8. feigning big city, chapter one continued from princess bride

Surreptitiously, I seized this opportunity to expropriate myself and unfasten on the patio. Endemic to Stereofish was an elevated patio on a parking lot cornering decussate streets, brindled with multi-level parking garages, dance clubs and banks espousing very unaesthetic architecture. The view was blunt and lusterless certainly, nevertheless there was still something almost inexplicably resplendent surrounding it all. The lights of traffic and the teeming rabble tramping back and forth were curiously magnetic. It was smallish town feigning big city.

7. princess bride, chapter one continued from emo

Patrick, Chunk and Allanah collected at the pub. You’d expect that the employee’s free time would be spent away from work. These as most employees were former patrons, evincing that Stereofish really was home to staff and customers alike. It had that same measure of placidity and sanctuary. It was one of those distinct classes of places, if you were the Stereofish sort you simply didn’t patron anywhere, except Stereofish.

Allanah had insisted that I ask out her friend Paula. Patrick for some reason called her Smoochy, I believe it was because she was collared making out at the bar one night with a perfect stranger.

“Why don’t you ask out Paula?”

“Quite frankly Allanah, I’m too good for her.”

I gave Allanah my best Cary Grant quizzical arched eyebrow parody. Sort of that swashbuckling expression Cary Elwes asserts throughout The Princess Bride. Patrick exploded with overwrought paroxysm.

“Keenan, you just don’t know when to quit. You think you’re cooler than everyone else, what? You think that some people are better than others?”

Chunk and everyone else really, regarded Patrick by his surname. He interminably managed to be the whipping boy for my levity and off coloured admissions, somehow conceding culpability to my imprudence.

“Why the fuck do I always get blamed for the stuff other people say or do? Keenan! All I did was laugh. You always get me in trouble!”

I was losing it.

6. emo, chapter one continued from social liability

Peter’s appearance tempered our acrimony. Knuckles, as we affectionately called Peter (aside from punk naturally) was a classic rock enthusiast and Stereofish wetback. He had showed up for work. His rockabilly pompadour, chain wallet and SoCal skateboarder trappings typified Stereofish’s male bartender model. Knux was another musician whose band garnered a morsel of success, someone who neglected contention, was unaffected by pedantry, and personified unvarnished candor and simplicity. I mean his description in the most flattering way.

He was singing the Boston song Feeling Satisfied, signaling Max to accompany the chorus, harmonizing in falsetto.
Boston later inspired the following debate, “You ever get the feeling that these Emo pricks traded in their punk records for Boston albums”
“Yeaahh, holy shit I’ve never noticed before, but the harmony guitars in Emo are completely ripping off arena rock, and the cock.”
Peter was alluding to cock rock or bubble gum metal.
“It’s Iron Maiden, with these fuckers sticking candles and pictures of their girlfriends on their amps” Max caustically noted.
“Love the harmony guitars, yeeaah, she’s good.”
Knuckles spoke with the intonations of a stoned Italian, perhaps because he was a stoned Italian.
“Was Boston ever on Saturday Night Live?” I’d asked.
To my knowledge they never were, Max furnished his favourite SNL musical guest list, included were; Jimmy Cliff, The Specials, Madness, Elvis Costello, The Stray Cats and The Clash (subsequently, his favourite group of all time).
Knuckles’ yielded; Fishbone, Johnny Cash, The Black Crowes, George Clinton, Faith No More, Cheap Trick and Spinal Tap. It incensed Max to no end that he had forgotten to include Cheap Trick and Spinal Tap on his list.
Artists on my list provoked convulsive laughter: Morrissey, The Time, Teenage Fanclub, The Pogues, Fine Young Cannibals and Midnight Oil. Precluded from ridicule were Teenage Fanclub and The Pogues of course. Though Max snickered I know he loved that choreographed heel-toe dance thing the two guitarists in FYC had going on, fucking brilliant.

5. social liability, chapter one continued from midge ure

The next morning, Saturday, I’d resolved to work early on odd repair and restoration though Stereofish didn’t open until 7:00 P.M. More notably, I wanted to apologize to Kara, determined to expose my distress at her set up scheme, and articulate my affection for her.

I’d taken the chance that she was working that afternoon. I picked up the phone at Stereofish and dialed.

“The Liquor Store, Kara speaking”

“Hi Kara, it’s Greg, uh, I have to apologize about last night and...”

“It’s o.k. I know it’s about Brenda….”

“It’s something else, I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, are you free for lunch, or on second thought do you get a supper break?”

“How about I come by after work, what’s this about?’

“That’s great...um, I’ll explain when you get here tonight alright?’

A part of me knew that Kara hadn’t come by last night to set me up with Poo.

That evening Max was choleric, his petulance, an effectuation (he explained) of a day spent listening to his lawyer crack wise about queers, chinks and fat sluts. It’s a thing we’ve always held in common, our contempt for insipience manifest in racism, sexism or discrimination. He then launched into a gloriously sarcastic and sardonic impression of Richard Nixon.

“The point I make is that goddammit, I do not think that you glorify on public TV homosexuality. You know what happened to the Greeks? Homosexuality destroyed them. Sure, Aristotle was a homo, we all know that. So was Socrates. The last six emperors were fags.”

It should be accepted that possessing a position of jurisdiction, dominion or privilege would carry certain social ethical liability or convention however ignorance persists, irrelative to caste or education. Max was gifted with deftness at impersonation. It was his favourite resource for ridicule or persiflage when baiting staff, or strangers for that matter. I was told he performed a dead on parody of myself, I never want to see it.

4. if I was midge ure, chapter one continued from social distortion

There she was, seated on the patio. Kara had brought two co-workers with her from the liquor store. I had intended to rescue Max from (the skinny albino) white t-shirt guy if not for fate’s obtrusion. Subsequently, I hate it when people bandy the word fate about. They mean chance or whim in lieu of fate. We construct our own fortunes and call them fate and that’s what I mean by it.

“Hi Kara, hey everyone mind if I join you.”

My familiarity with Kara’s co-workers wasn’t liquor store preclusive. Both visited Stereofish on occasion. The nice one was named Amanda. She was reservedly soft spoken, pretty and at the age of twenty-three had a mouth charged with braces. Amanda's braces, partnered by a slight lisp made her quite adorable actually. The other in contrast was neurotic, inurbane and liverish-its name was Brenda. However, owing to a tattoo of Winnie the Poo, Max preferred the appellation Poo-bear.

“I’m going to the bar to get a drink, anybody need anything.”

Kara gestured to me.

“I’m fine thanks, I get them for free remember, which reminds me, I’m buying.”

“No thanks, I’ve got it.”

“I’ll come with you.” Amanda whispered.

Amanda and Kara disappeared into a crowd, leaving me solely in the care of Poo-bear.

“Get me a pint of Strongbow.”

Her bellowing voice couldn’t have been more unpleasing.

Poo became intensely unstrung, her peculiar conduct enhanced by continuous flustering and twisting. We barely exchanged words before Kara and Amanda had returned. Regretfully, as soon as Kara sat down, she leapt up out of her seat again and excused herself to the washroom.

“I’ll join you.”

So both Amanda and Kara disappeared once again.

Poo was squirming in her seat, her contorted face reminded me of that scene in Total Recall where Arnold gets ejected onto the surface of Mars without a respirator.

“Oh man, you bitches are dead.”

Her breath was weighty and shortened. She flip-flopped her hair from side to side, held her face in her hands, rinsed and repeated.

“So, do you take any time off?”

Before I answered and before she could impose any further questions I quickly excused myself.

“Sorry, could you pardon me for one minute I have to check on something. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Fuck, I couldn’t believe this. Poo Bear liked me. Believe me, my certitude (in interpretation) derived from recognizing that nervous performance all too many times before. I’ve enacted it myself in reversed roles. Fucking figures, this was typically ironic. I liked Kara and she came here to set me up with fucking Poo Bear. The only campaign left to engage in now, was to immediately reveal my feelings to Kara. This required distinct valiancy and maturity. Instead I opted to hide in the office and not for a while mind you. I resolved to lock myself in for the duration of the evening repeatedly listening to if I was by Midge Ure. A song transformed into a guilty pleasure by endless ridicule from staff. In my defense, the song did hit number one on September 14, 1985 in U.K. pop charts. Granted that was over fifteen years ago. Regardless, the guy co-wrote do they know its Christmas with Sir Bob Geldof. Thank God no one saw me in the office that night, I had overcome my misery by pumping my arms at keyboard bridges and lip synching over and over- if I was her lover, her eyes and kisses I would cover- come here my baby, oh they can’t touch you now, I’ll keep you safe and warm, I’ll never leave you at all.

A loud rap on the door punctured the concerto. I scrambled to shut off the music.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

“Brother, open the door. Some chick Kara’s out here and she wants to talk to you man.” D.J. Mark’s melodic enunciations were unmistakable. I’d characterize Mark as the most soulful white man in history. He spoke with soul. His intonations never sounded labored or derisive. Organ Donor by D.J. Shadow stuttered in the background. I’d endured my cowardice long enough .On the way through the kitchen from my office I reached for the adjoining door to the bar. At that juncture my friend Danny burst through the door. I had briefed him on my disappointment on the way to office exile.

“You are not going out there dude, Poo-Bear is bawling her eye’s out and asking for you”

“Well, what the fuck is with that? She doesn’t know that I don’t like her. She’s fucking thirty years old, what does she have to cry about? This is ridiculous. I’m so ridiculous for being a coward. I’m going to talk to Kara.”

Stretching again for the door, I collided with Patrick the other bartender on shift that evening.

“Where you headed buddy?”

“I’m going to the bar to straighten out this mess, it’s out of hand”

“I can’t let you do it bud. That chick is acting like a lunatic. Man, I don’t know what you said to her but she’s making a huge scene out there. She’s crying and wants to apologize about something. She told me to tell you that she’s sorry.”

“What the fuck does she have to be sorry for? She can’t possibly know that I’m hiding from her. It’s a busy night, for all she knows I got caught up stocking beer.”

“It’s up to you bud, if you want a bad scene on your hands go ahead, get out there.”

That’s how the evening closed out. I’d left Kara stranded at the bar, the opportunity to enjoy her company vandalized by my infantilism. I thought about Kara on the long drive home.

3. social distortion, chapter one continued from johnny thunders

July 16^th, birthday of Stewart Copeland from the Police. It’s characteristically slow early evening. The crowd never converged until eleven p.m. (then at capacity) every night, regardless of special event or holiday. I’ve never understood this synchronous proclivity. Poor Max had, in typical fashion been ambushed by white t-shirt guy. Max and I had dubbed him that because we couldn’t remember his name. Primarily though, because of his anomalous partiality to wearing clean, immaculately pressed, plain white crew neck t-shirts exclusively. Never colour, button down, long sleeve, pullover, hoody or even a fucking white v-neck t-shirt since we’ve had the misfortune of knowing him. Another incongruity I recently noticed is that he seemingly never blinks. He has this grotesquely incessant stare.

“I just wanted to come over and know how it felt to be in the presence of a Punk rock God.”

Max had tucked his head into his chest to constrict or conceal his laughter. White t-shirt guy’s sycophancy amused Max. It had nothing to do with the authenticity or contradiction of his statement. Its intent and sincerity in question was funny and sometimes you simply forget that a weird guy will say weird things. A little about Max, he’s the rudder of Stereofish, others would call him the manager. There wouldn’t be a Stereofish if not for his counsel, principles and intellect. Max has been described aesthetically as a sort of cross between Elvis Presley and Mike Ness from Social Distortion, he consequently despises both comparisons. Like the clientele he is artfully decorated in tattoos (mostly of the skull variety) and yes he did play in a punk rock band that procured modest, very moderate success.

2. johnny thunders, chapter one continued from synchronicity

I once climbed to a girl’s third storey window, placing flowers at the casement. She phoned me the next weekend, complaining that the decomposition was stinking up her apartment. There was a screen on the window preventing her from removing them. I immediately replaced them with a plastic arrangement. Life is speckled with a garden variety of ironies. Some incidental or even occur ineffably. Others are cultivated from the fruits of labour. Occasionally, these two flourish together.

I imagine it’s about time I introduced myself. I’m Greg. I own this brilliant pub called Stereofish. The place is overwhelmed by James Dean clones, differing exclusively by the fact that they’re sleeved in tattoos. The women’s looks intimate Betty Page, tattoos withstanding. To our customers the seduction is music. We are the only bar in the city that offers punk nightly. Although, it’s not just punk music, every alternative genre you can think of-stuff like Bowery Electric, The Stone Roses, The Specials, Neutral Milk Hotel, Public Enemy, DJ Shadow, the Pixies and The International Noise Conspiracy. Sometimes it’s just really good rock and roll, like The John Spencer Blues Explosion, MC5, Iggy and the Stooges, Rocket from the Crypt, The Supersuckers and Guitar Wolf. You’d probably hear The Jackson 5 and Stevie Wonder on any given night as well. Sophomoric jocks and the dance bar crowd colorfully discern Stereofish as “the fag bar”. I shouldn’t use the word discern in my description of them, they lack the consciousness of perception or just plain propriety.

It’s July 15^th, the birth dates of Ian Curtis, Johnny Thunders and Trevor Horne of the Buggles-they’re the ones that sang video killed the radio star. Consequently, a song I’ve always hated, on many levels. Most momentous of all, today is the day that I meet Kara and the beginning to an episode that could nurture lyrical content to a thousand Emo bands.

I was at the liquor store picking up Canadian Club, Bombay Sapphire, Stoly or blah, blah, blah, provision for Stereo Fish, ambling through the aisles when it happened.

“Hi my name is Kara” hand outstretched, it was the girl from behind the counter.

“Hi, I’m Greg.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you”.

She spoke in a manner that was both urbane and affable.

“I’m very pleased to meet you too.”

There was momentary confusion, what had just happened here? Could it be that this girl liked me or was she just being helpful? And why had I become infatuated already? My friend Maxim theorizes that you have inclinations towards certain people because you’re subconsciously cognizant that they’re attracted to you primarily. Simplified, you like them because they like you. That’s not to say you recognize this in reality, and it’s certainly not exclusive to all forms of attraction, primarily lust.

“You own Stereofish don’t you?”

Kara’s question induced a deluge of questions and acknowledgments like, I know so and so who works there, and do you remember this band that played there? Finally, it had led to what I most wanted to hear.

“What nights are you there? I might want to come by and visit you.”

Normally, the thought of requited affection would propel me into some sort of puerile anxiety. But it hadn’t, there was something comforting about Kara.

“Would you like to come by tomorrow, I’m at Stereofish all night.”

Kara nodded in confirmation.

1. Chapter 1 synchronicity

13 songs to learn and sing
1. Iggy and the Stooges - Search and destroy
2. DJ Shadow- Organ donor
3. Morrissey - Satan rejected my soul
4. Guitar Wolf - Fujiyama attack
5. Rocket from the Crypt - On a rope
6. Neutral Milk Hotel - Holland 1945
7. Bowery Electric - Without stopping
8. Toots and the Maytels - 54-46 that's my number
9. The Wedding Present - Brassneck
10. The Pixies - Trompe Le Monde
11. Primal Scream - Loaded
12. My Bloody Valentine - Soon
13. The Walkmen - Everyone who pretended to like me is gone

Chapter 1

The Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen paradox proceeds as follows. Quantum mechanics predicts that once two particles have been near each other, they continue to instantaneously affect each other no matter how widely they may be separated. The fact that two separated elementary particles can act in concert has no explanation. This, my friends, is also the essence of synchronicity. The world we live in is checkered with harmonies and coincidences that have no explanation. They just happen. For example, you may recall an old friend and apparently out of the blue they phone you, or turn up at your doorstep. Perhaps, you might want the solution to a question and then find it apparently by chance, in a newspaper article you happen to be reading. Which brings me to irony

The following story is gospel and utterly true. About three years ago an old friend living in Detroit phoned quite unexpectedly, at the time I was listening to the song Deathwatch by Art Bergman. He began to outline a dream his cousin Alexia recently had, a requiem prophesizing my death. She had compelled him to call me. I pissed my pants laughing and ridiculed the poor bastard to death. Secretly though, it gave me the creeps.

Four days later I received another phone call in the form of an obituary, the somber announcement that Alexia’s mother had passed away. Her brother Nick and I had always been childhood friends. However, we adopted career preferences that led us to contrary paths. Eventually we lost touch for the most part. Hundreds of friends and family members attended the succeeding funeral. Following the obsequies Nick quietly fractured the crowd and harbored beside me.

“Alexia told me about the dream she had of your death and I thought, so? What’s the connection? But somehow I knew that I was forgetting something. Then, I finally remembered. By the way, happy birthday”, he recalled and walked away.

I couldn’t believe that he had remembered my birthday. More importantly, why hadn’t I noticed this fact sooner myself-his mother had passed away on my birthday. I later discovered it was on the exact hour that I was born.

Did it mean that this uncanny conjunction bordered on mysticism, or a transcendental message from beyond? Consider the fact that there are voices and images unfailingly, flowing through and around us. They take the form of cellular communication, radio and satellite signals among others. It sounds ghostly, to someone who, for example has never seen television. The last thing I want to do is champion new age wishful thinking or speculation. The thought of it makes me sick. But, maybe there are mechanisms that exist at a level we aren’t capable of recognizing. Then again as the old adage goes, if you roll a dice long enough…..

songbook

Salutations everyone. My name is Greg White. I once owned a bar called Stereofish. No, that wasn't it's real name but for now I will keep it a secret. The point is that I am composing a book called Stereofish. All descriptions and narratives are true but but presented as fiction. Summarized, the book is about love, music, synchronicity and quantum mechanics. I recognize that it is a bizarre combination, but it's absoluely true. Stick through it and you'll see what I'm talking about. I hope you enjoy my ramblings and I look forward to your feedback.