Morocco. One of the most vibrant, culturally thick, surprising and spicy countries I have ever visited. The first time I went to Morocco I was part of a little crew of the most galactic, super star, clown, majestic sorcerers this world has ever seen. A band of effin’ weirdos traversing the world together, causing brows to raise everywhere we went.
There was Shrine, a wild and eccentric artist with a handle bar mustache, tattoos all over his body and an affinity for collecting trash. Dream Rockwell with her wild mane of hair, bombshell physique, and affinity for collecting dead animals. And last but not least, Rajiv, one of the wildest looking men you have ever seen. With the body of a gladiator, the facial features of a wild panther, and a collector of grass in his wild unkempt hair. Funny thing about Rajiv is that he is probably the most gently guy I know, but people would constantly cower away in fear wherever he went. Begging him to spare them, and not fight because they were peaceful men. Poor guy, he’s got the biggest heart, but people were just so frightened about his intense features and assumed he was there to wreak havoc on their feeble bodies, when really, he was just walking down the street. He handled it all with a smile though, as he always does. And then there was me.
Well after a somewhat disastrous show performance that we had in Portugal, the four of us decided to cut down south to do some exploring in Morocco. None of us had been, but we all had the burning desire to go. So we rented a car, and headed down south to this mysterious land.
Once we departed from Spain, crossed the channel and docked at Tangier, Morocco, we had one small problem. We couldn’t bring our rental car with us into the country. We had to leave it at the dock, and pay a fine. Not wanting to do that, and feeling sketchy about leaving the car there, we thought we could outsmart them. First we sent the ladies in, to talk to the officers...didn’t work. Then we sent the men in to bro it out...that didn’t work. So then we thought we’d bribe them with cookies and charm. Still didn’t work. We even offered cash which is usually the universal doorway to getting what you want. But that still didn’t work. So we decided to wait. We worked these guys for far too long and weren’t getting anywhere. But maybe we could fool this next shift of workers. So we waited. Finally the first shift of workers left and the second shift came in. I don’t really remember what we were thinking at the time, but apparently we had some grand delusions of a plan that was going to dupe them all. But no, we failed yet again. We finally admitted defeat, parked the car and walked across the border.
With no real plans on where to go, and no guide book, we asked an officer where to go.
“Oh you must go to Chefchaouen. There are lot’s of drugs there.” Um, ok. That’s kind of unnerving to have a government official tell you to go to a certain place because of the drugs. So we decide to ask another local who said exactly the opposite. “Don’t go to Chefchaouen because there are lots of drugs there.” Soooo you’re saying ther are drugs in this town. Ok. Well I wasn’t really interested in ending up in some sketched out town, with a whole bunch of effed up hasbins, trying to sell us drugs. So let’s definitely NOT go there.
Still not convinced of a particular destination however, we head to the bus station to take a look at our options. Due to the morning’s border debacle, by the time we reached the bus station, all of the buses had left. All but one that is. Destination? Chefchaouen. Of course.
With the border town being nothing but a dusty mound of dirt, we decided to give in to our fate and buy tickets to the last bus out of there. As we sat there waiting in line for the bus to Chefchaouen, a police officer passed by us and merely said, “Chefchaouen? Lots of drugs there.” He gave us a long hard look and started nodding. Why hell was he nodding? Was he affirming the drugs? Was he judging us, as if to say, “I know what you plan on doing there, and I’m gonna get you” or was he merely just saying “Party on Wayne?” Either way, it disturbed me and the legend of Chefchaouen had grown to be some dark tale of Pleasure Island where men turn to donkeys and the only way to escape is through the mouth of a whale.
We hoped on the bus, and instantly things have turned exciting. The bus itself is an old school bus with cracked pleather seats in dusty teal. The seats are crammed with children, mothers, and some of the most weathered faces I have ever seen on this planet. There are religious types walking down the aisle, praying over us, as other old ladies fight their way through the aisles trying to sell us pastries and bagged nuts. There are swarms of men yelling at you from the windows outside, holding their bags of newspaper coned snacks. In the chaos of it all, it somehow seemed to be working like clockwork. There was a distinct rhythm to it all, and everyone knew exactly how to fall in line. Everyone but us of course.
We travel outside of the city and far into the mountains for several hours until finally, we arrive late into the night. I look out the window and immediately think, “Is this it? Where’s the town?” We had stopped on a steep incline of a hill, under a single street lamp, with no bus station around, not to mention even a single bench. Is this really it? Where’s the town?
I quickly look around, and the bus lights have come up and everyone is standing up, bustling to grab their stuff. Wait, seriously? This is it. I don’t understand. Where is everyone going? The town is dark and I don’t see any houses or business close by. With no tour book and it being fairly late, I started to worry about our possibilities of finding a hotel.
One by one, we exit the bus and as I turn the corner to descend down the stairs, I see a man standing on the other side of the glass doors staring directly into me with these intense hallow, dark eyes. I was immediately put on edge. He was a tall, ghastly looking fellow. Dark, gaunt cheeks, blackened teeth, and jet black hair. He looked like a walking shadow, barely holding on to life. The man resembled Scar from the Lion King for goodness sake. There was something about him that terrified me and I immediately did not trust him. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I was open game, and there he came darting directly toward me as I quickly ran to find my pack.
Well thankfully, I had my band of galactic, super star, majestic sorcerer, clowns and the key superstar of the moment, is our gladiator, Rajiv. Rajiv makes me feel safe. So as I approach Rajiv, Scar jumps in and cuts to the chase. Asks us where we’re staying. I quickly tell him that we have a hotel and that we’re going there now. By this point we have all picked up our stuff and started walking. But with no hotel, or even a cluster of buildings in near site, I have no idea in what direction to start walking. I began to watch the crowd like a hawk, observing where the majority of people were walking. Surely they would be walking to a central part of town, and we would be in the company of others. So without having any clue on where we were going, we all decided to climb up this hill and figure it out. Which would have been easy, had we not had Scar here, circling us like prey, insisting on knowing if we have a hotel and where it is.
Again, I lie and say that we’ve got it all figured out, and that our hotel is just ahead. But Scar does not take this answer lightly. He starts talking about his cousin’s hotel and how they have cheap rooms...oh, I see, this game. The recruit foreigners to your family’s hotel and get a cut of the profits game. In some way I was relieved to know what he was after. At least he didn’t want to rape or rob us, but I was still annoyed and a bit afraid that I still couldn’t shake him off.
He starts to follow us on our hike through the hills until we finally find a hotel. Thank god. We check it out, seems reasonable, and there’s room. Sweet. Except for the fact that I still don’t trust this guy, he frightens me to the core and now this guy knows what hotel we’re staying at.
Well somehow during that hike, as I’m actively staying 10 steps ahead of the troupe to get away from that guy, and to forge ahead to find shelter, Rajiv and him started talking in broken French. Something about a farm just outside of town and how he wants us to visit it and meet his family. Rajiv is enamored by this idea and clearly isn’t as freaked out as Dream and I were. All I wanted to do was ditch the guy, put my shit in a room, lock my door, and go to bed. Scar implores that we check out his family’s hotel a few more times before we finally leave him at the door and walk up to our rooms.
After dumping off our stuff, and washing up a bit, we decided that we still weren’t sleepy and that we’d like to look for the town to see if we could find food. As soon as we stepped out of the hotel, I was relieved that there was no Scar to be found and that maybe he had gone home for the night.
We walked a few more blocks up the hill and suddenly a gorgeous little mountain village appeared, with beautifully warm Moroccan lamps lighting a small boulevard of shops and restaurants. The vivid colors were so inviting with warm candles flickering everywhere, revealing the details of the Moorish architecture and the colorful tapestries. And the best part....stuff was still open! What a miracle! We instantly find ourselves a cozy and inviting looking restaurant with a hand painted sign, wicker seats, and a low table for us to sit around. Mint teas for all and some tagine please.
Well not a minute had gone by, when mid conversation, I look over and Scar is sitting at a table a mere 2’ away. WTF? How did he get there? I didn’t see him walk in. And is he really sitting at the only shadowed table at the restaurant? Come on. That’s ridiculous! That’s some movie shit, with the villain lurking in the dark, ready to pounce on his prey. How the fuck did he know where we were and how did he arrive so swiftly? Well I pretended not to notice and watched him, watching us like a hawk, shamelessly devouring our every word as he openly rolled him self a joint. Finally he inserts himself into the conversation, talking to Rajiv first. Talking to him about the farm again, and how he insists that we come to his farm tomorrow. They are speaking in French and I am dieing to know, the exact context of this conversation, so that I could sharply analyze every inflection and judge for myself what was really going on. But I couldn’t, so I had Rajiv to rely on.
We try to ignore him and have a peaceful dinner, but his attention is focused directly on us. He is sitting right at the edge of our circle, not quite in, but not far enough away to be considered in his own circle, with his body fully pitched in toward the center. He was pushing the literal boundary and didn’t leave until we did.
As soon as we stood up, there he was again, following us, talking about his farm.
What is it with this guy and his farm?! What’s really going on here? What kind of farm? What’s so damn important about this farm that he’d want us to see it?
I’m overcome with skepticism, as Rajiv and Shrine continue their casual conversation with this guy. With no promises made, we finally left the little town to go to bed that night.
The next morning was magic. I was having a soul-gasm seeing the tiny town in the daylight. Looking out our window, you could really see how high up we were in the mountains, tucked far away from the next major town. The streets were painted in this glorious ultra violet blue paint that bled up into the walls of the surrounding homes. Everything was ultra violet blue. It looked like an emptied out pool built for Shamu, but on a village scale! You couldn’t see any separation between the streets, the homes and the sky. It was all blue. There were beautiful red doors, with little old ladies in hooded gowns selling you apples. Church bells were ringing, and men were pushing around big wooden carts full of merchandise.
I had walked into town with the group for some breakfast. As I sat there, in near tears, staring at a clothes line waft in the wind, backdropped by all of this surreal blueness, I am startled into reality once I realize that Scar is back. Are you kidding me? This guy again? What the fuck does he want? He implores us, yet again, to come to this farm.
By this point, I have to know what is up. As the boys are speaking to him in broken French, I ask, what kind of farm is it? Does it have chickens and cows? Is there a vegetable garden? What are we going to do on this farm? Drink fresh milk and play with the kids? I just don’t understand. Rajiv reports back, that yes, his family farm does indeed have chickens and cows and such. He also inserts that he is quite interested in checking it out. With Dream on her own adventure, and Shrine, now interested in seeing this farm, I reluctantly agreed to go with them.
We finish up our breakfast and start to follow Scar to his farm. We cruise through the tiny alley’s of the mountain village and before I know it, it has become very clear that we are walking out of town and are now hiking on a small dirt path into the open mountains of Morocco.
The first red flag raises immediately as I follow the boys out of town. We hike further and further into the mountains, maintaining casual conversation and all the while wondering, when is this guy going to rob us or rape us? As we walk through the hills, we pass by an anonymous graveyard. There must have been about 20 head stones up and not a single one of them had any engravings on them. Completely blank slates, with a new hole that had been freshly dug. Anonymous graveyard in the middle of nowhere...not foreboding at all. Totally normal.
We continue to walk and the further in we get, the more aware I am that I have lost all of my escape routes. We are too far for anyone to hear us if we yell, if I tried to run back, I would not be able to make it back on my own, and even if I did know my way, it would be an incredibly long way to run back. At this point, I actually had a strange peace come over me. I knew that my options were gone and in some ways, the lack of choice can provide a false sense of peace. It is what it is, and you’re going to do what you’re going to do. That’s it. Simple.
After a good 30 minute hike into the mountains, we finally arrive at his “farm.” Quotation marks because all we arrived at, was a single concrete shack in the middle of the mountain. Oh boy, here we go. He wants us to enter the concrete shack. So this is where he’s going to hack us to death? :Sigh: Ok. I might as well check out the place and get my kicks in, before life as we know it is over.
We enter the concrete shack and meet his brother, who doesn’t look much healthier than our friend Scar. Inside the shack it is dark and dusty, and there are piles of what seems to be hay or brush, wrapped in bags, and piled all the way up to the ceiling.
Rajiv, Shrine and I immediately sit down and play it cool. Now I can’t be certain what was going on in their minds, but the whole situation was very obviously peculiar.
I let Rajiv continue being translator and sit there, looking casually cool and charming. Exuding the idea of smarts and confidence, as if to say, you can’t scare me.
After a few minutes of them talking, I can see that the energy has shifted and something intense was being discussed. Rajiv immediately looked down, pulled out his notepad, and began to ignore Scar. Scar is looking at his brother, clenching his knuckles and shaking his head.
Me: “Rajiv, what the hell is going on?”
Rajiv: “Ahhhh...they want us to buy some weed and I told them very nicely that we weren’t interested. That we just wanted to see their farm.”
Me: “Well they’re obviously not cool with that answer.”
Rajiv: *Shrugs and continues to draw*
Scar, having shown signs of being one persistent little mofo, wasn’t about to stop now. He started to become very upset about the situation and started yelling at us. Angry that he had done all of this work to get us there. The language barrier between the men start to intensify the situation even more, and I start to wonder if this is when we finally get murdered.
Now this next part, I can’t really remember how we figured it out, but we eventually discover that they don’t speak very good French, but they do speak Spanish fluently. Perfect. French I can’t do, but me and Spanish get along mighty fine. I begin to pull out the charm reserves and start speaking to them with the most calming and motherly voice possible. I finally feel like I can do something to aid this situation.
Sure enough, after a few minutes things start to settle. I start to feel good about the fact that if they were going to kill us, they would have by now, but we are still here. Rajiv tries to make best of the situation and begins to show them his drawings. They sit there amused, but not entirely amused. They still had their operation to consider and weren’t entirely convinced that we would get away that easily.
Finally they reveal their stock. Turns out the piles of hay that lined the inside of the entire cottage were all bushels of marijuana. In an effort to impress us, they remove all the plastic lining and insist that we take a picture. I refuse, I didn’t want to have to pay for that picture later.
Then they show us their hash operation. Taking bushels of weed, laying it over a cheese cloth, that’s tied on top of a plastic basin. Placing another piece of plastic on top of the the bushels, Brother Scar starts to bang on his weed drum, allowing the crystals to sift through the cheese cloth fall in the basin below. By this point my charm meter is up full scale and I am ooh-ing and ahh-ing this situation. Really making him feel like the man. Showing my genuine excitement and interest in this whole ordeal. Starting to feel a bit saucy by this point, I ask to bang on the weed drum. With everyone loosening up, we start singing and dancing as we sat in this mangy den, banging on this drum.
Finally it comes time to see the collection. We peer in to find a happy little mound of brown crystals sitting at the bottom. Hooray! Today I’m making hash in a drug den with my two sketched out friends ma! Definitely something to write home about.
Brother Scar is beaming with pride and is insisting that we take pictures again. I am so weirded out by this. Does he want money for these pictures? By this time though, he had asked enough times that I finally gave in and started taking pictures. Turns out, he’s just so excited about his operation, that the idea of documentation truly excites him. He shows us how to press and bake the crystals to make that sticky tootsie role hash that we’re familiar with, and to tell you the truth, I was loving it! The whole thing. I could have interned there.
After a while we get the inside scoop on the whole operation. Turns out these guys are one of the biggest distributors of hash into Spain. Guys will come in to their shack and mule up to 50 caramelos at a time. A caramelo is a balloon filled with loose hash, that’s about as big as a golf ball. The details of muling that many caramelos kind of boggles my mind. Can you imagine swallowing 50 golf balls and then pushing them out like a sea turtle giving birth? And have you ever smoked hash in Spain? How do you feel about that now?
Well we stayed there for a bit longer, chatting it up with them about the whole operation, and by the end of it, I swear that their faces got brighter in the process. The shadow seemed to lift a bit, and Scar actually seemed like a nice guy. Sketchy and annoying, but I could see the goodness in him.
No one died that day. That made it a great day.
And Gah! I just tried to find all the photos from this adventure to post on here, and have just now discovered that they have all been lost in a technological space trap! Ugh! I hate technology sometimes.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
It's My Fish in a Box Part 2
So I have this friend named Jackson. Jackson is one of the most extreme characters I have ever met in my life. If Hunter S. Thompson banged the Godfather while a wolf pack sanctioned it under a moonless night, with James Brown serenading and Salt and Peppa, directing the whole thing, they would have conceived Jackson. He’s one of the most foul mouthed, over the top, smart, talented, so twisted that he twists it all back into place, then unwinds and slaps you in the back of the head, mother lovers that I have ever met. He’s the kind of guy, that after you have a conversation with him, you don’t know if you should cry, vomit, fall in love, whip out the sanitation gloves or check your underwear for spots. And after he’s done with his mental judo assault, and your brains are strewn across the floor, he'll coolly walk away like a mafia man, and leave his boys to clean up the mess. But that, that's just the tip, and I don't give an crap who's sayin' it, the tip is never enough.
For anyone that doesn't get the pleasure of knowing the shaft of Jackson, then you missed the meat brohem. You got served the wet wipe with no baby back. And though the tip can get crunk, I'd eventually hop off feeling unfulfilled from what could be mistaken as surface or shallow. No no, this is the true delight and art that is Jackson's life. Jackson's Clark Kent is the innovator of offense, but his Superman is this under cover galactic empath. For all the anthrax you swore he pumped into your brain, little did you know that it came from a place of extreme insight, soulfulness and tenderness. Dude is WISE...He is the Kali-Pa. Your neighborhood apostle wearing the sickest kicks on the block. Pushing you to your limit so that you might toss your cookies, isn't out of malice or unconsciousness... it's actually quite the opposite. It's all out of this strange love and lucidity to get you to face some demons and give you a reason to step up and get gangsta. He's the pioneer of permission. Love him or hate him, he’d contest that it’s the same damn thing.
 | |
| Jackson aka Dusty left, Mu aka Chancey Right |
Perhaps it was the white fur pimp coat that Dusty used to wear, or the bubble gum pink version of Missy Eliott’s aeronautical trash bag suit in “ I can’t stand the Rain” that made it mock hip hop. Maybe it was all of the obnoxious amounts of pretend blow we’d do on stage, with 9’ blunts and a big Chinese dragon that would snort and smoke it all like he was about to win the Very Special Olympics. With songs called, “Pump you in the Butt”, “Dirty Girl”, “Honkey Boy”, and “What You Blingin’ to the Partay” I’m sure it was more a case of people mocking us, rather than it being mock hip hop.
Anyhow, my role in this whole debacle, is that I’m an Asian prostitute named Lani Punani. To keep a very long back story short, my character basically smuggled herself into the states, by hiding in a crate addressed to Chancey’s house, full of bobble heads, press on nails, and cocaine.
What that translates to in the stage show is basically just prancing around like a dirty whore, to lyrics like, “I hope you like the taste of ass, ‘cause mine could use a lick”, “Take a swig out of my skin sock, and let the chowder run down your throat,” or “Who poured the gravy on that brand new baby?”
You know, really classy stuff...the kind of show that you bring mom and dad to.
Well, the day after Red’s holiday party, we have a gig at a club called, On the Rox, on Sunset Blvd....It’d be cooler to say that it was at The Roxy on Sunset, but no, it was the tiny gimp club that latched itself on top of the Roxy like a parasite. But it was a gig and it had been some time since I had really whored it out with the boys, The Man Slices, and Svetlana, the Russian militant madame, that wore a patch and had one gimp leg.
Well I couldn’t have that. I could not accept that I would be a part of something that mundane. Plus I think I was feeling the holiday fattness that day, and didn’t want to step out and pretend to be sexy. So what’s the next best thing? Being totally unsexy.
What could I possibly do that would be utterly unsexy? And instantly a plan was hatched.
Ring....Ring... “Yo Red, you still got that fish I brought to your party?....Yeah, that one, can you bring it to the show tonight?.....Don’t worry about why, just bring it. Thanks”
And that was that. The first domino had been struck and shit was about to go down.
Well once Red arrived to the show, we only had moments before it was show time. With a mere vague idea of what I was about to do and no real plan hatched, the lights were dimming and we were about to start.
One by one, we go down our set list and the crowd is rowdy that night. I did my normal routines, dancing it up with my fellow sluts, and finally it’s time for “50 Bitches.”
Without telling anyone else what I was planning, I quickly run to change into my lacey underwear and black bra. Here it is. This is the moment. I pick up the frozen fish, that’s pretty sizable at 8” long and a pregnant belly. I examine it and have a seemingly long moment of hesitation, though it was probably only 3 seconds in real life.
“Really? Are you really going to do this? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a sick woman...yes, yes you are sick. But I love being sick and twisted! It’s hilarious! Ah fuck it. Here it goes.”
And before I know it, I take the frozen fish and stuff it into the front of my panties....eeee!!! It’s so cold! And it’s a dead fish!
“Oh god. What am I doing? Seriously! What the fuck is wrong with me! Ugh...it's seriously twisted how much you are going to enjoy this. I'm mentally sick. ”
And with that, it’s go time! I quickly throw on my trench coat and stand in the wings with my black pumps on, waiting for Svetlana to hobble off the stage.
My turn... I step out onto stage, the lights are blinding me and I can’t really tell how many people are out there. In some ways there is comfort in that space. Yes, you are a mere specimen for all to examine, but when the lights are on, and everything around you is dark, you strangely feel like you are in your private space of solitude. I really think it allows people to go further than they normally would, because there are no witnesses to witness.
Well here it is, I walk out in my pumps and coat, in the sexiest way possible. I turn with my back to the audience and drop my coat. The crowd instantly cheers...a cheap thrill. I get down with myself, showing off my awesome ass, bending over to give them a little show, and then bam! I turn to reveal a bulge bursting from the crotch of my panties. Still cheering, the crowd doesn’t really know what to expect, but I know that they don’t expect this. I pump my bulge a few times, and then slowly pull the bulge out from the tail to reveal, my very real frozen fish. Short pause and then, complete audience freak out. With all the hootin’ and hollerin’ I let myself go in the moment and started slapping the guy in the front row across the face with my frozen fish. He is loving it! There is nothing but pure wonderment and joy from this guy’s face, as I watch his cheeks peel away from his lips in true, slow motion slapping style. He looks like a refugee getting airlifted into safety. Like I am his G.I. Joe. Classic. Feeling particularly confident at this moment, I stand up and gently lob this fish into the crowd. My work here is done, you guys can scavenge for the remains.
By the end of the show, most people are genuinely offended, disgusted, upset, turned on and in disbelief. The true mark of success by DC Juicy standards. After the show, we all step outside for a celebratory drink and smoke when all of a sudden I get a hard tap on the back of my shoulder.
Guy: “Are you the bitch that threw the fish?”
Me: “What?”
Guy: “Are you the BITCH that threw the fish into the crowd?”Now at this point, I am still in character. I am still Lani Punani the heartless whore from the land of general Asia, with a general Asian accent that’s demeaning to all Asian countries.
Lani Punani: “Ooooohh you rike the phish? I make goo’ phish por you.”
Guy: “That shit ain’t funny yo!”
Lani Punani: “Why not so punny? Is goo’ phish. I make speshure por you. Is from my
home rand. We make goo’ phish.”
Guy: “I told you, that shit ain’t funny!”
Lani Punani: “No punny? What no punny? You want mo’ phish? I make por you, no probrem punny man.”
Now with his face turning red, and spit spraying out of his mouth,
Guy: “Listen bitch, you THREW that fish into the audience and it nailed my friend straight into the chest. I heard the thump over the music! When I looked over at him, he was on the ground. You brought my friend down with your stupid dangerous fish!”
At this point, I’m hearing everything that he’s saying but for some reason, it’s coasting right over my head.
Lani Punani: “Risten, you no rike the phish, you no have to pay! No probrem! Your prend no rike the phish, he no have to pay! No probrem!”
Guy: “What the hell are you talking about! You knocked my friend out and I heard it over the loud music up there!”
Lani Punani: “I tole you! You no rike the phish, you no have to pay! No probrem! You no understand punny man? You git out o here befoe I carr my pimp! You git out o here!”
And sure enough, after a good debate, he took one good look at me, red in the face, and then stormed off. Mostly because I think he didn’t want me to see him cry. I cackled as he walked away, and suddenly the trance of Lani Punani lifted from me and I was back to being me.
Oh god, what did I do? Oh my god. Is that guy going to cry? Oh my god, I was being such a dick. A true, bonafied dick. Damn it. I hope his friend is ok. I feel bad. I should apologize, but this time I’ll drop the character.
So I hopped back into the club to find him and the fish. But alas, neither one were to be found. Too bad because I really wanted to say sorry, AND I really wanted to get more mileage out of that fish. I can only hope that they were both able to look back on it and laugh. And in some way, I feel good about my deed. Like I gave them a legendary story for life, Who else can say that they got knocked out by a frozen fish that came out of the underpants of a sick Asian prostitute? Probably only 13 people in the world still living today! But those other 12 probably happened in somewhere in Asia...so he’s kind of like the Charlie of the U.S. with his golden ticket.
Anyhow, I had learned my lesson after that. No more frozen fish. From then on, it was only noodles in a spicy fish sauce that was coming out of these panties.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Experiment: Pimp My Kart
Over a year ago, I got this wild hair up my ass that I wanted to create a reality show full of jack assery, renegade art, and hidden attempts at consciousness. We called the show ..! (Dot Dot Blam)
First project: Pimp my Kart. A spoof on the MTV show "Pimp my Car" but this was going to be the ultimate robo cart for one lucky homeless person.
First order of business: Find a cart.
With my Dad's SUV, a set of buldging biceps, sheer will, and stupidity (which seems to be the recipe for awesomely bad ideas across the nation), I drove off into the night one evening cruising my neighborhood for a cart. Within moments, bam! I stole a shopping cart (god those things are heavy), threw it into my dad's SUV (again, god those things are heavy)...found another shopping cart that looked way cooler (still heavy), proceeded to steal it, and then dumped it all at my friends' home, the Ant Farm. Meanwhile I gathered the crew of merry maniacs: myself, Jesselynn, Ross, AT, Shrine, Smitty, and Terry, and we went straight to Skid Row.
The purpose: To find one person on the Skid with the ability to dream of a new possibility for themselves.
The Question: With all the time and resources in the world, what would you do?
EVERYONE: I would buy stuff...
US: Seriously? But you could fly to the moon on a unicorn spaceship, blowing confetti out of your ass! Or you could buy the Cheetoh Factory and have a sexy model in a Chester Cheetoh mask, feeding you fresh hot Cheetoh's while you sit in your gold rimmed tub....or...or...
EVERYONE: No, I would buy stuff...
US: Oh....ok.
Apparently living in the skid and the inability to dream big are directly correlated.
Finally there is Karina....a 6’6” African American woman, who used to be a male, who wore 6” platforms in Canary Yellow, a tight hot pink skirt, and who owned the perkiest rack that any Everest hiker would be proud to scale. The short description would be, Karina is a crack whore tranny. I don’t mean to be harsh but she did smoke crack, and she did whore around...but the other thing that she did, was she effing dreamed! She had aspirations! Holy crap...the first person that didn’t say, “I’d buy me a beeeeennnzzz.” Ahhhh. How refeshing. We found our gal.
That evening all of us hurled our bodies into the juiciest dumpsters we could find, diving for local treasure. I have to admit, I was hesitant at first. Tho I had picked over random furniture and lamps left in the streets, I had never actually hurtled my body into a sour smelling dumpster, and willingly dug around through some slop, in the hopeful search for something amazing.
In the end we emerged with random text books, hangars, some cans, and a set of cherub book ends. Between that, $100 from my pocket and the genius work of Shrine and the Ant Farm boys, this robo cart was something to be proud of. It had rugged terrain wheels, solar powered lights, a full on vanity with a full length mirror, a pull out bed (complete with princess bedding, bed skirt and a Shrine painted head board), pull out chair, shelving, a car alarm, sun umbrella, stereo, portable shower, pull out clothing rack and complete with a Shrine paint job....this cart was pimp! Ready to go in any situation.
With the understanding that Karina was a nomad, we rushed to turn this cart around within a matter of 2 days. Finally ready to go, our crew hauled the thing into the back of Ross's truck...looking like the Taj Mahal of carts. I have to admit, it was pretty ridiculous. Anxious to give her the cart, we throw a blanket over it, and hold confetti poppers in our hands, ready for the big reveal.
But the reveal never happened. In fact, as soon as we arrived back at Skid Row, things had already started heading south. As we pulled up to her spot, the four of us awkwardly, pulled the cart off the truck and started walking down the street with this ridiculously massive robo cart. Immediately the judgement and leering began.
"Why do all these white folks think they can come down to the skid and make money off their stupid documentaries about us? Where's my fuckin' money?"
"What the fuck is that thing? You trying to get a nigga beat?"
"Look at these fuckin' fools. Trying to give out hand outs like they can help us."
The air was starting to get thick with discomfort as we all stared ahead and tried to find Karina. We looked high and low, but alas...no Karina. However, in the exact spot that we had hoped to find her, there happened to be two men hiding under a sleeping bag. They slowly emerged from under the sleeping bag with a waft of smoke billowing out and a crack pipe in hand.
"Where's Karina?" I ask.
"Karina? Karina went to jail! Got caught selling crack."
And there it was. The swift and simple truth. Karina went to jail for crack. Damn. I guess that's what happens on the skid. Well now what? What the fuck were we going to do with that dream cart we made SPECIFICALLY for her / him, dressed to the nines in ALL hot pink, with a pink head board, pink bedding with ruffles, and a pink vanity mirror? Now we have to find a new owner to don this to and it wasn't going to be easy. We run around skid row for a while longer towing around the the Taj Mahal of carts, sweating from embarrassment as we dodge the verbal lacerations from skeptical bystanders. We interview a few more people, one of which just ran off screaming, another that held us in the death grips of his nonsensical jibber jabber, and another that told us tall tales of being a famous singer, then sounded like a live pig going down a garbage disposal.
Finally we meet a family that seem to have their wits about them. It's evident that they must have a mild amount of clarity, because they just sat there laughing at us as we bobbed from one person to another.
When we finally approached them, I guess we went to class that day, because we got schooled. We come to discover that if we were to actually give Karina the cart, we would be doing her a major disservice. She'd likely get her ass kicked for what it was worth. Beaten up and then mugged in the middle of the night. Great.
This is right about the time that I start to feel like an ignorant asshole. Here I am, this beamer driving valley girl, galloping into skid row with my perfectly maintained hair and this silly robo cart, thinking that my privileged self was going to "help" someone...what an asshole.
I was totally embarrassed and ashamed that I had dragged so many people into this vision. I felt so foolish, thinking that this was going to be a fun, light hearted project, underhandedly bringing awareness to the young teens of the "Jack Ass" republic, and then having a very heavy dose of reality slap me across the face.
I went home defeated that day, and brought the cart to my home, where it lived for the next year and a half. I didn't know what to do with it. All I wanted to do, was ignore it and pretend that it never happened.
Finally, my sister had had enough and made it VERY clear that I had to toss the eye sore. Ugh, I finally had to figure this beast out. So I bribe my sweet boyfriend Jade with promises of frozen yogurt and blow jobs to help me tow this thing downtown. With no real plan still, we throw the cart in the back of his car and aimlessly drive around downtown to try and find a junk yard or a quiet alley to quickly dump it and run...maybe it would find an owner that would love it.
Well as we drive, we fly by this homeless man standing by the side of the road. I quickly tell Jade to stop the car and back up, which he does dutifully. We came to a screeching hault, the kind that you really only hear in movies, and punch the car back in reverse.
I yell out the car window, "Do you want a free cart?"
"Hugh?" He says as he's hunched over.
"Do you want a free cart?"
"Hugh?" He says still hunched over and with his face now twisted.
What the heck is this guy's problem? Can he not hear me or is he senile?
"I SAAAAID, DO YOU WANT A FREE CART?"
Then I see his hand pull away from behind his bum with a dirty tissue in hand.... Oh....how embarrassing. We full on reversed the car into this guy's private time, and bombarded him with questions as he's trying to drop a deuce....yeesh.
"Well" he says as he drops his poopy tissue by his side "Yes, I want a cart."
Meet Neil. Nice guy that has been on the streets for too long... We shake hands, I'm pretty sure with the hand he just wiped his ass with...yeah...yeah now that i think of it, it was that hand. We pull out the cart, and at this point it is a mere shell of what it was. We pretty much stripped the beauty of most of it's finer qualities. Such a shame too, because had I known I was going to meet Neil, I would have made sure that all the appropriate bling and accoutremants were there. But it's still a rugged terrain cart, with the angel statuettesl strapped to the front, and a car alarm in case someone tried to steal his shit in the middle of the night. I show him how to pull out his full length cot with the pink ruffly bed skirt....and...and...he's thrilled! Hooray! Somebody likes it! He actually likes it! This made me happier than you could ever imagine.
He was earnestly grateful and so was I. Grateful to not have to be guilt ridden by tossing a dream on the streets. Grateful that the time and effort of my pals went somewhere that I can attach a face to. Grateful that it wasn't another project that ended up amounting to nothing. Grateful to have honestly made someone happy that day. We hugged, pretty sure still with that dooky hand still, and departed. It was short and sweet.
Ahhhh...resolution.
It feels so damn good...especially when you're eating it up with a bowl of frozen yogurt.
It's My Fish in a Box Part 1
Tis the holiday season again, which means Peppermint Joe’s are back, little old Armenian ladies are ploughing you down at Ross, the price of bad Christmas sweaters have sky rocketed, and your friends are taking nude pictures of themselves on a silver platter with an apple in their mouth, for this year’s best Christmas card.
It’s also the time for parties...awkward ones with the co-workers, even more awkward ones with the family, and yet even more awkward ones with your hippy boyfriend, his 3 mothers, 2 fathers, siblings and 12 adoptees, gathered in a naked tub of hippy stew. If you’re lucky, you get invited to a few of your friend’s holiday bashes where the inevitable white elephant exchange goes down.
Now for those of you who don’t know how this little exchange goes down, it’s a nasty little game of sly dickery where everyone gets a number, and by numerical order, you can either open up a new gift or steal a gift from someone preceding you. Seems simple...and it is...the only tricky part is deciding how much you value your friendship and what your tactic is for stealing the VHS of “Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker” from the guy who showed up with a sequin glove. Are you gonna play the “Sorry no one told you that I’m a dick?” card, or are you gonna play the “Sorrreeee. I really am....Jeeez....**chuckle** **cough** **burp** “Whoops! Excuse me” (breathe deep, shake your head, and sloooooowly back away). But that’s only when it comes to all the good stuff. You pray you don’t get the bad stuff...oh no. Not that creepy sleeping cat figurine that only weirdos buy at gas stations, or a Vons wrapped bag of bananas and condoms, ‘cause that’s not original OR funny, and I swear to god, if I see that damned Santa in a Sailor Suit shmigurine shmokin’ his cob pipe yet AGAIN, I am going to have to destroy that evil son of a Coke.
Well...I’m the kind of asshole that’ll bypass bringing the mundane gift of lingerie, for the chance to totally lose it while watching someone opens up my planted piece of comedy. One year it was the retard helmet. A big bright yellow helmet that I pasted stickers of hot wheels and cops on it with slogans like, “Slow Down!” and “#1 Champ”, for that extra special authentic touch. Another year it was this wretched penis mask with purples veins and a hole that you could stick your tongue out of...becauuuseee penis’s have tongues and that one menacing eye...right? Which reminds me that another year I brought a fake tongue that you can put in your mouth and have it blow up like a frog goiter married to a piece of bazooka gum. God I should have put those two gifts together.
Well this one year, with only 2 hours until I had to head out to my friend Red’s holiday party, I had nothing. Thankfully I was already at the mall, unthankfully it is probably LA’s most ghetto mall....orrrrr thankfully....hrrmmmmpph.
I put on my hustle game face and I quickly darted through the stores looking for inspiration, but got distracted by the greasy stale aroma of lumpia invading my nose. A quick scan at that Filipino restaurant / bakery/ spaghetti with hot dogs place and wonder if I should get those packaged sweet rolls with whipped butter and shredded cheddar cheese? Yeah, no. I look into the Fashion USA. A lifetime supply of cheap grape flavored lip gloss? Nah. OOOH!!! Perhaps this flesh toned, butt enhancer! To squeeze the fat from your thighs and push it into your butt, like a tube of toothpaste. Genius. Not to mention that it also had butt pads, in case your stallion thighs didn’t have an inch to spare. God that’s good, but not quite it.
What’s it going to be this year? As I look down at my phone, I realized that time is running out, and I have to find something genius fast...not to mention that I also have to pick up some booze. Well in this ghetto mini mall, it also happens to have a full on Asian grocery story, right next to the Radio Shack and Anna’s Linens. How amazingly convenient. I could just swoop in there and pick up a case of beer in the least. As I start to parooze the aisles, I begin to feel nostalgic about all of the little candies that I used to eat. The milk crackers, the huge sheets of Norri, and even that pungent fish smell that no one else seems to notice...wait...what was that? A fish smell?
Suddenly a stroke of genius hit me like a sloppy, wet spanking. Smack! That’s it! I’m gonna bring a fish! But not just any old fish, my FAVORITE fish. A pregnant yellow croaker. Snickering to myself, I grab it by the tail and rush home.
Now, when it comes to comedy, we all know that it’s all about the delivery. So how am I going to deliver this little morsel of fun? I figure the best way, would be to throw it in a Christmas bag, stuff the bag with tons of decorative tissue paper, and ribbons and voila! A totally grab worthy looking gift. With that much effort in the wrapping, it must be good right? And who in the WORLD would guess that a big pregnant fish would be on the inside?
With my gift finally in hand, I rush over to the party late, but I know it's worth it. Once I get there, I can hardly wait for the gift exchange. I feel like I have a naughty little secret and it is killing me to not tell anyone about it!
Well an hour goes by and then another hour, and then, I start to sweat. Quite literally. This year has been quite a cold year and the heat in this place is blasting! I start to worry about this poor dead fish and if it is melting into a puddle of pink. As the time ticks by, I casually walk by it several times, for a good ‘ol sniff check. Another hour goes by, and I am starting to die on the inside with anticipation and anxiety, hoping that my gift doesn't become fish pudding.
FINALLY, it is time for the gift exchange. Oh thank god. Well in my excitement, I can't help but to express to my friends that I brought something really good. Them, knowing me, knew NOT to pick my gift...there is however, one girl that I did not know. With 1 gift left, and her as the last, she decides to go for the surprise.
My eyes must have been bugging out of my head, and my face red from holding my breath as she sweetly unties the ribbon and pulls out the paper. Her face is so cute as her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth raised in anticipation of what it could be....and then...”AHHH! OMFG! OMFG! What the hell?!?!” as she throws the bag down and holds her hands to her face.
“What is it? What is it?” everyone else cried.
“It’s a...it’s a DEAD FISH!”
“A what?”
“A real DEAD FISH!”
At this point I am battling between hysterics and feeling really bad. Of course the one person who happens to choose my gift, happens to be the ONLY vegan in the group. Classic. Well since I don't really know this girl I quickly scan the room to see if it’s ok to laugh. After a long dramatic pause, and the dumfounded looks on people’s faces start to dissipate, we suddenly start crying out in hysterics. Whew! Thank god, because I was just about to lose it right then and there, and would have looked like the only insensitive asshole of the bunch. We sit there, laughing so hard that tears are streaming down our faces. I sit there and juggled between laughing outrageously and swallowing it down to a mere chuckle so as not to seem too utterly insensitive.
In the end I was glad to know that even in her trembly state, she was able to laugh it off a bit and hide her wild eyes of judgement. Because it's all about me and now I feel better about myself. Lol. Jesus.
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