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September 5, 2007

Labor Day Weekend

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 5, 2007 5:19 PM
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I felt a little depressed after Lacey’s party. Whenever people lay heavy trips on me like that, I usually go up the mountains to chillax. When I got up to the cabin at the resort I usually stay at—I won’t mention which one because I don’t want fans to hound me while I’m deep-thinking—the gentleman who gave me the rental agreement told me I was receiving a discounted fare for staying all four nights.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are staying for the full holiday weekend, are you not?”

“It’s a holiday?”

He explained to me that, indeed, it was a holiday weekend and if I committed to stay on Monday night, as well as Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I would receive a $50 discount on each night. Since we had no rehearsal or recording session scheduled for Tuesday, I accepted.

For the first two nights, I sat mostly in silence, hamburgers from the Carls Jr. in town and a huge bag of Cheetos I bought at the Savon next door. I thought deeply about the hurtful words that had been said to me: was I a loser? A washed-up has-been? Was I wrong to consider myself the most important person in the world, sacrificing everyone and everything if it affected my own well-being?

No. Maybe the words stung deeper because, I reluctantly admit, Abysmal Crucifix has had a hard time since I got out of prison. Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Hedge’, despite its clear brilliance and warm critical reception, did not sell as well as we had projected. Our marketing techniques failed, our stage version went overbudget and undersold. Don’t even get me started on the fiasco of making the film with Hector’s Spite Productions. It was never released—need I say more?

Oh, and then there were the problems recording The Return, which we’re still working on—third time’s the charm, I hope! I don’t know what else to say; this decade has been rough on Abysmal Crucifix. We’ve broken up and re-formed, but even our recent tour was a disaster. When we should have been stronger than ever, we faced bumpings, illegal activities, arrests, kidnapping, bribery, assault, and one kick-ass show!

How do I feel about this? I mean, how do I really feel? I put up a brave front, but it’s time to stop fronting—time to get real and accept the fact that what’s happened—what’s happening to Abysmal Crucifix is making me feel like buttered shit. We used to be the greatest band in L.A., if not the entire United States (but certainly not the world—Rhapsody will always have us beat there), and now…what are we? A joke to some; to others, sad and pathetic. We’re “beneath” former keyboardist Jam Malone.

What are we to me? A group that’s fallen short of potential, fallen off the radar of the American zeitgeist for foolish political reasons. Maybe marketing teams don’t know how to sell us, maybe major labels don’t understand what the kids want, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to tell me Americans won’t buy songs about pleasuring vaginas and Christmas. The only thing we can do is force our way back into popular consciousness—finally book that U.S. tour, maybe scrap The Return (temporarily, at least) in favor of something less artistic, something with more commercial viability—

And then it came to me, literally: a live album. It would feature not only our greatest hits but various cover songs, all performed with the manic energy for which Abysmal Crucifix is legendary. Luckily, the good people at Kensho Bear-Hugging Concern recorded both video and audio of our last performance, to be shown on live television throughout Japan. If we can come to a licensing agreement to clean up those recordings and—

Well, perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself, but I’ll say this for sure: be on the lookout for both a U.S. tour and a live album.

Feeling a little better about things, I left the cabin for the evening to go into the city. I wanted to check out my old haunts in Hollywood. It was on Sunday night, so needless to say the Strip was insane! Scantily clad thirteen-year-old girls whizzed along the sidewalk on mopeds, with their harried parents chatting on cell phones half a block behind them. When I went to take a leak, I had to shove my way past the usual crowds of greasy, messy-haired 20-somethings high on ecstasy fucking in the alley parking lots behind the clubs.

I went over to the Whisky and discovered, to my horror, that the entire line-up for the evening was nothing but rap. Rap! At the Whisky-a-Fucking-Go-Go! I sighed and went down the street to the Roxy.

The band playing inside was one I’ve heard many times before: Force Majeure, made up of five insurance underwriters in the Valley. I’ve heard worse, but I do take issue with their “songwriting style” of chopping up Black Sabbath riffs and reassembling them with lyrics that are either about strippers or magical elves and donkeys.

I hovered in back near the bar, got myself my usual drink—a frozen Lemon Drop, in case you’re interested—and watched the show. I had to carefully avert my gaze from the little kids running around. Fortunately, they gave themselves away by screaming with wild joy, playing tag in the midst of a thin, depressing crowd. The place was fairly dark, though, so on occasion it was difficult to tell whether or not I was checking out a 25-year-old or a 10-year-old. In L.A., it’s hard to tell a scrawny little girl in a whore’s outfit from an aging whore with anorexia. Up to a distance of about five feet, they look identical.

About halfway through the set, Force Majeure did a song I really dig called “Mail-Slot Glory Hole,” about a female postal worker by day, stripper by night. For some reason, they brought a real stripper on stage to prance around arrythmically and occasionally remove clothing items (not that she wore much to begin with). Although she never got naked, the stripper made me think of Margo and how much she meant to me and how much I wanted to have sex with a stripper.

After the set, I went outside to go to the VIP lounge, On the Rox, which is situated above the club itself. A big bouncer I’ve always known as Dalton II—he told us all to call him that years ago—stood guard. He had the same wavy hair, squinty eyes, and lilac tanktop of his cinematic counterpart. But it wasn’t just looks—he had the same steady, philosophical glare and abs you could grate cheese on.

“Girth,” he muttered.

“What’s up, Dalton II?” I raised a hand to high-five him as I walked past, but he jammed a giant hand on my spongy midsection, not meaning to hurt me but managing to anyway.

“Sorry, man,” Dalton II said. “I can’t let you up there.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“What?”

“You haven’t played here in—”

“Thirteen years.”

“Right.”

“But—”

“You just…the new managers have this policy about who we can define as ‘important.’ I know you did some good work here, and I know Redstain Attack! played here a lot and now Sarah’s sick and everything, but…I can’t let you in, I’m sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do?!”

Dalton II cracked a smile. “There’s always barber college.”

I let out a primal roar and rushed forward. Dalton II stuck a hand out and effortlessly grabbed my neck and shoved me against the concrete wall next to the On the Rox entryway.

“Sorry, Girth. I want to be nice, but it’s time to not be nice…”

“Man!” I said. I finally stopped struggling and he let me go.

Disappointed, I went next door and tried to get into the VIP room at the Rainbow. They wouldn’t let me in there, either, so I went across the street and stared glumly into the windows of On the Rox. Inside, bathed in electric-blue light,three gay, shirtless men with close-cropped blond hair and thick black formed a semicircle around one of the stripper poles. They each took turns straddling it, while the other two did variations on The Robot. At the other end of the room, the balding lead singer of Force Majeure aimed an accusatory finger at his wife, who was shouting at him so loud her face had turned red and cords stuck out on her neck. Behind them, the stripper watched from the bar.

God, I wanted to be up there.

Instead, I ditched the L.A. scene yet again and went back to my mountain sanctuary. I showered to remove the acrid odor of smog and cigarettes, jerked it to the mental image of the stripper, and fell asleep on the futon.

The next day, I awoke to the sounds and smells of bacon and eggs. Margo worked on breakfast in the kitchen. For some reason, she wore a sexy variation on the usual postal worker outfit.

“Margo…?” I said, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes.

She smiled. “Morning.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Smooth Lexington called me. He saw you taking a leak on the Strip, so I went down there and tailed you back here.”

I sighed.

“Girth, I’m gonna tell you two things, and I’m only gonna tell you once: first, this cooking shit is annoying and I will never be doing this again. Ever. Don’t even ask.”

“Okay…” I sat down on one of the old-timey Arts & Crafts chairs.

“Two: I just want you to think about what happened at Lacey’s party. Just take a couple seconds to realize, yeah, we sat there and called you on your bullshit. But remember what we did after that?”

“We—”

“We danced. We were happy. All of us together, having a good time. That’s how it is. You take all this shit to heart because you’re so self-obsessed you automatically assume we’re all thinking nasty things about you at all times, when the fact is—most of them don’t give a shit. I do give a shit, but I love you anyway. You’re low maintenance and easy to manipulate.”

“As are you,” I said suavely.

“So we’re gonna eat breakfast, fuck, take a walk in the woods, fuck again, get some salmon lunch, then drive back to L.A. Okay?”

“Sounds good.”

For the first time in two days, I started to feel better. I realized my role was to lead all of them, except Margo, and their role is to get jealous of their leader and snipe at him at parties. But in the end, they look to me for guidance, and I’d never lead them down the wrong path. Except in Europe, but that was an accident.