By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
"What's your story, señor?" I inquire of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.
"Nutty," I say. "Actually, I'm picturing you in high heels and makeup à la David Johansen, and it ain't pretty. Where do you guys play?"
"Hollywood Alley in March," he tells me. "After that, the world!"
"Maybe you'll be the Meat Loaf of the new millennium!" I say, slapping him on the back.
"Yeah, I love alcohol, girls, long hair . . . and coca leaf. I like coca leaf," he relates, apropos of nothing.
"Hell, we must be related, bub," I state, grabbing my C 'n' C, and chugging it down. Speaking of hair, next to me is this fella with long, black curly locks who looks like he should be playing bass for The Darkness. Says his name is Krikor, or something like that.
"I'll bet you're in a band," I observe. "You've got the hair for it."
"Ah, I used to be, but I'm not anymore," he responds.
"So what do you like about the PV?" I ask.
"Well, this night is all right," he admits. "But other than this, nothing. Ordinarily there's too much dick around. But this is thenight if you want a better ratio of chicks to dudes."
As if on cue, it's like someone turns on the spigot and more squalies start to roll in, including Katie Rose, who takes up her position behind the bar. As if to welcome her, barkeep Dave fills his mouth with Bacardi 151, Rose holds a match in front of his mouth, and he spits out a huge flame, alcohol spraying over most of his customers, me included.
I spy my old bud, that nearly ubiquitous and ever-garrulous gadfly Gatsby, the Don Juan of the Roller Derby set, chatting up some brunette cutie in a corner. TeeRoy and Donkey are switching off on the wheels of steel, dropping the Rolling Stones, Jefferson Airplane, '70s punk band Television, some metalcore, '80s bands like Real Life, and even a little John Denver, for Chrissakes! The Jettster finally blows in, too, demanding that I buy her a vodka-tonic, and handing me her coat like she's rock royalty and I'm her valet, Jeeves. When she's not looking, I dump her jacket on the floor and cadge someone else's drink.
"No vodka; this is all they had," I tell her.
"Eww, what is it?" she grimaces.
"What's that on your arm?" asks Jett as Nicole shows off her left shoulder.
"That's Kali," she tells us.
"Short for California?" queries Jett.
"No, doofus, she means the Indian warrior-goddess Kali Ma," I state, annoyed.
"Check out my back," she urges, pulling up her shirt and turning around so that we can see the huge piece that covers her from her shoulder blades to her waist. "See, it's a divided face symbolizing the good and bad in all of us. The duality of man. The yin and the yang."
"You know, Kreme," whispers Jett. "I don't want to insult her, but that thing doesn't look anything like the Ying Yang Twins."
I roll my eyes: "Will you just take this chick's photograph?" I growl.
"Well, you don't have to be such a jerk about it," she protests, then turns to Nicole. "Come on, honey, let's go to the patio out back where we can have a little more room."
Though there are plenty of booful breezies around, time is short, and I see that TeeRoy has turned the decks over to Donkey Kong and is paying more attention to Katie Rose at the bar. Seems they're an item these days. I figure this is my time to jawbone, so I ask him about his new role as a wax-master.
"We don't call ourselves DJs, we just play records," says TeeRoy, looking chill in a vintage Jackson 5 tee and an olive green jacket sporting David Bowie, Blondie, and John Lennon buttons. "It's sort of snowballed into what it is right now. When we started off, we just had two stereo speakers and our home stereo turntables. I'd play a song and fade my volume out, and he'd play a song and fade his volume in. It was so ghetto. Now after three months, we've got all this equipment that real DJs use, our skills have improved, and all these people come out to get drunk with us on a Wednesday night. That's what really blows me away."