 The
Worley Gig
October 1999
By Gail Worley
"I have
friends in the hills of LA
I see their faces, forget their names
But after awhile they all look the same
Like everyone knows me, that's why I came
I worry about what I've become
I'm looking for someone to blame it on
But everyone here is somebody
And nobody is anybody"
"Hills of
LA" By Mike Viola and the Candy Butchers
LA Woman
The summer of
1999 was so fucking weird. I honestly have a hard
time separating what went on in my dreams from
what actually happened. Like something out of an
episode of Melrose Place, I spent the
summer working part time at my day job while
managing to draw my full salary. How did I pull
that off? I traveled to New Orleans with my close
friend, Nikki from LA, for the wedding of a
mutual girlfriend we met through a Marilyn Manson mailing list on America
Online. I went to industry parties and exclusive
showcases. I did what I consider to be some of my
best writing -- indulging in long and rambling profile
pieces on some of my favorite rock
stars as a way to
write about my other obsessions. I became a Reiki Master; got regular massages;
ended relationships with psychos and strengthened
relationships with true friends. I dyed my hair
hot pink because I've always wanted to have pink
hair. And at the end of August I topped off the
most amazing three months of my life with an
extended trip to the West Coast. I had a great
fucking summer.
This vacation
was fairly ambitious from the outset. I was
embarking on a personal journey of the now. I was
open to all things ironic. I was in the flow. I
packed everything I owned; yet I noticed when I
was packing that I don't have as much underwear
as I thought I had. (Memo to self: Buy
underwear).
My itinerary of
wild abandon called for me to spend nine days in
LA, five days in San Francisco and five days in
Seattle. In San Francisco I kept a relaxing pace,
enjoying the bright sun and freezing cold
temperatures that in New York we call
"winter." I ate in all my favorite
restaurants; saw tons of friends; went to the
Aquarium and attended the Seybold Internet
Publishing convention. I shopped for cool stuff I
didn't need and found a rubberized polyester
trench coat -- brand new! -- for $20. Finally, my
pal, Michelle turned me on to The Tonga Room: San
Francisco's premier Tiki Lounge and best kept
secret! San Francisco is a beautiful city.
In Seattle I
spent quality time with my dear friend Barbara
(who redid the pink in my hair and did an awesome
job!). I saw a ton of cool bands and rocked out
full-throttle at the Bumbershoot festival, where
I met Krist Novoselic when he asked to use
Barbara's cell phone. I dined with members of
Imperial Teen; went Indie Rock Bowling with Death Cab for
Cutie, a bunch of total hotties who
gave me secret bowling tips that improved my game
by 100% (Memo to Self: "Be the Ball!")
and drank Budweiser's in bottles shaped like
bowling pins. Seattle rocks
hard enough to crack a skull.
But when I sit
down to put all the memories into words, I can't
stop thinking about my time in LA.
I grew up in
Southern California but going back there is not
like going home again. It's like watching a movie
I love over and over. Being in Los Angeles is
like nodding out while staying conscious as you
step into a beautiful dream. I can't live in that
world anymore -- I need the grit and insanity of
New York to keep me going -- but I sure do love
to visit. Like the song says; "It's just a
fantasy/It's not the real thing." But
sometimes a fantasy is all you need.
Some of my best
memories of this trip happened over the 24 hours
I spent with my friend Dish, who plays drums for the
Newlydeads. Dish actually lives in the heart of
Hollywood, with his very cool Russian girlfriend,
Inna and her son Jason, who is ten years old.
Jason looks like Anakin Skywalker and speaks English with a
slight Russian accent. This automatically scores
him the highly coveted position as my favorite
ten-year old boy of all time. Dish is grateful to
have another "babysitter" in the house
and Jason teaches me everything I didn't know I
wanted to know about something called Pokemon: a
merchandisers wet dream that includes a card
game, a website, a series of comic novels,
stuffed toys, stickers, tattoos, assorted
personal accessories and a soon-to-be released
major motion picture.
Jason's favorite
Pokemon is a yellow, sort of cat/bunny mutation
called Pikachu, who suffers from a serious
love-jones and wards off potential enemies via
lethal shocks induced by electrical generators it
has on its adorable little Pokemon cheeks. I'm
not making this shit up.
Other than my
introduction to labyrinthine world of Pokemon, my
conversation with Jason consists mostly of an
argument (Jason, Pro; Me, Con) over the supposed
"Gayness" of Dish's bandmate, Taime.
Jason argues that "Taime is gay because
Taime is gay." Who could take issue with a
watertight stance like that? Still, I counter
that, despite the fact he wears more makeup than
I do and once had a predilection for carrying a
purse, I have reliable second-hand information
that Taime is straight as the day is long.
Suddenly realizing with mild horror that I'm
arguing sexuality with ten-year old, I decide to
cut my losses and acquiesce. Jason and I share a
good laugh over Taime's gayness (Sorry Taime).
I dig
Jason’s company big time, but since I'm
never, ever around children, I'm completely
exhausted within half an hour. I really have no
clue how to relate to kids -- they might as well
be alien beings with superior intelligence from
another planet. My energy resources are depleted
and all I can do is lay on the carpet and mumble
"Uh huh." So, I come up with this
clever idea that I can get Jason to "play
quietly" if I give Dish a Reiki treatment.
Believe it or not, Jason is so cool that this
"idea" totally works! At this point in
time, I've been a full-on Reiki Master for just
over a week, so I'm eager to get some practice
where I can. The extent of Dish's knowledge of
Reiki is limited to an understanding that I do
"some sort of trick with energy that feels
really good" so he's willing to go for it.
After all, how hard is it to lie down for an
hour? I give Dish the energy whammo and he goes
under so quickly that he's baggin' Z's by the
time I put my hands on his head. I am just about
finished when Inna walks in the door from work at
7:00 PM. Thus, Inna's first impression of me is
that I am sitting on the floor holding her
boyfriend's feet in my hands. Fortunately, she
doesn't ask any questions.
That night, Dish
has to work his side gig as a sound guy.
It’s Amateur Comedy and Transvestite night
at The Garage, and I’m invited to tag along.
While Dish does his thing, I am kept company by
Vida DeVille, a stunning pre-op transsexual
(read: chick with a dick) who has a better ass
than I've had since I was in my early 20's (Memo
to self: Buy Buns of Steel Video) and Ellen, a
heavily pierced and tattooed exhibitionist who
edits Fetish magazine. Ellen knows my
friend Abby in NY, editor of Extreme Fetish
magazine. It's a small world of fetish
publication editors after all! Both Ellen and
Vida are super nice and make me feel like I'm
just one of the freaks. We all share stories of
our dark secret lives of deviations and
infidelities. Vida tells me of her aspirations to
direct transsexual porn, "Since there's such
a high demand for that sort of thing." I
just nod and take another swig of whatever I'm
drinking. Dish keeps the free drinks coming and
soon I don't even remember my own name.
Somewhere around
1 AM, the club is winding down, so we leave the
Garage and catch a cab to The Dragonfly. Monday
is hip-hop night, and Dish is supposed to mix
"a band that's being produced by Puff
Daddy" (isn't everybody?). When we arrive at
the Dragonfly, there are about 20 people inside
and no band. Apparently, Dish has not received
the beep from the club promoter telling him not
to bother to come by, so we hang out and drink
more. Dish takes me on a tour of the club, which
is where the Newlydeads club, Pretty Ugly, is
held on Wednesdays. In the office, I notice a
Xeroxed flyer hanging on the wall, depicting the
Penguin from the second Batman movie. As a joke,
someone has cut out a picture of Taime's face
from a Newlydeads flyer and Xeroxed it over Danny
Devito's mug. This image of The Penguin with
Taime's face haunts my dreams for many days.
Around 2:30 AM,
after the club has closed, Dish and I are still
drinking and hanging out with the bartenders and
bar backs, but when they all start speaking
French to each other we decide we’re too
drunk to handle it and head for a cab. Back at
his apartment, Andy, a hometown friend of Dish
who flies planes for a major airline, greets us.
Andy has arrived in LA for few days and Dish's
living room is now officially hotel central. Dish
and Andy make a food run and return with Bacon
Cheeseburgers from Jack in the Box around 3:00
AM. While we gorge ourselves on red meat and
drink more beer, Dish and Andy use my AOL account
to surf the better porn sites. As a cruel and
heinous consequence, I am inundated with Internet
Porn Spams for weeks to come (Memo to self: Kill
Dish and Andy). I somehow manage to put on my
jammies and pass out on the sofa some time before
dawn.
In the morning,
Jason -- being ten years old and not at all
familiar with the beauty of sleeping in -- is
wide-awake and on the prowl at 9:00 AM, which
means Andy and I are also awake. Somehow we
manage to convince Dish to wake up before mid
afternoon so Andy and I can act like tourists and
force him to walk down Hollywood Blvd with us.
For New Yorkers who’ve never actually seen
Hollywood Blvd. (also known as the Walk of Fame),
imagine walking up 14th Street if
someone had taken random entries from the phone
book and cemented plaques with those names into
the sidewalk every ten feet. While smoking a
cigarette in front of a costume store, Dish is
recognized and asked for his autograph, which for
some reason freaks him out a little bit, but I
think it's cute.
Later in the day
I am delivered into the loving arms of Nikki, the
Goddess of Rock. Nikki is responsible for taking
care of me until the weekend, and the high point
of our time together will be our trip to The
Pretty Ugly Club. On Wednesday, which has been
renamed Pretty Ugly Day, we spend our quality
time driving around, shopping, drinking, going to
the movies (I highly recommend Bowfinger, Nikki
and I give it two thumbs up!) and leaving weird
messages on Taime’s answering machine. It
takes Nikki and I less than an hour to dress for
the club because our outfits have been
strategically planned days in advance. Nikki is
wearing a corset she paid something like $300 for
at Retail Slut, and a vinyl miniskirt. I am also
wearing a vinyl miniskirt (don't leave home
without one) with a black halter that makes my
breasts look like guided missiles. When it comes
to LA fashion, less is always more. Nikki's
corset is laced up so tight she's completely
unable to bend at the waist and can barely
negotiate her way into the car to drive to the
club. All the way to the Dragonfly I feel like
I'm going to throw up. I'm so excited to have my
"Rock and Roll Hollywood night" that
I'm practically ready to have a seizure.
The Pretty Ugly
club is the coolest club in LA. I know this,
because that's what people keep telling me.
We’re on the guest list so we get in right
away, but we know enough about making an entrance
to arrive after the club is full. We've missed
the first band and spend a few disorienting
minutes weaving through the crowd looking for
Taime. Since Taime is one of the most popular
people on the planet and my schedule is so
packed, I'm sadly aware that this is the only
time I'll see him on my trip. Technically, he's
"working" and I figure I've got, at the
most, ten minutes of quality time with the guy,
so I want to make the most of them. Nikki spots
him first and while I'm trying to negotiate the
various assorted porn stars and industry types
desperate to be part of a "happening
scene," my friend Ilka surprises the hell
out of me by screaming and grabbing me. I scream
and grab her back, but because she has impeded my
quest for Taime, I'm completely distracted and
tell her I'll find her later. (I spend the rest
of the evening apologizing to her for being a
shallow bitch).
Nikki points to
me from across the room. I see Taime get up from
the table he's at -- which is atop this raised
platform and surrounded by drapes that are pulled
to the side, like he's some kind of Goth rock
Sultan or something -- and come around to greet
me. I love Taime to pieces, but since I see him
only about once a year and our communication
consists mostly of emails, we never quite get the
chance to make it past a kind of oddly personal
small talk. I find myself visually fascinated by
the stud that pierces his tongue, but have enough
presence of mind to get some photos of us
together, so when I get them developed I can look
at them and go "Did I see Taime when I was
in LA?," because I know I won't remember
anything that happens tonight. I'm not driving,
and I am going to get as wasted as I possibly
can.
The next band
comes on and it's an all girl group from NYC that
Beowulf and I refer to as "The Yapping
Chihuahua Band," also known as Candy Ass.
Apparently, they have followed me to LA, in order
to torture me. I notice more than a few women in
the club are wearing cowboy hats, which seems
pretty weird, even for LA. Is it some sort of
Urban Cowboy Chic fashion revival? Nikki says no,
that Taime wore a cowboy hat on stage a few weeks
ago and now the stores on Melrose can't keep the
fucking things in stock. We laugh until we start
knocking things over; no one else gets it.
Everyone around us either has their fingers in
their ears or is crinkling their noses in
disgust. Nikki and I make yapping sounds at each
other and decide to find someone who can give us
drink tickets.
An extremely
drunken guy who has to be in his fifties
approaches me and slurs something that sounds
like a raunchy sexual come on. I keep saying "What?
What?" just to fuck with him, because
I'm in that kind of a mood. Nikki suggests that
perhaps this is his way of flirting with me. How
could I miss the signals? When I tell him his
pants are unzipped he says, "It's fucking
hot in here."
Nikki and I
retreat to the patio to smoke a blunt. (Memo to
self: no smoking in clubs in LA, equals reason
enough to move there). We start looking for Taime
so we can ask him to buy us a drink, and catch
the attention of JD, Taime's partner. He asks if
he can "Help" us and we say we are
looking for Taime and free alcohol, in that
order. "How about if I buy you a
drink," he says, handing us each a drink
ticket, "and not just because you're a
couple of ugly ladies." He called us Ugly?
Now that's what I call flirting!
On the way out
to the patio bar, our progress is halted by a
seemingly endless line of brooding slackers when
we literally run right into Taime. Figuring
it’s worth a shot to ask, I say, "Hey,
are you going to buy me a drink?" to which
he replies "I can't buy you a drink,
girly," -- he calls everyone
"girly" -- " because I have to go
take care of something, but I can give you drink
tickets." What a sweetie! More free drinks
for Nikki and Gail! Yay! Power to the WonderBra!
A
garage/punk/rock band with a one word name,
"Broken" maybe, are on stage and
I’m so well lit I use the wall to hold me up
and just completely submerge myself in the
high-vibrational atmosphere of the club. This
band is fucking amazing. I’m with my best
friend. I look hotter than I’ve ever looked
in my life and the night is still young. I love
everybody! Of course, the alcohol is helping. I
see Dish leaning against the bar talking to
someone and my exceptionally tweaked brain tells
me this is the best of all possible moments to
get in his face. I grab the front of Dish’s
shirt in my tiny fist, look up into his pretty
face and say, "I love you, man!" But
Dish loves me too and we are both wasted, so the
gesture is saved from being a
"Lampshade-on-the-head" moment and,
instead, becomes something authentic. I mean, the
guy is like a little brother to me.
Because
I’ve interrupted his conversation, and
because Dish is such a cool guy, he introduces me
to his friend. "Gail, this is Coyote
Shivers," he says. Coyote Shivers is a very
talented musician I remember from New York. A
now-defunct magazine I used to edit did a cover
story on him once. Coyote has relocated to Los
Angeles, which strikes me as bizarre since he is
so very NY. Anyway, he’s super friendly and
very lucid so we start talking. He asks me if I
have any pictures of him naked and hands me his
new CD. He is naked on the cover and has a body
like a Calvin Klein model. The CD is entitled One-Half
A Rock & Roll Record, because it has only
five songs, but I think it should be called
"A Half Naked Rock and Roll Record"
because I mean, the guy is naked. Visit
his website, www.coyoteshivers.com if you want to check out
the goods for yourself. And buy one of his CDs
while your there, ‘cause this shit is real.
Other New
Yorkers seem to have migrated west as well. The
Sisters Grimm, a pair of anorexic identical twins
who think it’s still 1977, are in the crowd.
I know them as the former Candy and Coat Check
Girls at Coney Island High, but they also have
some kind of "Band" that no one I know
has ever actually seen play. Later, I find out
they've been out in LA for "Like Two
Years" doing amateur porn. No need to stop
the presses for that bit of news, but it explains
a few horrifying conversations I have the
misfortune to overhear while me and Nikki are
outside avoiding Candy Ass and "drunken fat
ugly guy." I also spot a downtown make up
artist who, as I recall, "hooked up"
with one of the Newlydeads guitarists when they
were in NYC in January. Perhaps she has come to
LA to bang him on his own turf. I can only
speculate. When she sees me, there is no glimmer
of recognition in her eyes, even though I run
into her every week in the city. She belongs in
LA.
Nikki is used to
driving drunk (just kidding, sort of) so we get
home safe and in one piece, though it takes a
concerted effort between the both of us to get
her out of the corset that has been practically
cutting off her circulation all evening. I
actually have to put my hands down the front of
her top – like I’m the human Jaws of
Life or something — to pry her out of it. It
is a Pretty Ugly finish to a Pretty Ugly evening:
a muted collage of experience I can’t quite
remember, but will never forget.
The rest of my
stay in Los Angeles is a total blur. By the time
Monday rolls around, I’m trying to cram way
too much shit into my suitcase and heading out to
the airport to fly to San Francisco. I've been in
Southern California too long and probably should
be institutionalized. When I get back to New
York, all of my girlfriends want to know if I had
any of my famous "Drunken make outs." I
can’t quite bring myself to admit that a
nanosecond of lip-to-lip contact with Taime (no
tongue) rates as the most action I got the whole
trip. I just wink and tell them they will have to
wait to see the pictures!
I think this
story had some sort of moral at one time, but
it’s lost to me now. Now it's just a vague
feeling, like brief, involuntary flash-backs from
a really great acid trip. Like the dull ache of
wanting something I can't have. Michael Musto
said in one of his Village Voice columns:
"Los Angeles is still the sickest, most
vulgar, appalling place on Earth" and I
can't wait to go back there.
The Worley
Gig: "Take a step into my world"
Identify the
song lyrics above and win a free CD. Email lame
and incorrect guesses to pandomag@rocketmail.com
Coming In
late October: Rock Stars share their favorite
Halloween Memories with Gail!
Visit The
Worley Gig Archives
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