Crushed VelvetThis was a typical week at the Velvet Lounge (formerly the Velvet Elvis) in Savannah.
Sunday, of course, the bar was closed, but most of the staff are also members of the local Very Tough and Deadly Bicycle Gang, Satan's Acquantance, so they went on a ride. Mayhem ensued. I wasn't present; as a girlfriend, I'm just property of the gang, not a fully functional member. From what I hear, I'm glad I wasn't there.
Monday was Open Mic Night, with a band who pissed off the bartenders by doing a soundcheck and then vanishing, holding up the rest of the night.
Tuesday was a punk show, and the headliner (the Unseen) cancelled. The other bands still played, and there was a good turnout. Bartender Ike hit Bartender Tony in the face with a baseball bat and split his eyebrow wide open; this was all in fun, no harm done, good times all around. Elsewhere in town Widespread Panic played, and it was cute watching the wandering hippies drift into the bar, focus eventually on the spikes & mohawks, and drift back out, somewhat faster than they'd wafted in. There was no trouble with them.
Wednesday actor Michael Pitt brought director Gus Van Sant, who's casting for a film about a rock star, to Velvet so he (Pitt) could give an impromptu concert. The kid fit right in there. He wasn't bad on the guitar, either.
Thursday the taxman showed up and shut down the bar for unpaid taxes. Again. Just like last year. If he hadn't, the landlord would have, because the owner hasn't paid rent in months, either. These are big, big bills. Velvet is gone.
Which is a typical week for Velvet, except this time, it's not going to reopen. Tony promptly cut some deals and found a new venue for the shows he'd booked -- though the Bindlestiff Family Circus didn't check their email or voicemail, and therefore thought they'd been screwed, and thought they should tell the local newspaper that they'd been screwed - all because the taxman answered the phone when they called to confirm, and he told them there was no show, helpful bastard that he is. So the shows do go on, but I'll tell you, at the first one, I felt like I was at a funeral. Everyone else seemed to be having a good time, but we've lost something really important, and it aches.
It's hard to believe that was
last week. It seems like I live in a different town, now.
So, that's happened. And Geoff Cooper's got a baby. And we went back to war, and SARS came to town, and so forth.
Events elsewhere, that don't particularly involve me, have been too momentous and traumatic for me to have felt like saying much here. I'm not in the kind of mood that results in entertaining, or even half-interesting, comments.
It had better result in some kickass fiction pretty soon, though, because my "August" deadline just turned into a "June 8th" deadline, and my "May-ish" deadline is happening right now, isn't it... plus there's the short-short I need to deliver "when I can," which we all know means "immediately." None of the things I've been working on are suitable for any of those three slots, so I have to do other things instead - and pronto.
You know, the British aren't helping any. I recently read China Mieville's new novella,
The Tain, Tim Lebbon's
Face, and Michael Marshall Smith's THE STRAW MEN. Such books make me not want to write any more, at all.
Yeah, what I need to do, in that case, is sit down with a stack of John Saul books.
Other novels & collections that I've read recently have amazed me: people, for some reason, keep writing about cocks and cunts - toothy ones. Or disembodied ones that run (?!) around and do damage. Then, more toothy ones. And, though I didn't attend the World Horror Convention this year, I bet cash money that the majority of the tales read at the gross-out contest involved dangerous dicks and terrifying twats.
Since these themes sell, you guys must not be as incredibly BORED with them as I am. (Same as with vampires. Oh, teeth again. I get it: y'all like teeth.) BORED. And this scary-genitals thing, unlike the monster in a vampire book, can come out of nowhere - you can't necessarily just avoid the book to begin with. You have to invest some time in it, get to know the characters, and OH MY FUCK, THERE'S FUCKING TEETH THERE. Folks, I'm more disgusted with the author for falling back on the old fanged wang gag than I am by any of the scenes made possible by said wang.
Okay, Lansdale did fine in ACT OF LOVE. Laymon did fine in THE CELLAR. (I was twelve when I read them both. I wasn't tired of this shit then.) Countless people have, since they first discovered that prongs do this and sheaths do that, formed art of all sorts around the scary/toothy/stabby idea. And it is, to me, a DRAB one. Played the fuck out. Honestly. Hey - dig it, I'm mad, now. Five bucks to the first person that figures out what that means.
Speaking of mad: some guy has me on his mailing list, and the political shit he sends enrages me so much that I approach Code Nosebleed. I was a keystroke away from asking him to remove me from his list, but I realized that rage is good. Well, for me, anyway.
(Today at work I was accused of being "unprofessional and disrespectful." I wanted to say,
your expectations of me are far too high. I am not a corporate professional, even if I've been thrust into that situation. I won't address the respect bit here. Also, my employee review said that I should dress more professionally. Imagine, if you will, a caveperson, a hermit encrusted in his own rancid crapulence, scuttling backwards on bruised knees when the missionary comes hither, and yeah, that's how I feel at work. Not to mention, I can't afford professional clothes - they'd inhale the table linens in horror if I told them where my clothes came from, and when. Fuck, I cut my own hair - how in the hell am I supposed to afford dry-clean-only clothes? For a while today, I considered returning to waitressing, though I hated that ferociously - I'd make more money, toss food on a table, and walk away. Can't beat that. But this is a tourist town, which means more asskissing than I can handle. Looks like my options are to either return to a factory conveyor belt, or marry a guy who won't mind if I buy a Javelin and spend too much time fondling its innards. Anyway, instead of saying what I wanted to say, I said "Don't make me angry, then." I'm coming to realize that, to get ahead, you really do need to be nice and lick ass. Roll over. Lie down. Get sole. Suck it up, walk it off. And the only way for me to do that is to be sedated first, and unfortunately, I lean more towards caffeine than prozac. Fuck 'em. My education cost almost twice as much per year as I'm paid; what the fuck is that?!)
For Mother's Day, I reminded my mom that I'd be turning 30 really soon. She's much more upset about it than I am. In retrospect, that was probably a mean thing to tell her. I remember her taking me to the doctor and her telling me before we entered the office, "Tell him I'm 28." I should have known that pointing out the 30 thing was impolite. But, y'know, I have a young trophy boyfriend, and have been dyeing my hair since I was 13 so I'm used to that (and my real hair's so close to white that I wouldn't be able to tell if it tried to be grey), and I learned years ago not to dance in public... I've figured out this old-lady thing already.
I can tell that I'm getting old, though. I've been Tending my Yard. I have spent untold dollars (like, seventy so far, she told) on plant matter and grass seed (actual grass, for fuck's sake, I'm no hippie) to sprucify my yard, and what's worse, I've been enjoying it: I am in utter awe that a bare-dirt yard grows verdant just because I threw some seeds on it and sprayed water there. It amazes me. And, yes, I'm aware that this is pathetic. Worse, I've caught myself tempted to holler, "Get off my grass!" Yes.
All right, dear kind folks who asked me to write a new entry here: you happy? See why I haven't bothered? Just be glad I didn't start on goldfish.
Now, it's off to watch VERSUS again - as perfect a film in its own right as WONDER BOYS.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 5:51 PM 
