Hench!

I went down to North Adams, MA, the other weekend to go to Missi St. Pierre’s graduation party. It was a lot of fun. The car contained me, Tom, Heather, and Missi’s friend Joann, who was pretty cool.

Now, the party was a lovely affair. We bought Missi Thanksgiving tchotchkas from the grocery store. I got her some Indian corn, Tom got her a stalk of wheat, Heather got a gourd, and Joann . . . I forget what Joann got. Squash? I don’t know. We presented these to Missi at the party, which was held in what seemed to be a VFW hall. The party was mostly centered around Missi’s family, but that was cool. We were glad to see her and got to hang out together later. In the meantime, we enjoyed the cheap drinks and stuff.

[personal note: this party was much different than MY graduation party, which was a lovely dinner thrown by my parents. An older brother of mine came over with his wife, and it was real low key. The best exchange is as follows:

My Brother: So, you're graduating, huh? How about that, little buddy? Good deal!
Rick: Yeah.
My Brother: So where did you go to school?
Rick: . . . this place called Bennington in Vermont.
My Brother: Oh yeah?
Rick: Yeah
My Brother: What did you study up there?
Rick: Uh, writing, literature. That kind of stuff.
My Brother: Yeah?
Rick: Yeah!
My Brother: So you're into that kind of thing?
Rick: Yeah, yeah.
My Brother: Good deal.

Then we ate pumpkin pie. It was pretty funny. God bless 'em.]

Anyway, Missi had to do a lot of schmoozing with her family, who were all pretty clean cut, working class folks who were all really nice. Her Dad thanked us for coming, and made us feel welcome.

During the celebration, the four of us got progressively drunker, and noticed that there was another party going on outside.

See, the basement of this hall was a bar, and another branch of the St. Pierre family were having a party in a tent. I don’t know their relation to Missi, but it seemed pretty distant. It must ahve been. These people were like the Bizarro St. Pierres. They weren’t clean cut at all, but rather a bunch of scraggly looking ne’er-do-wells who were staggering around and yelling shit at each other.

SAMPLE INTERACTION: One of the guys had an undershot chin and was wearing a wifebeater. He staggered out of the bar and . . . you know how some people get so fucking drunk that it’s a mystery what the fuck they’re saying to you? I just sounds like “Muaarrr muaaar muaaa” and shit? Anyway, this guy had gotten to that stage. We attracted his attention, and he decided to talk to me and Heather. Here’s what I could make out from our conversation:

Guy: Wwww? Y’all bein buncha HAMMERHEADS?
Me: What?
Guy: Life’s too [indescipherable]. Fuckin’ ddddd.
Me: What?
Guy: GOT A FUCKIN’ DOG! Name’s Lazz.
Me: Laser?
Guy: Lazarus, you fuckin’ deaf? Feeble? Feeb?

The guy leads us around the corner of the bar, where he has a black labrador chained to a pipe. He throws a deflated soccerball at the dog, which the dog can’t catch because it’s too fucking big.

Guy: Catch it, dummy! cccCatch! Fucker.

At this point, the guy advances on the dog. He grabs it and starts throwing it up against the building, kind of like he’s playing with it, but also kind of like he’s actually angry. The dog rears back on its hind legs, and hits the guy with it’s paws. No shit! It looked really funny, like it kind of just slapped at the guy, who fell over. He was crawling around on the ground, yelling.

Guy: Fuckin’ faggot dog! You fuckin . . . arrghhm, fuckin’ faggot Lazarus! Oh, shit!

And the dog would knock him over again. They guy was limbs akimbo in the dirt, unsure of which way was up, and this little dog was prancing all over him. Tom suggested we take our drinks and crash the Bizarro St. Pierre party. We showed up, and this woman who looked like she had rickets yelled at us.

Woman: If you ain’t invited then get the hell out!

We took a hint. We were pissed, but I figure that she would probably die of rickets soon enough. Back to the normal St. Pierre part (already in progress), where we ate salad and cookies. We hung out with Missi, got breakfast the next morning, and then went our seperate ways.

It was a thoroughly pleasant evening of the kind that I so seldom have anymore. It was quiet and everyone was in a really good mood. That seems to be harder and harder to find, you know. I wish she’d graduate from something else.

One of the most miserable winters I ever spent was in Portland, OR. Now, a lot of people like this city, but I had a terrible time there and every aspect of the place began pissing me off. For instance, I would become completely incensed that the the bus system, which I thought sucked, had animals and stuff designating the different lines rather than colors, letters, or numbers. I found it humiliating.

“How do I get to the movie theatre?”
“Oh, take the bear bus to the rain bus. They catch the salmon bus crosstown. Don’t take the trout bus, that’ll let you off near Eugene.”
“How do I tell the salmon bus from the trout bus?”
“Just look at the dorsal fins, stupid.”

You see what I’m saying. Anyway, I spent a lot of time working on my thesis, drinking, and wishing I was somewhere else.

I lived in South East Portland, and one day I decided to go see this movie at a movie theatre (the Baghdad? I forget.) which also served beer. The movies were generally terrible, but what the fuck. Anyway, I got there and realized I only had money for one or the other, so I decided to get a beer in the adjoining bar and stare out the window and feel sorry for myself. I was low on cash at the time, and going out, even if for only one beer, was a pretty big deal, even if I was using the time to catch up on my self pity.

So, there was a big plateglass window that stretched the length of the building and faced the street, and a counter was set alongside it. It was the same set up that Starbucks utilizes, really. I was sitting at a stool, sipping my Mickey’s Irish Cream Ale, and watching the people go by. Then, all of a sudden, a car pulls over and a guy starts taking photographs.

He was parked across teh street, so it was impossible to tell who he was taking photos of, although it could have been anyone in the bar. I no one seemed to notice what was going on except me.

“Hey, check it out.” I said to a guy sitting two stools down, but he ignored me. The photographer stopped taking pictures and sped away.

I’ve wondered for a long time what this was all about. I’m assuming that the photographer was a private detective. If so, who was he photographing? There were probably a dozen people in the bar, so I suppose it could have been any of them. It’s strange that he would know exactly what bar his subject could be found at. I also assume that it was important that the subject didn’t know he was under surveillance. Was it a divorce case? A kidnapping? Maybe the photographer wasn’t a detective, but actually a blackmailer, or something even more sordid.

I guess that was probably the most exciting thing that happened to me in Portland.

I more or less like the future.

For instance, probably my favorite artistic movement (I guess that’s what you’d call it) were the Futurists. Based in Italy and led by F.T. Marinetti, the Futurists were a bunch of demi-fascist schmucks who, by ignoring all reason and plunging headfirst into a very vague idea (”the future”) created some pretty amazing stuff. I’ve been trying to find an English edition of Marinetti’s Futurist writings—which are incredible—but no luck. Here is an exerpt from the Futurist Manifesto:

We stand upon the extreme promontory of the centuries!…Why should we look behing us, when we have to break in the mysterious portals of the Impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. Already we live in the absolute, since we have already created speed, eternal and ever-present.

I love that kind of thing, especially since it was penned nearly a century ago. In fact, I love it so much that I will present anyone who can find me an english copy of Marinetti’s writings with a Secret Hench Bonus Prize.

The future though . . . it never really gets boring. My mother claims to have a small amount of psychic ability, transferred to her through a female relative who was born with a caul, or a membrane covering a baby’s face. In Italian-American families, this means that the child has the second sight, and the caul is kept in a jar of formaldahyde. Although my mother kind of keeps this to herself, she did make one very strange prediction recently which came true in exactly the way she said it would.

Then you have writers like J.G. Ballard, who write almost extensively about how the future will be, above all else, boring; a place where people will be more attatched to automobile instrument panels and high rise buildings than each other. This sort of thing is echoed in movies like Alien, where the future is presented as a ship that looks like a Greyhound bus station locker room full of blue collar space workers who hate space travel.

Then there’s that Leonard Cohen album The Future which, frankly, sucks.

But I’ve been thinking more and more about the future. In fact, there will be more about the tomorrow, in the future, because now I have to go see a movie.

Good evening to all of you out in TV land. Regular viewers of our show are may be unfamiliar with the tragic circumstances surrounding the interruption of our normal broadcast schedule. The RKS-Hench Broadcasting Alliance offers the following possibilities to the weeks of dead air:

1. “Nervous Exhaustion & Malaise”
2. Sunspots and their negative effect on human brain chemistry
3. Pac Man Fever

We appreciate your perserverence through these dark days when laughter left the land. This post goes right out to you, all three of you Hench Blog regulars, killing time at work by spending it here.

Fig. 1: In the first part of our program, we would like to offer you the blog posting that got abandoned a few weeks ago. It was in reply to one of our most valued viewers (and a nice guy), Mike Metevier. Mr. Metevier commented on a nasty little bit I’d stuck up about Neil Young, and I suddenly felt bad for my endless, crummy complaning. So in this abandone post, I tried to make up for my general moron-ness, but then ended up slipping into again! Let’s take a look:

>>> “Well, well, well. I have been in a bad mood ever since returning from my Serbian adventure last week, and this has resulted in (amongst other things) a rather Andy Rooney-esque posting on my humble little blog. Andy Rooney, for those of you who aren’t hip, was a fat, geriatric creep who used to do these segments on 60 Minutes where he would complain about stuff.

“The first time I ever saw Andy Rooney, he was complaining about Rain-X, which is that stuff you wax your windshield with. If you’re going really fast in your car, the rain kind of streaks off really fast, thereby improving your visibility. Well the segment has Rooney driving around really slowly, saying “I just don’t understand Rain-X! The rain is still there! Rar, rarrr, rar! Rar! Raggh rar ar arrrrar!”

“Since then I’ve seen him complain about razor scooters, his own eyebrows, soybeans, and vans. That’s right, vans. The segment had him trying to parallel park a van, exasperated, saying “Rarr! Rar rarararrrr!”

“For some fucked up reason, I sort of like Andy Rooney and actually own a book of his complaints. The book also has a couple of upbeat, pithy pieces on the such topics as “cities,” “food,” and “difference.”

“‘I like cities. In fact, rarr rar ar. Cities!’ goes one piece I’m very fond of. I’m paraphrasing, of course.

“At any rate, I myself have been known to kvetch, although I usually try to kvetch with my eye on comic effect. Unfortunately, when I’m really fucking miserable, my kvetching gets kind of nasty, and I have to put a stop to that. For instance, I’ve lately been targeting singer-songwriters in this blog, and while I know that there are literally tens of you out there reading this, I would like to apologize for endless saying “Bob Dylan rarr ar ar rrar!” Very boring, I know.

“Today I direct my wavering vitriol elsewhere, to today’s modern rockin’ groups such as Hot Hot Heat, the Ponys, the Stills, the Dears, the Wrens, etc. The issue I’d like to discuss is: Why is this stuff so fucking sterile?” <<<

See what I’m saying? It’s ridiculous, the kind shit-eyes mood I can get into. Hence my long absence.

Fig. 2: You know, I recently went to all points in Eastern Europe, and now it kind of feels like that happened a thousand years ago instead of last month. I’ve been that busy, and I’m not a guy known to let myself get too busy. Didn’t even have time to ride my bike. You know, when life starts getting like that, you’d better hope that you’re doing something that you love, because if you’re not it’s kind of like you’re dying or something. I barely remember the month of August, and now it’s all gone. So beware! You could have one of those “I woke up today and I was 50″ moments unless you’re doing what you like to do. And, uh, I clearly need to be drinking more Cote du Rhone (sp?) on the old rooftop with a book, riding the roller coaster, finishing writing the stories, and laughing at shit.

For instance, think of all the time you spend in the day just kind of lying around, feeling bad about stuff, or staring at the wall. [I'm sure that I'm not the only person that does this.] If, for instance, you used that opportunity to memorize a really funny joke, you’d be much more amusing the next time we hung out.

Fig. 3: Linda McCartney Meals: these things are surprisingly good. Now, I never understood the deal with Linda McCartney, and always sort of thought she looked like a horse, albeit a very British horse. Then again, I never really liked Paul McCartney’s solo stuff, not even that “Jet” song (although the Controllers did a good version). Linda McCartney is kind of a cultural artifact these days, lost to time except for her amazing fucking frozen meals that you can acquire at nearly any health food store.

In fact, I’d go as far as to say that in the wild kingdom of celebrity foods that come to mind, Linda McCartney’s meals rule with a ruthless, iron fist. But then again, what other celebrity foods are there?

Coppolla wine: From the vinyards of Francis Ford Coppolla. Although I like the vino, I never bought it because for one, it’s too fucking expensive, and two, the guy hasn’t made a good film since the Godfather II, and even that was, frankly, questionable.

Newman’s Own: Newman’s Own lemonade, salsa, etc. Vaguely good food, although I’m suspicious of where it rates on the RKS Health Index.

Snoop Dogg Flavored Rolling Papers: OK, these aren’t really food, but I saw them in a bodega. Has anyone used these things? They might be called something else.

Garth Silberstein’s Beer Milk: Although he struggles in nation-wide obscurity, Garth Silberstein is kind of a celebrity amongst the Bennington community (2001ish) and probably has more friends and acquaintences than anyone I know. One summer Garth invented beer milk, which was a 16 ounce glass with one part beer and one part milk. I never dug it, but some people swear by it. For some reason, this also reminds me of the discovery me and my friends made when we were little that, if you added Nestle’s Quick to a glass of orange soda, it would taste like a Tootsie Roll. Then you would throw up. Beer milk might make you throw up if you drink a lot of it, but I think in small amounts the milk will lower the pH of your stomach, calming it. I’ll tell ya—it needs all the calming it can get with that unholy mixture of hops and lactose you’re putting in your stomach.

Fig. 4: Conclusion: This concludes our broadcast hour, because it’s time for me to leave the office and go ride my bike and look at things that are interesting.