Fatale Abstraction

I knew we weren't on the same page when I first saw the monkey on her shoulder and I said "Nice fur piece" and she didn't laugh.

You know you're a total sales whore when the client's pet monkey mounts your arm (thankfully not humping) then climbs up and rearranges your coiffure (much as one might toss a salad) and still you never miss a beat. The funny thing is that I'm so easily distracted that normally I have to work very hard to stay focused all the way through to completion of a sentence, but I felt very centered and on my game with 3 lbs of primate perched on my uppermost area, its diaper area making nice to the crown of my head. At least there was a diaper. No, overall, Bonzo seemed to function as a centering device, some kind of meditative tool. (emphasis on tool, there.)

If you've never seen a small monkey up close, they are little marvels. The anthropomorphism element is eerie. The small black hands with their fine articulation and long, elegant fingers are creepy, to say the least. I kept thinking what a taxidermy challenge it would be to stuff one up proper. The tiny, human-looking teeth were unsettling, too, but were incredibly white and clean, and could have been interesting set in gold...

Thursday night's concert was so great that nothing was going to spoil the next day for me, but that monkey thing Friday almost unseated me. Almost.

I was astonished, really, and it was crawling around and messing-with- and chewing-on- things in a way that I would have demanded a stop to had the perp been a small, snotty child. However, the monkey thing distracted me so that I had to sort of ignore the surrealism of the moment to remain collected and get through my spiel, let alone navigate the choppy waters of asking someone to prevent their pet primate from checking me for nits without offending their tender sensibilities. Later on, however, I sat back enjoyed the crashing waves of something like post-traumatic stress. My hair will never feel clean enough again, I'm convinced.

[once in some European airport, Salvador Dali was letting his pet ocelot run around and make free with the terminal. On the overhead speaker, a refined woman's voice announced "Mr. Dali, please control your ocelot." (I don't know where I read that story - but it must be true - it's too strange to be otherwise.)]

I had to draw the line, however, when it started to slurp the condensation off the outside of my plastic cup of iced tea. I scooped up my cup and carried it away from the arena of terror, beyond leash-reach. This is still Texas, dammit, and a person's iced tea is part of our state constitution. Or it should be. I consider inviolable my right to have my daily glass of iced tea that hasn't been monkeyed with.

Don't make me go ape-shit on your little ass, is all I'm saying.
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More about the Knitters' show:

*I met someone who was at the Sex Pistols show at the Longhorn Ballroom in 1978. WOOHOO!
*The bass player was smokin' hot.
*Dave Alvin really turned it out.
*Exene looked really cute with her dark waitress dress with the lace collar and cuffs and the vintage apron, red stockings and brown biker boots. Nice touch. I love that she carried her handbag to the stage. It also was a Paul Frank Scurvy bag, and I have a companion of that bag - KEWT! At one point she started talking between two songs, and a woman at the back of the audience yelled something, and she looked to the back of the venue and said "well, alright. Impatient... Dallas... lady." Everybody laughed. At one point I realized my cheeks were tired from grinning like a 'possum. But it was that kind of show. It was like Santa Claus had come to town for a bunch of old punks, only it was a Santa that said "fuck" a lot.

There were several people I've seen at indie/punk concerts for 20+ years, almost all male. Them bitches gettin' old! Not me, though. *don't try and disabuse me of my denial-- it's all I've got* I came up with one more eternal truth - tie-dye does not camouflage an enormous gut, particularly when the locus of the core of the rainbow spiral centers on your belly-button, or more of a belly-hubcap, really. I'm not being mean, I'm trying to help here, people. Let me help you. Help me help you. Iffn you are as broad as you are tall, then ixnay the iedyetay.

My friend Tracey called me up and told me about this show last week. Tracey and I have gone to see the Cramps a couple times together, and some other shows. She's one of the most kick-ass women I know, and she likes to be right at the front of the stage, so if I stick near her, I never miss anything. At 5'2", being near the stage is about the only way to fly, if you want to see what's happening there. Tracey looks a lot like Patricia Neal, is sorta tall and although she is a handsome woman, she has a look in her eye that tells you she could go bear-hunting with a switch. Once at a Cramps show, a couple youngsters decided to push in front of me and get next to the stage, but she came in heavy on them and they left a little trail of pee on the floor as they hot-footed it to points elsewhere. The funny thing is she's actually an incredibly soft-touch. She's from El Paso and makes the most amazing chile rellenos, which makes her a total goddess, in my book. But the coolest thing about Tracey is that, like me, she really loves music and loves to get out and go to a live show.

So, yeah, great show, good time hanging out with friends. It's nice to get out, but, in truth, I'm glad there aren't shows I want to see every week - I can hang and can have a productive day at work the next day, but I sure couldn't make a habit of it. Mama be needing her sleep.

See what happens when I don't get enough rest? I end up with a monkey sitting on my head. That ain't right.