DEVO Stands for De-evolution, and I Stand For The Death of Death. [Part 1]
As soon as I thought of the following idea I told it to Gunnhild. She was not as impressed. I would later find out that the idea currently circling this text in a holding pattern is not all that impressive. (As an aside, I ask you, Q: what is more pleasurable than the construction/fulfillment/destruction of an idea? A: for me, nothing. For some, drinking.)
The Idea: Gunnhild, a beautiful Norwegian women, loved drinking. Not just alcohol at night, but all liquid at any time. Of this I was sure. In the mornings we spent together, after all that mornings bring to those fortunate enough to be in love (or at least bed together), I would brought her a cup of coffee or coco as the ultimate expression of my love. In the afternoon we would talk about how much we drank the night before, and how excited we were about drinking later in the evening. At night we would drink as much as we could.
The unimpressiveness of the following idea was confirmed by llyn, another beautiful women albeit of Taiwanese descent, in New York approximately three days ago.
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(one of the most informative topics VICE magazine broached in its early days was the question of whether or not to publish the names of their favorite places to drink & eat. They feared that publishing the names of their favorite places would catalyze a hipster stampede. They feared being overrun by people who read VICE magazine, who are nothing if not contemptible. (Right?) They ended up publishing the names of the places and they lived to regret it. Now they alternate between naming fictitious places and advertising the places that give them the most money. It is call running an “advertorial” and your favorite local indie weekly paper does it too. However, they can call it BEST OF BOSTON or something equally monolithic and thus full of shit).
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Q: What is better than a drink around town?
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A: Pizza. (which are free with every drink at Alligator lounge). Between bars I mentioned my theory about Gunnhild and drinking to Jeb and the company that had joined us. llyn replied by stating that she too loved to drink in the manner I described. Turns out, the claim on idiosyncrasy that undergird my theory was naive. I miss Gunnhild nevertheless. But I digress. Drinks in a Thai restaurant turned into dranks at Pete’s Candy Shop. As the place was filled with yuppies when we ventured in, someone in our party became upset as he loved drinking there with people of his own ilk, or, at least, those with a disposition that reflected interests that he could learn from. But, fear not, our dispositions were not dampened! (But, I must admit, the silent desperation of the yuppies lifestyle makes any frivolity on their part seem seem hollow and saturated with deservedness [the hobgoblin of happiness and conviviality!]!). After glugging a few dark brews we ventured further into the night. Our cheeks were aflame with gaiety as the sun retired into the horizon. The Evening came upon us as we rested in a Polish bar that only played 80s heavy metal music. Something someone somewhere would come to love insofar as I am an other to the inner voice that guides me. Nevertheless, it was not long before Night fell and we rushed off to an Art Gallery with the promise of free wine.
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Oh, how dismal the space that carries the burden of unfulfillable dreams and heartless dreamers! For the lowly aspiration of creating art to become rich, to play music for fame, was enough to invite me to unfurl my rope ladder and descend from the apex our jovial time, our loving friendships! This time, manifesting in joyous outbursts of mad laughter and hysterical embraces of hands, mouths and breasts, had a momentum of its own. And so before I had my foot on the first rung, Jeb ignited the pyrotechnics of the soul by walking full-force into a sculpture, ruining its pristine inanity! It was there, at that moment that Jeb, the bard-sage, reminded me that these failed artists, as well as the Yuppies, only looked so small because we were looking at them from on high! Long live performance art! Long Live the barrens of Art Sabotage!.
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Outside, huddled upon each other so as to enjoy fruits of a renegade horticulturist (Could our forefathers see the day when we would speak of illegal fruit!) we partook in the secular communion of life. We finished the sacred act by washing it down with the Fremen’s Water of life. Wild-eyed, disjointed from a world that could only know us by our Christian names and not as we truly were, we entered the subterranean snake nest and arrived 31 years earlier at the venue where DEVO played their first album to jeb, llyn and I for the first time.
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Something changed as soon as the show finished.
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We retied to a French restaurant for some red and white. Jeb told stories of times in Amsterdam (where he met llyn and I) and Greece (where he drank Ouzo) as llyn and I fought off the weight of slumber. “Tis heavy” I remarked upon remembering the advice of my father. With his words in mind I shuttled myself off to the bathroom, but not before grabbing a handful of ice from an ice bucket. Locked within the holiest of holiest, I place the ice in my underwear. I returned to the table, with what must have been a rather queer gait, with my eyes full of alertness. As the hand’s of the clock waved goodbye to the night, the ice melted and slumber again pursued me.We were joined by more friends and with them more wine. Time grew short as I had a bus to catch at 4:30am. I was to give a paper at the first annual North American Anarchist Scholars Conference in Ct. at 10am the next day and I had yet to compose a conclusion for it. When the last glass was emptied, I kissed Jeb and wished him all that one can wish a friend upon departure. llyn did the same and we, with tears in our eyes and drunk on spice, entered the urban desert to once again venture into the subterranean depths. We needed a metal worm that would deliver us to Port Authority. It arrived momentarily.
