Hellhouse tales #5, Too much for MTV

  "Summer of love?!? What utter hippy bullshit!"

Dave was on a rant. We had gone down to the liquor store, and it took what seemed like an eternity just to pick up a 12 pack of Anchor Steam. It was 1989, the anniversary the "Summer Of Love" and there was a party taking up a good portion of Golden Gate Park and much of the Haight. 

     And, since we lived literally on Ashbury Street. Just a few houses up from Haight, and a few down from the legendary "dead" house, it was a wall-to-wall clusterfuck of tripping hippy wanna-bees, frat bros, and assorted party tourists making Haight street into a sea of pot smoke and tie-dye.

Dave let us in and we went into the kitchen. I looked around for something to open a beer with. We had no bottle openers. It was a rule. You had to be able to open a beer with whatever was available.

Dave grabbed a spoon from the sink, and popped the cap off an anchor steam. Klutch and I followed suit.

"Goddamn hippies!" dave exclaimed, "We should have a huge fucking BBQ!  Fill this whole valley with the smell of roasting meat!! That would show them! Goddamn vegetarians…"

I hoisted my beer, "Meat loaf, not war!"

"Fuck peace and love" Klutch cheered, "Piece of meat!"

And thus, the Summer of Meat began.

We formulated a plan.

We got good and drunk.

We made tee shirts with psychedelic script that said "Summer of Meat"

We made buttons that said "USDA Choice", "Meat Loaf, Not war!" and one that was a peace sign, and under it, "of pork".

We filled a backpack with what was left of the beer, grabbed the Croquet mallets, and headed out into the crowed.

We chanted our Meat slogans, we waved the mallets, we drank beer.

That was pretty much it for the plan.

Then there was the camera crew.

There was a commotion to our left, some sort of reporters...

"These guys, these guys…" said a voice. Suddenly there was a big TV camera in our faces.

"Hey! I am from MTV, and we are here covering the outrageous party that is the summer of love!"

He was using a suave singsong hip announcers voice.

"You guys look like you're having a good time…"

Dave cut him off

"We're are here to raise meat awareness"

"More Meat!" I chanted, "More Meat, kill and eat! More Meat!

Klutch and Dave joined in chanting.

Our interviewer just looked confused, and then put on a resigned smile.

"So!... What drugs are you guys on?

Dave waved his mallet "Drugs are for Hippies! Pure protien and MSG Man! M….S….G!"

It became obvious that we were not what the interviewers were looking for, but they pushed on "So what’s with the Mallets? You guys expecting a problem?"

 Dave shook his mallet at him. "Hippies are the problem, more meat, more peace!

"Piece of Meat!" I shouted.

Our interviewer shook his head and motioned to the cameraman, who stopped filming.

Our interview had ended

Dave didn't care. "This is the problem!" he said, motioning to the crowd with his mallet. "These people! All these goddamn people!"

As they left, and were swallowed up the crowd, Dave shouted after them, "If it wasn't for vegetarians, there wouldn't be any WAR!

But they were gone.

I shrugged. "I guess we are too much for MTV"

Klutch nodded, "And we're out of Beer"

Dave held his mallet out like a lance "To the liquor store!"

And with that, we were gone.

…in which none of this ever happened.

So I was granted an audience with the Dali Lama.

They brought me in and I sat down on the floor. 

He stared at, or possibly through me.

After what seemed like a long time, he asked (through an interpreter) 

”Do you have a question? “

“yeah,” I said, “but first I thought we could play some Ukulele.”

 So we went through a few chords, and jammed for a while trying to figure out some old Spot 1019 tunes. 

After a bit, I put down my uke and took a deep breath. 

“Great teacher,” I asked him, “Am I Crazy?”

 Without hesitation he replied , “Yes” and went back to strumming,

G7-F-C7 , a classic Hawaiian turnaround.

I was taken aback. I thought it would be more, I don’t know, deep.

Something huge and profound like,

“The Universe is crazy, and you are part of the Universe” or some thing like that. 

I guess I looked troubled cause he asked, “Does that trouble you?”

“Yeah,” I stuttered, “kind of...”

“Then you are not crazy enough” he said, “Go, and be truly crazy”

“Well ok then...” I said, and started packing up my stuff.

“Wait” he said

Here it comes, I thought, enlightenment...

“Yes?” I asked

“Show me that B flat again, it’s tricky”

I looked at him, “Tell you what, holiness, you buy me a rice bowl, and I’ll show you all kinds of chords”

“Rock and Roll!” he said,

 And with a high five to the big golden Buddah at the door, we headed off for some chow.

Nothing important.

So, in the band we tend to drink a lot, and sometimes it is water. The venues generally supply us with bottles of what ever is the local discount store deal. So, with up to six of us swilling from identical plastic bottles, it became necessary to mark them so that we knew who's was who's.
     Each of us has our mark. Mine is this symbol:

     Once I was asked what the symbol meant. "Oh," I said, "that's the Chinese character for water"
They were impressed.
 "I didn't know you knew Chinese" they said.
   I was of course being a smart-ass, as no, I do not know Chinese
 I could have told them the truth, that it was simply my initials, T.K, and meant "Tiki King"
But instead I decided to joke with them.
       However, I recently found out that the Chinese character for water is this:

So there you have it.

Like I said, nothing important, but I find it amusing that sometimes you can do your best to mess with someone, and instead life messes with you.

Poetry

     Sometime around 1987, I was reading one of my sisters books, a book of poetry written by a somewhat famous (at the time) avant-garde poet. 

I set the book down and regarded my sister across the table.

“This is crap,” I told her.

She looked up from her newspaper and took a sip of coffee.

“I like it” she said, setting her cup back on the table. “it’s interesting”

I will admit, I am not a big fan of poetry to begin with, but even still this felt forced, like someone trying to be “cool.” 

“I dunno… I like art that makes you think, not art that tells you what to think”

She shrugged “You think you could do better?”

I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote the following:

"Flitting, Flying, Floating,

About my head in circles,

Until I hit it with a flaming stick match.

Bulls-eye!

From where I sit,

I cannot see the people

Although they may,

Or may not

Be wandering aimlessly.

I throw rocks

And wonder

Who might scream?

In agony…

All the while,

The broom sweeps slowly

Endlessly

And I in my chair

Move a fraction of an inch

Closer,

To the door."

I slid the paper over to her, and she read it.

“I like it” she said, “It’s interesting”

 “It’s Crap” I said.

She then thumbtacked it to the wall over the table, where it remained for the next few years before she moved to New York

Several years later, I received a brochure announcing the grand re-opening of the Carlton Arms hotel in New York. where each room was decorated by a different artist. 

People magazine called it "a live-in museum"

The Sunday times said it was “a window in New York for artists from around the world"

My sister and brother in law had been working there and were organizing the opening Gala.

On the back of the brochure was a poem.

“Flitting, flying, floating…

Ghosts

     Yesterday I said good-by to the first home I ever knew. 

It had been,  over time, the home of my family, my grandmother, and most recently, my aunt.

But now it stood empty. 

Everything that could be removed was gone, with the exception of a few lamps which stood ready to provide illumination for who ever might need it. 

It was probably the first time that house had been empty since the 50’s.

     I stood and looked at the bare walls, and I felt only tired.

     Most all the memories had packed it in as well, tucked into ethereal suitcases and carried off by assorted ghosts.  

I had only lived there a short time, maybe three or four years as a child, but still, it was the first house I ever knew. I walked into the room that was mine as a child. I closed my eyes and tried to see it, but nothing came. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of memories about living in that house, however, those few I do have are fairly vivid. 

      The house had one of those wall furnaces, and when you peered through the louvers you could just make out the shape of what my very young mind had decided was a suit of armor. 

It fascinated me.

     One day I was peering in through the slits. 

“I see you in there” I whispered.

The suit of armor emitted a low breathy growl, and out came a blast of heat.

    At some point I had seen a television show in which the ghost of a Knight was wearing a blackened, dusty suit of armor. When it opened its visor, its face was made of fire.

     I put two and two together and decided that there must be a ghost-knight in there, held prisoner by the metal screen.

   I don’t remember being afraid really, but I do remember feeling compelled to periodically check to make sure the ghost was still trapped in there.

      Another memory is really more of a still image. In this hazy, slightly off kilter photo I am sitting in the front yard holding half of a broken record album. All about the lawn there are records, both whole and broken, jutting from the grass like tombstones, and in the blurry background is a figure (my sister? cousin? neighbor? I don't know) who is in mid fling, the record having just left their hand like a Frisbee. It’s a sort of mental Polaroid picture that has no beginning, and thankfully, no conclusion.

     Another memory is a short loop of playing with my Johnny West cowboy action figure, galloping the horse back and forth in the doorway to my room.   

And then, of course, there is the Tiki.
 My uncle on my dads side was a surfer back then, and had given my dad a three-foot tall cement Tiki. It crouched under the gnarled pine tree that took up the yard next to our playhouse, where it stood watch over us for those early years. The Tiki was magic. Quiet, patient magic, and I knew it. I could hardly play in the yard without at least once creeping over to look at the Tiki. 
But it was gone now as well. Long gone. Eventually the playhouse had rotted away, the tree was cut down, and the Tiki disappeared. Only it’s ghost remained, a sleeping egg that would hatch with a vengeance later.

Much later.

But that is another story.

    I opened my eyes and looked around. Like I said, I just felt tired.

    I left “my” room for what would probably be the last time, and walked into the hall, pausing to peer into the furnace. 

    “I see you in there” I whispered.

There was no response.

I guess he had already left as well.

Storm, 1992.

I wrote this in 1992, when I lived up on twin Peaks in San Francisco. I thought this was a good day to publish it...

  I lit my Cigarette from the Candle that was burning on the nightstand. 

It seemed important somehow, right. 

I took a drag, and held it for a moment, and listened to the Storm outside. 

As I blew out the Smoke, the House shook, as if a drunken giant were outside, attempting to steady himself by leaning against the Wall. 

There was a sudden crash as another trashcan went over, following the example of others out on the Street. 

   I got up and walked out into the darkened living room, and stood, looking out over the City. 

Lights twinkled, trees whipped this way and that, and rain poured against the window like a forgotten sprinkler. The wind shook the house again, and I watched the big windows flex in and out, almost appearing to breath. 

"Damn" I muttered.

 I went into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate. 

By the sound of it, the Storm was getting worse.

I hope I can sleep tonight,  I thought.

Damn. I must be getting old. 

Storms.

   I remember when I was a kid, I always loved storms.

When they would get bad, my parents always got out the Sleeping-Bags, and would have us kids sleep under the kitchen table. My mother was terrified that a window would blow in, or worse, a tree fall on the house.

I loved those nights "camping out" in the kitchen, peeking out from under the table to watch the sky light up outside, and hearing the thunder roll through the valley.  Sometimes it was so loud the piano in the living room would hum from the vibrations. 

    There was a knock at my door.

  I got up and answered it to find My House-Mate. "Yeah?" I asked. 

"Some Storm, Huh?" she said. 

I chuckled, "Yeah, yeah it is." 

"Say," She asked, " Could You make sure I wake up, before You go to work in the morning?" 

"Yeah, Ok," I replied, "Sure". 

   She said thanks, and went back to her room.

   I closed my door, sat back down on the bed, and lit another Cigarette from the candle and listened to the rain.

   And as I sat, I thought about how in the seconds before I had opened the door, for a fleeting moment, a tiny ageless spot in my mind had hoped that it would be my parents with the sleeping bags.                                                                                                                                                                                                 

The cautionary tale of the magic muffin.

I had a strange and vivid dream.

My friend Aaron and I decided to cross the country on vintage Vespa scooters.
After a few days on the road, we were stopped at an old time gas station in a small town.
The station attendant filled our tanks.
"That's twelve dollars" he told us, returning the hose and nozzle to the gas pump.
I fished around in my pocket, but came up with about thirty cents in change
I nodded to Aaron, "Dude, you got any cash?"
"naw, I thought you had it…"
The attendant looked at us over his glasses. "problem?"
"yeah," I said, "we're a little short"
He nodded. "Well, there's a college over across the street, I hear that if you give a motivational speech, they will pay you about twelve bucks"
I thought about it for a moment, "I can do that"
So soon enough I found myself on a large stage in a cavernous auditorium.
As the hall slowly filled, I sat at the back of the stage thinking, what I should talk about?
Then it hit me.
I would tell the cautionary tale of the magic muffin.

When the hall was full I approached the podium and the crowd fell silent.
murmering was replace by polite shuffling as the lights dimmed.
I looked out across the room, cleared my throat, and began my speech:

"Once upon a time there was a baker.
He baked all sorts of delicious treats.
Cookies, cakes, pastries, tortes. But his favorite thing to create, was muffins.
One day he decided to make the best muffins ever.
 So he went about gathering all the best, rarest and most delicious ingredients, then baked them at his favorite temperature, for the perfect amount of time, and thought only happy thoughts while they baked.
When the timer chimed, he opened the oven, but to his great surprise there was only one very large muffin, and, even more surprising, it seemed to be alive.
It emerged from the oven, politely bowed to the baker, and then went about cleaning the kitchen.
      Once the kitchen was gleaming and spotless, the muffin cooked the baker a dinner that was so delicious, that the baker actually wept.
As time went on, it became apparent that the muffins sole joy was in serving the baker.
As long as the muffin was cooking or cleaning or serving, it was a happy muffin.
      For a long time the baker told no one, because first of all he was afraid no one would believe him, and second of all, he had no way to explain how the muffin did all these things because, although it was magic,  it was after all, still just a muffin and as such, had no arms or legs.
     One day the baker could keep his secret no longer, and invited his best friend over for dinner. He told his friend the story, and the friend watched in amazement as the muffin made a meal so spectacular that it brought tears to their eyes, and caused his friend to exclaim, "That is indeed the most magical of muffins!"

I  stop telling the story for a moment because I notice Aaron waving urgently from a doorway at the side of the stage.
He taps his watch, and whispers loudly "We gotta go man!"

I look back over the audience.

 " uh, so... long story short, they ate him, because he was after all, a delicious muffin. Thank you."

I leave via the side door, we climb onto our scooters and ride off into the night.