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defrogI am traveling in Malaysia to edit a daily newspaper for a telephones convention that week. A PR person I know tells me that somewhere in town a South Korean tire dealer is planning to give away its entire stock. I tell her I don’t really need tires for my car, but she says, “Hey, free tires.”
Eventually I happen to be nearby the tire dealer when the giveaway starts, but when I get there most of the stock is already gone. They do have some 12” tires, which is the size I would need (at least I think it is – I’m not 100% sure) but they're not in great condition – not used, just shabby.
Shift: the B-52s are playing the convention this year, and I get a chance to interview them. Somehow this evolves into me going on tour with them while they play various shows in Malaysia. Kate Pierson and I end up being good friends, and we hang out a lot and talk about various things, though I remember mostly telling her how much I love the B-52s, and how I wish I could talk like Fred Schneider.
I also ask her how they came up with some of their stage antics, to include a “kissy doll” routine where she and Cindy Wilson would make themselves up as china dolls and kiss each other on stage (pecking style, not sexy lesbian style). Kate says she doesn’t remember, since a lot of what they did was improvised, and if it went over well, they’d repeat it for a few shows.
On the last day of the tour, the narrative shifts into a pulp-fiction novel in which Kate and I are supposed to meet the rest of the band on the other side of a river. The bridge we need to cross is a rickety wooden affair. It’s raining and the river is rising, so we figure we’d better hurry. We go back to my hotel to get my stuff, but we take a wrong turn and go the long way around to the side entrance.
We catch the hotel manager rummaging around in my room. The hotel is a bit of a fleabag, and the manager looks like Harvey Pekar. At first I think he’s crabby because he thinks I was skipping my bill, even though that doesn’t make sense because all my stuff is still in the room. But then Kate notices that he is turning on all the gas outlets in the room, as well as a large fan to circulate the gas around the whole floor.
Belligerently he shoves a matchbook in my rear jeans pocket. That’s when we realize he’s planning to burn down the hotel, collect the insurance and blame it on me (and I will have conveniently died in the explosion so I can’t contradict his story).
We make a run for it, and the manager blocks our way. I shove him and he falls onto the fan, which shreds him to pieces. I don’t actually see this, and when I look back the manager is gone but there’s no blood or indeed any sign of him at all.
“That’s not a very convincing ending,” I remark.
“I’ll take it,” says Kate. “C’mon, this place could still blow up any second.”
We leave the hotel hurriedly and head for the bridge. I suddenly realize I have no shirt and no shoes. “Damn, I left my stuff behind.”
“Got it right here,” says Kate as she pats a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed her carrying. She hands me a shirt and shoes. I put them on and we cross the bridge.
And then I woke up.
My own private Idaho,
This is dF
Eventually I happen to be nearby the tire dealer when the giveaway starts, but when I get there most of the stock is already gone. They do have some 12” tires, which is the size I would need (at least I think it is – I’m not 100% sure) but they're not in great condition – not used, just shabby.
Shift: the B-52s are playing the convention this year, and I get a chance to interview them. Somehow this evolves into me going on tour with them while they play various shows in Malaysia. Kate Pierson and I end up being good friends, and we hang out a lot and talk about various things, though I remember mostly telling her how much I love the B-52s, and how I wish I could talk like Fred Schneider.
I also ask her how they came up with some of their stage antics, to include a “kissy doll” routine where she and Cindy Wilson would make themselves up as china dolls and kiss each other on stage (pecking style, not sexy lesbian style). Kate says she doesn’t remember, since a lot of what they did was improvised, and if it went over well, they’d repeat it for a few shows.
On the last day of the tour, the narrative shifts into a pulp-fiction novel in which Kate and I are supposed to meet the rest of the band on the other side of a river. The bridge we need to cross is a rickety wooden affair. It’s raining and the river is rising, so we figure we’d better hurry. We go back to my hotel to get my stuff, but we take a wrong turn and go the long way around to the side entrance.
We catch the hotel manager rummaging around in my room. The hotel is a bit of a fleabag, and the manager looks like Harvey Pekar. At first I think he’s crabby because he thinks I was skipping my bill, even though that doesn’t make sense because all my stuff is still in the room. But then Kate notices that he is turning on all the gas outlets in the room, as well as a large fan to circulate the gas around the whole floor.
Belligerently he shoves a matchbook in my rear jeans pocket. That’s when we realize he’s planning to burn down the hotel, collect the insurance and blame it on me (and I will have conveniently died in the explosion so I can’t contradict his story).
We make a run for it, and the manager blocks our way. I shove him and he falls onto the fan, which shreds him to pieces. I don’t actually see this, and when I look back the manager is gone but there’s no blood or indeed any sign of him at all.
“That’s not a very convincing ending,” I remark.
“I’ll take it,” says Kate. “C’mon, this place could still blow up any second.”
We leave the hotel hurriedly and head for the bridge. I suddenly realize I have no shirt and no shoes. “Damn, I left my stuff behind.”
“Got it right here,” says Kate as she pats a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed her carrying. She hands me a shirt and shoes. I put them on and we cross the bridge.
And then I woke up.
My own private Idaho,
This is dF
