September 13, 2007
Meeting the One (That Got Away?)
Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 13, 2007 2:02 AM
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I first saw Sarah Goss at a club on the Sunset Strip that no longer exists. I think it was called The Golden Dragon, but who really knew? Its building had no signs, you never saw any flyers. Everyone in the knew…just knew. I’ve never been to a stranger place. It had a nondescript, almost abandoned look to it. You rarely saw anybody enter, saw even fewer people leave, but that was by design.
They had a large, indoor “holding area” where a line of people that would normally be outside snaked around row after row of velvet ropes. You had to get past three or four bouncers before making it into the actual club, which somehow managed to feel huge and homey at the same time.
It had a little, V-shaped bar that reminded me of a few hot spots back home in Iowa. The bartender served strange concoctions laced with illegal substances. To access their VIP room, you had to climb a ladder and squeeze through a small hole in the wall near the ceiling, about the size of a wall-mounted air-conditioning unit. Next to the hole, somebody had scrawled VIP with black spray-paint. Few people dared to enter the VIP room. You never heard anything but pained moaning; you never saw anything but thick clouds of noxious smoke. Rumors circulated about what went on in there, but I’m pretty sure it was just a meth lab.
Like many places in L.A., you have to know somebody to get into The Golden Dragon. I knew hardly anyone at that point, but I did trade a hobo a pack of smokes for what they, at the time, called “The Golden Ticket”—a $2 bill, one quarter of which was spray-painted in gold. The address was written on the back, along the edges of the bill, along with a secret passphrase. You’d knock on the locked door of the building and a security guy would come over what resembled a drive-thru speakerbox. He’d ask for the passphrase; you’d give it, and the door would rumble open. A bouncer shoved you inside, slammed the door, patted you down like a cop on ecstasy, grabbed your “Golden Ticket” (in more ways than one), and sent you into the holding area. The final bouncer at the end of the line stamped your hand and gave you a brand new “Golden Ticket” with a different passphrase.
All in all, I can’t imagine why this club didn’t last.
I noticed Sarah the moment I stepped into The Golden Dragon. Her band, Redstain Attack!, rocked some major ass on the stage, but Sarah automatically became the focal point. Not only did she write all the songs, sing them, and play lead guitar—she was astoundingly hot. Well, maybe not astoundingly. She was actually what we’d now call a “butter face,” an expression I did not first hear until 1999. When I first heard the term, and its definition, that first glimpse of Sarah flashed in my mind: an incredible body leading up to a…well, “ugly” is maybe a little too harsh, but an “unattractive” or “mule-like” face. But man, her face didn’t matter when you saw that slammin’ body in those mesh tanktops and sports bras, and you saw the sincerity in her oversized saucer eyes and in her trembling voice—every single person who saw her wanted to fuck her. Hard.
I got the opportunity. After seeing that first show at The Golden Dragon, I scoured the trade papers, bulletin boards, flyers on telephone poles—anything that would tell me where Redstain would play next. I’d stand near the back, watching in awe as the stage lights caressed her spectacular body and bleached her peculiar face. I saw Redstain about ten times in less than two weeks before finally approaching Sarah after a set. She went to the bar instead of going backstage (her usual routine), so I sidled up beside her and said, “Hey, baby, you ever have a kumquat?”
She gave me a questioning look, at which point I grabbed my bulging crotch. She raised her eyebrows and asked if I was new in town.
“Not really,” I said. “I’ve been here since June.”
“What do you do?” Sarah Goss asked.
“Ever heard of Abysmal Crucifix?”
She thought for a moment. “No.”
“We’re the greatest band in the fuckin’ world. Or, I mean, we were, but I got out here a few months ago and none of my bandmates would come with me so I’ve been trying to re-form the band and hey, do you want to be my bassist/girlfriend/muse?”
Sarah took a sip of her drink and shrugged. “Not really,” she said, “but I wouldn’t mind taking that kumquat for a test drive.”
Before this, I’d only slept with Robin Kelley, so I had a hard time adjusting to what my future friend (and enemy) Jam Malone would call “fine California fucking.” Sarah’s level of enjoyment surprised me, the fact that she didn’t cry afterward surprised me, the way in which she managed to squeeze and knead my unit using nothing but her fuck-hole—I fell harder and harder in love with her as my unit grew harder and harder.
Things went well for awhile. Beyond dehydrating sexual compatibility, I supported her rising star even as I struggled, and she helped me to realize it’s not easy for the public to embrace somebody as artistically unique as Girth McDürchstein. She actually helped me to assemble Abysmal Crucifix—first by suggesting I book some rehearsal space to hold open auditions rather than passing out flyers to jam, then by watching each and every audition with me to ensure I made the right decisions.
Of course, my penchant for dishonesty and manipulation led to a variety of heated, erotic discussions about the nature of life, love, and relationships, and whether or not I was doing my part. I loved Sarah like I’d never loved anyone before, but after awhile she got fed up with all the lies and the bullshit. I kept trying to make it up to her, but I couldn’t seem to force myself to tell the truth. I find myself slipping into the same patterns even today, though Margo is much more tolerant of it (being an expert manipulator herself).
We had our ups and downs, but disaster struck a few years later, when Owen Autumn stole Sarah from me. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if we had stayed together. I guess we probably would have continued to have wild arguments and hot, dirty sex. So I guess I’m not missing much, since I have the same thing with Margo except she’s really hot.
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