FRANK TALK ABOUT SEX
Snack learned Italian at 14 because she knew it would get her started having sex. Fellini is her favorite director and she nick-named herself Smick-Snack as a combo homage to Federico, and to herself, a real good eater. Fatty foods are her true faith. She’s a cliff-hanging Catholic because she likes the sadomasochism, heavy metal, and The Pope, but says “where the Lord leaves off, the lard takes over.”
Snack said she also likes octopus–fried-and that someday we’ll have some from this place on Pico. The Lard is her shepherd she shall not want.
This morning, we talked a lot about liver and she recommended sunchokes for me to eat. She told me all of her ideas for her latest art projects and music and how great they all are too so I didn’t have to blow any smoke up her ass. She told me how good she looks and why she thinks that is – “years of protecting the skin with Pancake make-up, that’s what it is” she said. I mean, she’s forty-three (according to her) and no lines at all. It was eight-thirty when I saw her and she was already fully made up with the red lipstick and gold eyeshadow and all very pretty, I thought. She had on black boots and leggings with a big black and white plaid flannel shirt on top that was wide-belted and she is round. Okay, fat-but sexy-(in a cocky femme-trucker kind of way).
I asked her what’s the strangest thing she’s ever eaten and she said salmon ovaries but first she said blowfish. But salmon ovaries, it didn’t really sound like she tried them. I couldn’t tell. I think she’s probably more likely to have eaten human ovaries, or maybe a labia. She said sex has to really be something now because she’s done it all. It’s got boring for her. Then she told me she loves birds, especially sparrows and crows and she’s been embracing the darkness. That’s for sure. Plus, sparrows have to consume something like forty times their weight in one day so they’re her soulmates.
She told me that my protracted emotional crisis was a reaction to “false ambition”. I don’t know. I am having an emotional crisis but she talks with such conviction (and a lot like a fortune teller) that I just say YEAH! Yeah. That must be it. Later, we eat pork rinds from a bag while I look around for a dress at Macy’s. “I can’t believe we’re in Macy’s. You’re so straight” she says. I know it’s her euphemism for square. “How could you grow up in the Village and come out so straight?”-and she would drag it out across the room. Shaking her head side to side. SOOOO STRAAAAAAIGHT.
She can really be your friend, or she can cut you off like a cancer. “I’ll see you later at the gig.” she says – and waves me off.
Listed on the Whisky marquee were the following; (my boyfriend Walter’s group) Youth Poncho, Immolation and Decay, and Balding Panty-Waists. Youth Poncho is headlining. Their groupies are a gang of plastic-explosive devil-dolls who kick and elbow the bands real girlfriends at every opportunity. Whenever my boyfriend is out of town one of them calls our apartment in the middle of the night and says “Hiiiiiiiiii, is Walter therrrrrrre?” and then laughs and hangs up. I know which one it is too. Her name is Fanny. Fanny No-Last-Name. She’s supposedly a model.
I had another rock’n’roll boyfriend once who thanked me for not using my body as a weapon. That’s where I got the expression but I’m not sure it was a compliment. When he played a gig, this one girl would always arrange to sit right in front of him anywhere he was in a short skirt with her legs spread open. In the end I think he was sorry he ever said it because he got led away by the nose--or whatever--and actually married that girl a couple of months later after she stopped wearing panties. Now she’s about five hundred pounds and he’s started calling me again. I told him I didn’t approve and what did he expect anyway? Bodies don’t appreciate in value as they age- and please never call me again. We are not friends. I have a better boyfriend now- I think.
While we wait for the opening bands to start, everyone goes up to the roof with condoms filled with water and lob them at whoever on the street. I got disgusted and came back downstairs, knowing full well I’m leaving Walter to all those twats.
I go to the bar to shout up a drink. Vodka straight up no ice. I have to yell it three times because Immolation and Decay are on stage and the sound is as if I'd got sucked into the engine of a 747. I thread myself through the kids to the front of the stage. The guys in the band are kinda old and the lead singer has a thick trunk and looks like the last asskickin’ bum out of a pub at night. And he’s Scottish, I guess ‘cause he has the accent and his gut is poorin’ oot over a kilt and he’s wearin’ the white knee socks with plaid garters and he’s got a bottle opener stickin’ out of the top of one of them. The guitarist has painted a sloppy black mask over his eyes and nose and the drummer’s wearing a bloody hood. They’re all so outsized, they make their instruments look wee. The lead singer puts on a wrestling mask to a heavy bass lick and breastfeeds a black ragdollbaby. This has to be the finale.
I can’t help thinking it’s no wonder people blame this music for causing mass murder - buncha pentagrammin’ sociopaths. Elderly druids of Satan.
Bring on the Balding Pantywaists! They rock for real. Not all of us young people like loud noises and props.
Later at the Roxy, I see Walter and Fanny having intimate sweet-talk. You can’t leave ‘em alone for a second. Snack sees me and comes over to where I’m leaning on a wall. she rests her head on mine and gently pauses there. I smell whisky and garlic and bacon and maybe cioppino.
“Don’t be so jealous, Bambina. It doesn’t mean he loves you any less, she says. A hole’s a hole, doll”… and right then the lights in the room come up full and it gets totally quiet. You can see every flaw in every face and they’re all looking at us.
Holy Fuck! Snack says, You’re leanin’ on the dimmer switch.