Whiskey Thieves, Geary Street, 10 p.m.
My head swims from free drinks after reading passages of my novel at bar. Then I’m invited to another bar, the free drinks decided to go snorkeling in my head. One Jamison, two Jamison, three Jamison, more. I walk over to Whiskey Thieves to introduce one last drink to the party in my brain.
She sits next to me at the bar. She is semi-gothed out. She wears fishnet stockings. Teasing. Exposing the dark skin of her legs. I say hi. She tells me her name and I immediately forget. She is from Chile.
Do you know Hocico? she asks.
Not personally, but I’m familiar with their music.
I’m not the type of guy you would think would have his pulse on an EBM project from Mexico, but I’m full of surprises.
Come to Death Guild with me, she says. It’s a long running dance club in San Francisco that caters to a goth crowd and actually plays music I like, but for some reason I can’t stand the place.
No, I say and sip more whiskey to snorkel through my head.
Yes, you come, we’ll go back to my place first.
Her place?
Let’s go, I say and the snorkeling alcoholics in my brain come up for air and applaud and they call my libido friends in my brain and we watch as the Chilean wiggles her skinny body down the street in those excellent fishnets.
At her place she turns on the radio and brings more Jamison friends for my brain. I grab her close and she turns around and rubs her sweet butt against my pelvic area. Blood reinforcements are called in and my penis starts to expand.
There’s an Italian film called Stanno tutti bene. It has nothing to do with sex, but the title means, Everybody’s Fine. She rubs on me and everybody’s fine. Really fine.
Do you know this song, she asks and puts on a Hocico CD. I nod and go in for the kiss. The kiss is good. I never understand how a kiss can’t be good, but there’s a phenomena in San Francisco of women who can’t kiss. It’s quite shocking to a newly single man.
When I’m with a woman, I listen. Those subtle shifts of moans. Those sporadic shutters of their insides. I listen without a stethoscope.
We kiss and I pull her hair. She moans and pushes her pelvis into mine and we dry hump, me in my slacks and her in her mini-skirt and fishnets. I listen and grab her hair twisting her head to the side and plant one on her neck. She squeals and her dark eyes ask for what’s next.
I tease. I’m soft. Soft kisses on her Chilean ears. Then I pick her up and throw her onto the bed and rip her shirt off. I dive into her erect nipples and nibble and bite and finally teeth with a light stroking of the tips with my tongue. She pushes her chest as far into my mouth as those sweet little a-cups could go. I want her in ecstasy. I grab the back of her head so she can’t move and went in for more mouth kisses.
The little libidos and alcohol molecules in my brain brought out the sombreros and did some type of Ukrainian wedding dance with each other.
She gives half moans and half screams as her neighbors in that Tenderloin apartment either want to kill us, join us or be us.
She jumps out of bed to switch Hocico CDs. I’m out of breath and my body has a subtle shake, waiting for more teasing and sexual wrestling. That Mexican pig fucking industrial act, cock blocking me.
We’re going to be late for Death Guild, she says as she fixes her shirt and the Ukrainian wedding dance stops in my head to put their elbows on the bar. They go in wait-and-see mode.
Death Guild. Posers aching to reclaim an era long gone by. Death Guild, we’ll keep this going after Death Guild. My penis actually retracts knowing it will be released into action later.
As we walk to the club we mouth raped each other at every stop light. Every doorway was our chance to fondle each other for a few seconds and move on. I forget we’re going to Death Guild. I forget we bought another bottle of scotch that we drain as we suck face and walk.
Then the blackout.
Fade in:
Int. – Night – Death Guild
Tony and girl from Chile dance and fall. Tony falls on top of her. She’s lucky it was Tony and not some corseted Krispy Kreme.
Fade out.
Fade in:
Int. – Night – Death Guild
Tony looses the Chilean and looks around the club for her, oh snap, they play a Nick Cave song. Tony can’t resist the pull of his favorite singer so he dances alone.
Fade out.
Fade in:
Ext. – Night – SoMa
Tony still can’t find her so he hails a cab home. Whiskey Thieves calls him for one last drink.
Int. – Night – Whiskey Thieves
The bartender asks with a smirk, how did it go?
I can’t believe she talked me into going to Death Guild.
He laughs.
The party in my head is no longer interested in sex play and brings me home to pass out and eventually leave my bloodstream.
I still can’t remember her name.
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As the Nineties approached the halfway mark and grunge yielded to more pop-flavored fare, a legion of acts stormed the airwaves under the “alternative” flag, whipping the planet into a radio-friendly alt-frenzy. At the time, that epithet was pasted onto virtually any guitar-based rock that didn’t fall under a clearly-defined genre, gathering groups like Pavement and Sonic Youth under the same umbrella as the Cranberries and Counting Crows. Many of those acts have since faded away, and while some continue to make music, very few have done so with the consistency and vitality of Portland’s The Dandy Warhols. This month the Dandys, now in their eighteenth year, release their eight full-length studio album, This Machine–an eclectic listening party that alternates between punchy rockers, moody ballads and seratonin-inducing electronica. Yes, electronica.
