’s a gal to do when she loses drugs that are not hers? Well, I can tell you what I did next. I threw my hands in the air and shouted, “Nobody move! I dropped drugs!” Not sure what would happen in modern day Los Angeles, but back then my fellow customers stopped what they were doing and joined me on my hands and knees and helped me locate the missing drugs.
Safely back in the car, my group had no idea that I had just caused a completely illegal scene in a convenience store. I did not have the heart to tell anyone that the drugs had just been on the gross floors of downtown 7-11. Not like the shit hadn’t been stepped on before we ever saw it anyway, right?
I can recall only one time that I attended any type of event related to the American holiday known as Super Bowl Sunday. I am sure my father watched the games when he was around, but I would have made it a point to be out of the house, so who knows. Having successfully avoided this shit for most of my life, you can imagine my surprise when I found myself smack dab in the middle of one of these testosterone-fueled events.
At the time I owned a tattoo shop and was married to my business partner. We had been in our location for more than two years when our new landlord came into the picture. This was pre reality TV days, so tattooing was a bit coarser around the edges than it is now. Two of our loyal customers were this biker dude and his old lady. The guy also happened to own a commercial construction company. When our building went up for sale, they decided to buy it, “for investment reasons.”
As I have already mentioned he was a biker who had an old lady, and to those of you who watch Sons of Anarchy that probably sounds super cool. Well, in reality, it wasn’t too bad I suppose. The guy was not a patch holder, but was a “known associate” of a notorious biker gang that reigns in my state. There was a big patch over a while back, but that’s another story for another time. That element has always been around within the tattoo industry. I was familiar with it from working in shops that were “known affiliates” of various gangs. It was pretty much the same: you could expect the owner to have a fucking Napoleon complex and lose his shit at least once a month. He typically also had an old lady who used to be a stripper/tweaker who thought she ran the place and showed up with black eyes frequently. Guess he had to tell her the same thing a few times.
I liked them; they were funny and honest, which are two key factors in making me happy. We did a lot of couple type shit together, which sort of made me an old lady, which was whatever. I was a bit too mouthy for the landlord’s liking, but he and I maintained a status quo that I often liked to shake up. He eventually accepted that I was the brains behind the business and talked to me about the contracts his company secured.
Over a period of several years we watched this man grow his business to become quite successful. Another perk of being a “known associate.” We went to a lot of corporate events as guests of his company. Pretty sure that is the only way in hell I would have ever gone to a NASCAR event- nestled amongst the corporate trailers.
Eventually he and his old lady bought a custom home on five acres and remodeled it from top to bottom. He also filled it with trophies from his hunting trips. This dude had a dead elephant in his house. I once asked him why he felt the need to trophy hunt and he plainly told me because he “needed to kill things.” Again, I am a sucker for honesty, and believe in personal freedoms. Would I live in a house that had dead lions and zebras and giraffes on the walls? Absolutely not, but that dude can do whatever the fuck makes him happy. It was creepy housesitting for them, but we did it.
I should also mention that the guy liked to run a Nazi flag up the flagpole just to piss of his neighbors. I also learned that money cannot buy class because the dude was blatant Aryan, another biker stereotype that is a reality. Learned that nifty fact during my formative years tattooing as well.
It was to this den of masculinity that I was called to on a Sunday to prepare dinner. Somehow my braniac of a husband had volunteered me to cook a meal of hot and sour soup. What I did not know was that it was Super Bowl Sunday. You can imagine my horror when I realized that I was making Asian food on what is assuredly one of the manliest of manly high fucking holy days in this country. We were clueless because, duh, we don’t follow football.
After many cocktails were made, games of pool shot in the basement game room, joints rolled and smoked on the expansive patios overlooking the national forest, it was eventually time to eat. I don’t remember much of how that evening ended, other than in complete disaster for me because what kind of old lady serves hot and sour soup on Super Bowl Fucking Sunday?! Good thing the guy kept Percocet and Xanax in the candy dishes at his house; right next to the dead, but tastefully preserved bodies of endangered animals.
Let’s have a Black Celebration by dixē.flatlin3
This morning I came across something a friend had written yesterday regarding those who may have not celebrated and shared with their families the American holiday known as Thanksgiving. First, let me acknowledge that I do not presume that every person on the planet knows there was a holiday in America yesterday. Secondly, regardless of where you live, if you are on social media, and have American friends, it must have been nearly impossible to ignore that the most Yanks were über friendly and not talking about politics for most of the day.
Yesterday was the American holiday known as Thanksgiving. A holiday celebrated on the fourth Thursday of every November. A day we eat a lot of food. I believe there was once some sort of bullshit history lesson wrapped into the gluttonous holiday, but given the historical facts of how this nation was stolen, er, I mean settled, they’ve sort of glossed over that part. There is also the matter of how to accurately depict the oft referred to celebration between the involved parties. Pilgrims and Indians are all wrong for the whitewashed 21st century. It is not politically correct; does not adhere to the Newspeak standards and offends the delicate sense of many of the comrades.
As a child in the American school system we use to dress-up for the holiday. Including those for whom English was a secondary language. We were directed by school officials to put on plays in honor of this day. Can you imagine how this would ruffle the feathers of so many gluten allergy affected patrons in the year 2014? America is no longer a melting pot; it is now one big salad bowl of pluralistic inclusion. Gone are the days of immigrant grandparents telling the children to speak English because they are Americans. This is how my peers and myself came to lose the native tongues of our ancestors. Italian, German, Gaelic, Slovak, Vietnamese, Chinese, Hindi, and many other dialects went the way of the dodo bird with our parents, and perhaps their parents’ parents. The customs associated with Thanksgiving have evolved. It has shifted away from a nationalistic, family-centric celebration to more of a day full of preparations for an imminent capitalistic spending frenzy.
My friend and I worked in the same industry for many years. This industry in particular was once known for drawing in the disenfranchised, artistic types. People who typically did not have strong family ties to begin with. Which was why I decided to host what I labeled the Freak Holidays. In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, I had noted that a lot of our coworkers had no intention of spending time with their families. This could have been due to the fact that many had come from other states for the opportunity to work in a particular business. However, many simply preferred to not spend time with their families, which was my personal preference as well. I then decided to invite every person I knew to come and celebrate the holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas at my home. I did the majority of the cooking and provided the staple items. The only items I did not supply were booze and drugs, but I did have a room we called the Playroom. A room dedicated to the art of smoking pot, which was where most of attendees congregated
The first Thanksgiving was a huge success. I cannot remember how many people came and went that day, but it was a lot. We did not have the luxury of having Black Friday off because we were expected to helm the various shops where consumers would be looking to part with their hard earned cash. But the amount of food leftover meant that after-hours my house was full of people. This extended the holiday and drew out some who had chosen to avoid the initial celebration itself. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, word of the event had spread. There was a shitload of people at my house for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Of which more than a few slept wherever they could in my apartment.
I continued this tradition for several years. The transitory nature of the industry meant that there were always new faces in the crowd. And eventually there came a point when I no longer felt a strong enough sense of camaraderie to open my home to strangers. The floodgates to the industry had swung wide open, and those coming in were not cut from the same cloth as those I had grown up with. The invites became limited to a select few, and then that list dwindled as my years in the industry grew. But my memories are fond ones, and I was reminded of these by another friend yesterday.
I received an email from someone I had not heard from in a very long time. She wished me a happy holiday and reminded me of these gatherings of yore. She said that she had heard a song and it brought back memories of spending Thanksgiving at my house. She had fallen into the job opportunity bucket and did not have the funds or time to venture home for the holidays. She explained that she had felt like an outsider upon her arrival to work amongst us, but that after spending time with others in a non-work environment, it had been easier for her to adjust to her temporary home. That was 18 years ago, and it was a song that initiated her contact. She asked if I could still be found dancing around the kitchen and singing horrific pop songs while I cooked. This made me laugh because I suppose that image is hard to juxtapose against a house full of heavily tattooed, mostly male guests.
The words of another friend on social media caused me to contemplate this all. What exactly does Thanksgiving represent to Americans in the 21st century? What will become of the once sacred traditions now that they have been tainted as exclusionary by some? What does it mean to be American? I do not I pretend to have any answers, but I do know that the visage of my country has evolved into one that is frighteningly reminiscent of Big Brother. There is very little meaning left that is not directly consumer related. All of humanity’s woes fall to the wayside when Americans are given an opportunity to buy another television set at a slightly discounted price. That can then be put on display somewhere in their home, which they likely cannot afford, and they can gather around and watch the images of lives they cannot afford. But it is America; everybody has the exact same opportunity to be that special, little snowflake deemed worthy enough for mass consumption. Every American has an equal opportunity at being exploited by the machinations of the Capitalism. Regardless of whether or not they know it.
Now, leave your families and go forth and buy something, for fuck’s sake! This is ‘Murika! We’re at war! Feed the machine! And may gawd help us all as we slide into the holiday that celebrates the destruction and assimilation of paganism worldwide. Do not let the pangs of separation stop you! You have a device in your pocket that keeps you connected. And I assure you that connection is felt more deeply than any familial ties any human has every experienced.
Blessings upon you all.
Recently I had the pleasure of enduring a drunken phone call from an old friend. To say that she is less than pleased with her current circumstances would be an egregious understatement. Not that her present environment is unpleasant, it’s actually one that many women, especially mothers, would envy; she is a properly kept woman living on acres in the Deep South. She is married, has two children and does not work, but she does drink. Oh dear god does she drink. Sadly, I am her go-to whenever she feels the need to discuss nostalgia, which correlates to her consumption of Courvoisier and moonshine. I should know better than to answer the phone, but we all love a good train wreck, don’t we?
Thankfully, her most recent drunk dial was not to rehash the details of abortions of yore. One can only discuss the vague details of driving a friend to several clinics, when they were teenagers, so many times before it grows tiresome. And we have had these discussions many, many times over the years. But her most recent phone call was for a completely different purpose altogether.
There is much notoriety and mythology surrounding the area where we spent our time together. It seems that the desert east of Los Angeles has become somewhat famous, in purely musical terms, which never ceases to amuse me. I fucking hate the desert cities that are Palm Springs to Coachella and beyond. The fact that hipsters pay, out-the-ass, to see bands performing in a field, in fucking Coachella, still makes me laugh out loud. Trust me when I tell you that I am not alone in this point of view. But whatever, everything is fucking ghey now, and I expect nothing less from the 21st century.
You see, she and I attended [redacted] together, and are quite familiar with many of the individuals who have seemingly ascended to the plateau of fame. If you’re from the area, The Plateau is something completely different, but I digress. To me it is nothing more than faces and times that I care to forget. Obviously, to some, it has become a moment in time that they wish to relive. Regrettably, I am often forced to discuss this topic.
In this distressing damsel’s case, it involves a few tales of the ones who got away. You see, she completely fucked her full-ride sponsorship with the successful music producer. A feat the involved no less than fucking an industry drug dealer and being seen in public with the pariah. Even I knew her goose was cooked once this had happened, but to this day, she is unaware of her flagrant transgression. Another bone of contention between us, but I can be too kind with morons. I am working on it, trust me, but it’s hard.
After a few rounds of on the phone with her, I was finally able to discern exactly why she had reached out to me on this particular evening. Getting to the point with sycophants and narcissists is key, it saves energy, but again, I digress. Turns out she had come across yet another trust fund baby, and this one was fascinated with the desert rock or stoner rock scene, but she could not verify her existence within it. Naturally she turned to me for validation because I was her only true connection to any of the parties. Well, the only one without a dick, who still speaks to her.
During our conversation I realized that in our desert years, she had never been more than some girl one of my friends was fucking. And one who accompanied me, usually at the request of said friend, but she had never been more than that. She never made it safely into the friend zone. She always got stuck at cum dumpster, a position that I am woefully unfamiliar with. I eventually asked her if she needed me to vouch for her with this new guy because I was willing to do anything to get off the phone at this point. I even offered to write her a letter of recommendation because she is not in any of the pictures I took at the numerous gigs at The Colony that I attended. As a photo geek in high school, I always had a camera, and it was only ever pointed at friends when there was nothing better to capture. This was never the case at the generator parties, and thusly, I have no pictures of her to use as evidence.
I suggested that she perhaps use the article I wrote back in May to segue to the desert scene, but that would require her to give-a-fuck about someone other than herself. Let’s be honest, that ain’t ever gonna happen with anyone who has ever spent time in SoCal. Especially in the I.E. and other desert cities.
Cray*2 by dixē.flatlin3
Given our overall temperaments, I must admit, that as a member of the human female network, I am shocked that more of us do not kill. That is to say, that more of us do not give into the murderous impulses that we naturally repress. The urge to open up a throat with a razor, rather than smooth the ruffled feathers of yet another ego.
Given to whims of fancy; hormonal; bodies and minds at the mercy of the universe; the source of hysteria; dangerous creatures. I have known more than one man who has lived to tell the tale of his encounter with a knife-wielding member of the fairer sex. Both awoke to find themselves straddled by a pretty, broken doll; both happy to have survived their brushes with batshit-crazy death; both shaken, but not defeated.
I never allowed myself to sympathize, much less empathize with them because in female transgressions of this nature, the batshit-crazy had been thinly veiled in their partners of choice. Sadly, I have learned that this is not as easy for others to spot. Hard to believe, I know, but life is weird that way.