“Aleister Crowley’s?”
“Fuck, no. Nothing that freaky. Planned Parenthood.”
Siouxsie laughs.
“Actually I think my parents belonged to the dark side of
that
. You know, Planned Un-Parenthood.”
Though Siouxsie at least got the silver-spoon sendoff, left in the ladies’ at Bullock’s Wilshire, while this little bundle of joy to the world ended up Napoleon Solo in an all-night Fluff ’n’ Fold on Western Avenue.
It’s nothing to cry about, though, hardly anyone I know has parents. And the ones who do, or did, like Darby, I mean, he had his mom, and wished he didn’t, and at first he thought his dad was his sister Faith Junior’s dad, who got the boot from his mom when he was little. Then he found out in an argument that his real dad was this Swedish sailor who he never met, and tripped way past hard on it, so when he was like six he asked the guy in line to be his stepdad to marry his mom so he could have a dad. And the dude did the deed all right, but then he died before Darby was twelve.
“Mine too, but having no one seems a lot cleaner,” I say.
“You don’t have to keep it all straight.”
Squid says the Planned Parenthood people aren’t managing too well with that themselves, are they, if they’re worried about the likes of Blitzer making babies.
“What hey, that’s what I told him, ease your mind, dude. When I really felt like punching him, you know the way they sound, social workers, the way they try to make like they’re not talking down to you, when you both know they are.”
Oozing feel-good grease from every syllable.
“Blitzer the authority of course,” says Squid.
On?
“Feel-good grease.”
Ooze it any way but hers or Siouxsie’s.
A beat.
Another.
And maybe it’s me with Sid Sings tied around my waist, but it’s Tim singing “My Way,” oh most defiantly.
And that settles it, Siouxsie says, in the wax museum Tim and David thought up the yelling on their own and now this, obviously they’re punks trapped in glam bodies, and tonight’s the night.
To cut their hair.
Starting with Tim’s, which is way too Bride of Frankenstein according to Siouxsie, and way too Barbra Streisand according to Squid.
Especially considering his nose.
And true it’s not the makeover that the senior class of the conjectural college might vote most likely to succeed. But there’s only one place to get the before-and-after show on the killrocky road, and that’s their room, so Blitzer and me, we fully agree, it’s the coolest concept since that old Eskimo found his pie in the northern sky, and put his name on it.
I say we should bail anyways, the cops keep special watch on this particular star, everybody knows that.
Siouxsie says it’s true.
“Yesterday Trudie Plunger was standing here wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and they got her for soliciting.”
David asks, “Just because of the shirt?”
“Fully. We saw it happen. Sergeant Walking Penis called it a pervert act.”
“Overt act,” Squid says. “It means the shirt is like a come-on.”
“And speaking of come
on,
” Blitzer says.
David’s too wasted to drive, so Blitzer plays chauffeur to one of those no-tell motels on Hollywood Boulevard east of the freeway, where the grin-dividuals at the desk charge the hourly rate on autopilot unless you say something. And from the slam of the driver-side door after we pull up I can tell he isn’t Mr. Happy Face about the Nast Western, he must be thinking that if they’re staying in a dive like this they probably spent all their money financing the Coca-Cola expedition, and so much for tonight’s fags-to-riches story in glamorous to-die-for Hollywood.
But maybe they’ve been eating popcorn mostly and sleeping in the van. They’re bound to have a cash stash somewheres.
Unless it’s already been jacked.
Because when we get to the room the door’s open wide as the world of sports, and Tim and David remember it closed.
They don’t remember the TV on.
They don’t
“Fuck, no. Nothing that freaky. Planned Parenthood.”
Siouxsie laughs.
“Actually I think my parents belonged to the dark side of
that
. You know, Planned Un-Parenthood.”
Though Siouxsie at least got the silver-spoon sendoff, left in the ladies’ at Bullock’s Wilshire, while this little bundle of joy to the world ended up Napoleon Solo in an all-night Fluff ’n’ Fold on Western Avenue.
It’s nothing to cry about, though, hardly anyone I know has parents. And the ones who do, or did, like Darby, I mean, he had his mom, and wished he didn’t, and at first he thought his dad was his sister Faith Junior’s dad, who got the boot from his mom when he was little. Then he found out in an argument that his real dad was this Swedish sailor who he never met, and tripped way past hard on it, so when he was like six he asked the guy in line to be his stepdad to marry his mom so he could have a dad. And the dude did the deed all right, but then he died before Darby was twelve.
“Mine too, but having no one seems a lot cleaner,” I say.
“You don’t have to keep it all straight.”
Squid says the Planned Parenthood people aren’t managing too well with that themselves, are they, if they’re worried about the likes of Blitzer making babies.
“What hey, that’s what I told him, ease your mind, dude. When I really felt like punching him, you know the way they sound, social workers, the way they try to make like they’re not talking down to you, when you both know they are.”
Oozing feel-good grease from every syllable.
“Blitzer the authority of course,” says Squid.
On?
“Feel-good grease.”
Ooze it any way but hers or Siouxsie’s.
A beat.
Another.
And maybe it’s me with Sid Sings tied around my waist, but it’s Tim singing “My Way,” oh most defiantly.
And that settles it, Siouxsie says, in the wax museum Tim and David thought up the yelling on their own and now this, obviously they’re punks trapped in glam bodies, and tonight’s the night.
To cut their hair.
Starting with Tim’s, which is way too Bride of Frankenstein according to Siouxsie, and way too Barbra Streisand according to Squid.
Especially considering his nose.
And true it’s not the makeover that the senior class of the conjectural college might vote most likely to succeed. But there’s only one place to get the before-and-after show on the killrocky road, and that’s their room, so Blitzer and me, we fully agree, it’s the coolest concept since that old Eskimo found his pie in the northern sky, and put his name on it.
I say we should bail anyways, the cops keep special watch on this particular star, everybody knows that.
Siouxsie says it’s true.
“Yesterday Trudie Plunger was standing here wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt and they got her for soliciting.”
David asks, “Just because of the shirt?”
“Fully. We saw it happen. Sergeant Walking Penis called it a pervert act.”
“Overt act,” Squid says. “It means the shirt is like a come-on.”
“And speaking of come
on,
” Blitzer says.
David’s too wasted to drive, so Blitzer plays chauffeur to one of those no-tell motels on Hollywood Boulevard east of the freeway, where the grin-dividuals at the desk charge the hourly rate on autopilot unless you say something. And from the slam of the driver-side door after we pull up I can tell he isn’t Mr. Happy Face about the Nast Western, he must be thinking that if they’re staying in a dive like this they probably spent all their money financing the Coca-Cola expedition, and so much for tonight’s fags-to-riches story in glamorous to-die-for Hollywood.
But maybe they’ve been eating popcorn mostly and sleeping in the van. They’re bound to have a cash stash somewheres.
Unless it’s already been jacked.
Because when we get to the room the door’s open wide as the world of sports, and Tim and David remember it closed.
They don’t remember the TV on.
They don’t
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