(dystopian) literary connections

"Whether (Winston) went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed forever."

-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

"This is the age of the common man, they tell us--a title which any man may claim to the extent of such distinction as he has managed not to achieve. He will rise to a rank of nobility by means of the effort he has failed to make, he will be honored for such virtue as he has not displayed, and he will be paid for the goods which he did not produce. But we--we, who must atone for the guilt of ability--we will work to support him as he orders, with his pleasure as our only reward. Since we have the most to contribute, we will have the least to say. Since we have the better capacity to think, we will not be permitted a thought of our own. We will work under directives and controls, issued by those who are incapable of working."

-Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged (1957)

"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General."

--and--

"Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains."

-Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron" (1961)

Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is not a bad dream.

-Pink Floyd, "Sheep" (1977)
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tomatoes and lettuce may break my bones...

So I’m a DJ.

Once a week, I spin--er, click--records at Jake's Dilemma, a pub on 81st and Amsterdam. Pretty sweet gig. They pay handsomely, and beer is on the house. Anthony Barker (scholar, gentleman, all-around good fellow) alerted me to the position.

Being utterly neophytic in all things DJ, I’ve experienced a few minor setbacks during my shifts. Check it:

1) The mouse on my MacBook sticks, meaning I can’t maneuver songs up or down an iTunes queue for fear of the inadvertent double-click. Should I choose to deviate from a pre-prepared setlist, auditory seams begin to show. Let’s say I’ve assembled a 35-song list to get me started. All songs are set to fade cleanly from one to the next, effectively a) eliminating dead air and b) fooling people into thinking I’m a professional. Some clown approaches the DJ booth and requests Tonic’s “If You Could Only See.” Well, now I’m forced to employ a choppy, manual fade-out (one hand on the master volume, the other readied at the mouse) to grant his request. Not cool, dude. If any tech heads out there know how to move songs up or down a playlist without the standard click-and-drag, please 411 me. Stat.

2) My record collection leaves much to be desired. Nearly all rock from ’66 to about ’78 is covered, as is most 90s alternative and everything Radiohead ever released. I’ve accumulated a fair amount of 80s radio pop, too, and a few select rap/hip-hop artists, but there’s flagrant gaps all over the place. Hell, the other day I noticed--with astonishment--that I don’t even own “Layla.” (Never cared all that much for Clapton.) This is a problem. On my first night of DJing, some chick boozed her way over to the booth and requested The Killers, a forgettable band with forgettable, interchangeable songs. Suffice it to say, I own exactly zero of them (the songs, I mean). Chick wasn't pleased. This week I’ll be downloading music at a frenetic pace and researching my ass off. I need to figure out what 90% of the population has been listening to since the latter stages of the Carter administration, since my brain/soul/heart/wallet/liver are still lost somewhere in 1979.

3) I am not a friend of technology. What I mean is that I devolve into a full-fledged imbecile when confronted with digitized, sharply-angled machines. Knobs and buttons confuse me, as do these mythic concepts like “Wii” and “Twitter” and “cell phones.” Every time I set up my laptop in the DJ cubbie (an elevated, 3x3 foot space above the beer pong tables…yes, there’s beer pong), something goes awry while I attempt to decode the vertical whoozits on the display panel. That's usually when I freak out and begin to cry. Eight or ten fat, fat seconds pass while I try to achieve volume from two sticks and a knot of prairie grass. Nonplussed boozehounds hurl tomatoes, heads of lettuce, and Heineken bottles at my quaking body, which is protected--mercifully--by a barred enclosure which was featured once in an episode of American Gladiators, I think. (DJing is dangerous work, like shrimping or bike messengering.) After picking fresh ketchup and bits of green, broken glass from the folds of my shirtsleeves, I spin something delectably arcane--The Smiths, say--which only upsets them further. “What’s this gay shit?,” they grunt, shirt collars pointed at the moon. “You pug-nosed neanderthals,” I reply, “go buy yourself some taste.” That’s when I flip ‘em a quarter thru the caging, which always seems like a good idea at the time. More bottles, more lettuce. To spite them, I doggie paddle even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I’m forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.

4) I deliberately break the rules. The fellas at Jake's Dilemma (a frat-ish "bro" bar) instruct me to stick to boring, straightaway rock, but do YOU know anyone capable of stomaching “Jet Airliner” nine or ten times without subjecting his ear to the fork? Didn’t think so. Other day, crazy bastard I am, I said, “Ah, the hell with it!,” and dipped my toe--hell, I went to the knee--into the Snoop Dogg/Ice Cube/Cypress Hill waters for about twenty minutes. Believe me, those beer-pongin’ honky cats ate it up. If management is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Wait...that makes no sense. But you catch my gist, right? What I'm trying to say is that I'm awesome, and more perceptive than my superiors. Jake's musical landscape is getting a makeover, one inflammatory track at a time.

5) Amy Winehouse’s “Back To Black” (the song, not the album) does NOT translate well to the dance floor. “You’re depressing the hell outta me,” some non-appreciative floozy informed me after my first--and last--spin of this colossal mood-killer. To spite her, I doggie paddled even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I was forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.

DJing has been good for me, musically speaking. For purposes of completism, I’ve consciously ventured outside of my comfort zone and explored sounds/genres that I previously deemed unlistenable. Without further explanation (or a viable defense), let me just say that I’ve become hopelessly addicted to this song, a song so un-Elwood it’s disgusting:



^ Attached vid isn't much of a vid, unfortunately. The official, MTV-approved clip--the one that made me fall in love with an underage/very illegal Gabriella Cilmi--won't allow embedding in a blog, so I'm forced to post this dubious substitute. Anyway, give a listen and feel free to tomato/lettuce me for my new, non-discriminatory pop leanings. By now, I'm used to it.
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life in bandon, part III

[Author's note: Seeing as I have no relevant photographs to upload as supplement to this entry, I'll be posting random pics of (or concerning) Public Image Ltd., the band currently spinning on my iPod. Good day.]

Triple Diamond Transportation Service is a small, locally owned cab company in Oregon that serves Bandon, Coquille and Coos Bay. (Because I'm into the whole brevity thing, I'll be referring to ^ as <> <> <> from here on out.) The business still exists, so far as I know, though an acrimonious pillow fight two summers ago pitted brother against brother (or, more accurately, driver against driver) and led to the ramshackle formation of a second, rival company, Par 3 Transportation.

Let’s meet the players of the game, in order of descending relevancy.

1) Frank. The head honcho, the Don, the boss, the pimp. He ran the operation. Equal parts ruthless, greedy, villainous, misogynistic and embittered, Frank was a real joy to be around, a real cutup. My favorite Frank quote: “City people are all fucking stupid. I hate cities. Never met a city person that I enjoyed being around. They’re all assholes.” Frank, a failed musician, moonlighted as a casino lounge singer. You can’t make that shit up.

2) Renee. My favorite <> <> <> employee. Renee, a young mother of two, oiled and maintained the machine when Frank fell asleep at the controls (which was often--he spent four to six hours a day feeding his fortune into slots at the local casino). She had the fattest heart of the lot. I miss her.

3) Large-Breasted Patty. Large-Breasted Patty boasted very large breasts, which she crowbarred into elasticine bras intended for mammaries ¼ their size. Patty, your classic Two-Face, was the sweetest, most well-endowed woman in the world when you were in her cab, but, within seconds of your exit, she'd run your name thru the mud to anyone within earshot. Secrets weren’t safe with her (ginormous rack). In semi-related news, I remember Patty telling me that a group of drunken golfers offered her $2,000 in cash to flash them her jumblies for 10 seconds. “I didn’t do it,” she said proudly, nose and teats in the air. “Stupid,” I said, shaking my head. “Really damn stupid.”

4) Lori. Kind, polite, harmless, somewhat forgettable. (In spite of her seeming boringitude, I loved her immediately.) Lori’s porridge-brained 16-yr-old son worked at the course, and was perhaps the single worst caddie I’ve ever seen. I once watched that acne-scratcher read a three-foot putt to break six inches left. It carved a foot right. His golfer turned many colors and threatened to plant boots in certain orifices.

5) Frank’s Wife, Terri. Terri, bless her soul, really f***ed up. She married Frank--only God knows why--and doomed herself to a life of mindless circuitry in a two-bit town. Every time I encountered her, I wanted to shake those broad, mannish shoulders (she was a brute) and shout: “Escape! Get the hell out! There’s a whole world out there beyond the Coquille River! Your husband smells like ham!”

There were other players, too, though they assumed menial, insignificant roles in the Civil War of 2006. Six or seven other drivers drove for <> <> <> at one point in time, though they held very little stock in the company and, therefore, did not actively influence the fracture.

I rode <> <> <> every day for three summers. The prices they charged were too good to be true; a one-way ride from town to the resort (10-15 minutes door to door) was only $5, a true steal. They didn’t up the fare to $7 until early fall of ’06, when escalating gas prices necessitated a bump. All in all, <> <> <> proved an efficient, economical way to travel. Who needs a car?

The night before a loop (caddie slang for a standard, 18-hole round of golf), I’d ring <> <> <> and request a pickup time, which--more often than not--fell somewhere in the 5:00-5:30 range. The morning cab, a paddy wagon of sorts, burped and rumbled over the volatile Bandon streets (our “cab" was a hugantic Econoline van with very poor shocks), plucking up red-eyed caddies from brittle, wooden homes that looked as if a stiff breeze could do 'em in. Most of the caddies were either hungover or drunk, or brain damaged. They’d curse and mutter and sleep, voweling things that sounded like (but may very well not have been), “…can’t believe…how am I gonna…long day…wrong shoes…not enough water…alarm didn’t go off…damn wife…whiskey...two a.m...”

Incredulously, <> <> <> stocked canned beer, free of charge. Oregon law permits drinking in cabs. After a round or two out on the windy bluff, we’d collapse our sweating, aching bodies into the cab and pop a Budweiser from the cooler. On a good day, if one were feeling particularly ambitious and/or cheap, a looper could easily down three full beers before his drop-off point. If that’s not incentive to take a cab, I don’t know what is.

Okay, on to the fight:

Frank, as previously stated, was a goon. He paid his drivers roughly $8 an hour, but they deserved $15….if not more. Though no mathspert, I once crunched a few numbers and realized that Frank was banking a small fortune off of us. (On an average lift to/fro the course, there’d be 4 or 5 well-tipping caddies in the van. Frank also shuttled golf groups from the local airports, a practice which yielded enormous returns--often twelve or fifteen times the raw cost of the ride.) His drivers saw very little of this profit, though they logged inhumane hours and responded to his every beck and call. Some of them worked 14, 15 hour days. Frank, it seemed, worked once a week. The drivers quickly woke to the scam and demanded raises.

That’s when things got ugly.

Frank wouldn’t budge. I heard arguments from both sides, mostly because I knew all of the drivers intimately. Names were mentioned. Shit was talked. Backs were stabbed. Renee expressed to me that she was planning on breaking from the company. She’d been in discussions with Patty, she said. They had enough capital to pull it off, and all the proper papers. Weeks later, <> <> <> split in two. Somewhere in transition, though, Renee got pushed to the side and forgotten. Big-Breasted Patty took over the new gig and began calling the tits--I mean, shots.

Caddies pledged allegiance to one or the other. Some stuck with Frank. Others--myself included in this, the latter set--switched over to Par 3, the new, Patty-run company. Vitriol ensued as Company A slammed Company B at every opportunity, and vice versa. I’d like to think that Frank’s <> <> <> suffered, though I can’t be certain. He still monopolized the airport runs.

Big-Breasted Patty (for some reason, I feel as if “Big-Breasted” ought to be capitalized…perhaps those bosoms demand exclamation) turned out to be even flakier than previously suggested, so I eventually ditched her, too. See, a few times Patty forgot to pick me up in the a.m., forcing me to seek alternative transportation. I later found out that she often answered my evening phone calls while sauced at the local pub, which might begin to explain her inconsistencies. Crazy wench nearly cost me my job, on multiple occasions.

During those last months in Bandon, I appealed to the third cab service in town, a company whose name escapes me. These swell fellas arrived on time--if not five minutes early--and charged $5, the old rate at <> <> <>. Me: “Sold!”

And that, as they say, was that. Somewhere, at this very moment, Frank is probably pushing my crumpled bills into a Lucky Sevens machine.
...

life in bandon, part II

...
Story time. This is a good’un.

Fast forward two years. Fresh off a winter of East Coast road tripping, I’ve returned to Bandon to save for a fall move to New York City. Here we find Mike hopelessly depressed (New York : Bandon :: Tom Waits : James Blunt), living alone at the motel mentioned in part I of this installation. I become more hermetic by the hour, tangled in vague existential crises that know no antidote. My routine numbs the mind and sucks the soul; I caddie during the day, return to an empty room at night, read Vonnegut and Capote. Sometimes I watch very bad television, blinds drawn. I retreat further and further inside my head and rarely emerge from my four-walled cave.

Then:

A simple twist of fate (cheers, Bobby). My peepers fall on a handwritten ad thumbtacked to the caddie shack bulletin board. It reads something like this: “Room for rent. $275/mo. Clean, spacious. Inquire at 347-xxxx.” So I do. I inquire. Her voice sounds like alley rocks. She asks me where I am. “Ray’s,” I say. “Near the blue benches.” Ray’s is the supermarket. She: “I’ll pick you up.” Her car is a sleek, black Pontiac that exists outside of time and space. And taste. It may be from 1989 or, say, 2006. I'm not really sure. Of course the windows are tinted. Two white, fuzzy dice swing from the rearview mirror. "Get in," she says. Her name is Sandra. She is 54.

Minutes later, we arrive at her home.

RED FLAGS:

1) Chloe, the dog, is a monstrous creature who has not been bathed in months. Though diminutive and perfectly harmless, tempermentally speaking, she’s spoiled to shit and probably disease-ridden, judging from the odor. Chloe massages herself by rubbing her fetid hindquarters against the legs of the living room couch. That dog needs a good punting.

2) Mike, Sandra’s “roommate” (are they sleeping together? no one knows), is an older, vaguely creepy man with no teeth and sad, watery eyes. He occupies the bedroom across the hall from Sandra. Mike’s mustache is stone grey, except for a very thin patch between his nostril and upper lip, which is burnt to a fine orange from years of ciggie smoking. He looks like prison. (More on that later.)

3) Mike dates (see: sleeps with) Charla, a flannelled mother of two who belongs in a sentence with these three words: “archetypical,” “trailor,” and “trash.” She drives a rusted, dented Buick that is not of this decade, swills vodka straight from the bottle and wears--unironically--black, stonewashed jeans that rise to her nipples.

4) The bed in my would-be room is a 70s-style waterbed (see: lumps in all the wrong places, zero lumbar support).

5) The house reeks of cigarette smoke.

“I’ll take it!” I say.

First few weeks pass without incident. I discover that Sandra is a raging alcoholic, but a highly disciplined one. She drinks exactly once a week, from noon on Saturday to four a.m. on Sunday. My bedroom flanks the enclosed back porch, which is, admittedly, a pretty sweet party room. There’s a diner-style booth, a few scattered couches and a stereo. Full bar in the back. Every Saturday Sandra takes to her chair next to the record player and pours herself a malicious whiskey-‘n’-water, but not before queuing a Greatest Hits Of The 70s compilation and calling all her degenerate friends to take part in the festivities. Before night's end, ten or twelve locals--Sandra's posse--hiccup their way onto the porch, each louder than the last.

A window in my room looks out into the porch. I can see them, but, due to the lighting and the blinds, they can’t see me.

One Saturday night (er, Sunday morning) I awake to hear Mike and Charla doing the old in-out, in-out on the porch after Sandra and the trolls pass out. This horrid, eyeball-breaking act takes place ten paces from my window. I am nonplussed.

Sometimes I make an appearance at the Saturday parties. Sandra and Mike adore me because I’m young (they live vicariously through me) and fairly sociable, and because they get a kick out of my stories. Their crazy friends take to me immediately. I spend hours on that porch, sipping microbrew and yabbering away.

[A completely random aside: Sandra’s skin is frighteningly sallow. I know why. All she eats are mini Crunch bars and Reese’s cups. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. In my four months there, I never once see her consume regular, nutritional food. One day I peer into her room to confirm my suspicions, and, sure enough, there's five or six of those 10-Piece Fun Packs on the carpet next to her bed. Sandra runs on chocolate, yet--surprisingly--she’s skinnier than I am.]

Sandra’s daughter, Amy, is 23. Sandra tries to hook us up. “Amy will be coming down this weekend from Portland,” she says. “You MUST meet her.” Then she shows me pictures of Amy. I look at the pictures. They're nice pictures. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll meet her.” Amy arrives. She pretends I do not exist. Cold shoulder. On the third day, Amy offers this: “We--my friends and I--are hitting the pub, if you wanna go.” “Sure,” I say. “I’m in.” We go. We drink. After two or three, Amy gives me the eye and slinks over to my side, bolstered by that liquid courage. I don’t know what to make of all this. I was fairly convinced she hated me, but that hand on my arm suggests otherwise. That’s when Jay, her ex-boyfriend, steamrolls across the bar and takes a swing at me. My first bar fight! (Ok, so it isn’t really a fight. Four or five people intervene before any punches land.)

Amy and I flee the bar hand in hand. Twenty minutes later, we’re in her car en route to Portland. On the way up, we listen to Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" probably 45 times. So it goes.

A few weeks later, I’m reading on the living room couch, minding my business, when Mike emerges from the back porch. He’s wrecked. I can see it in his eyes. He sways in front of me before slurring--inches from my face--something along these lines: “If you EVER cross me, Mike, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll end you. I’ll fucking end you.” I realize, then and there, that this man is capable of murder. It takes me a few minutes to talk him down and put him to bed.

Days later, I discover (via Sandra) that Mike has spent 20+ years of his life in prison, though to this day I don’t what crime brought about such a sentence. She doesn’t volunteer that information. Swell, Sandra.

I get out of there, eventually. Alive, one piece, all my digits. Phew!
...