Sachiho, the 90s Girl among the foursome with the most tenacious grasp on English, tried to get the skinny across to Vanna and Judy. The latest DC from 90s Girl had topped out at 200,000 units, which was major commercial action in Tokyo pop circles, but peanuts compared to the legendary American pop market. 90s Girl, who nourished a blazing determination to become the o-goruden bando—great golden band—of Nipponese hard-rock, were determined to break the US through dogged club-touring. A college-circuit alternative radio network based in Georgia had reluctantly agreed to get them some American gigs.
The band members of 90s Girl had already spent plenty of vacation-time slumming in Manhattan, skin-diving in Guam, and skiing in Utah, so they figured they had the Yankee scene aced. Any serious commercial analysis of the American rock scene made it obvious that most of the wannabe acts in America were supporting themselves with narcotics trafficking. This was the real nature of the American rock’n’roll competitive advantage.
The Tokyo-based management of 90s Girl had therefore made a careful market-study of American drug-consumption patterns and concluded that RU-486 was the hot and coming commodity. RU-486 was non-addictive, didn’t show up on the user, and it was not yet controlled by Yankee mafia, Jamaican dope-posses, or heavily armed Colombians. The profit potential was bright, the consumers relatively non-violent, and the penalties for distribution still confused.
90s Girl planned to sell the capsules through a network of metal-chick cult-fans in Arizona, Texas, Georgia, Florida, and North Carolina, with a final big blow-out in Brooklyn if they had any dope left when they finished their tour.
“This management of yours,” Mr. Judy said. “The people doing all this market analysis. They’re not men, are they?”
“Oh no,” said Sachiho. “Never, never.”
“Great.” Mr. Judy handed over her backpack. 90s Girl began stuffing dope into their camera cases.
Footsteps approached.
The assorted smugglers glanced around wildly for an escape route. There was none. The pro-life forces had deployed themselves with cunning skill. Enemies blocked each of the rotunda exits, in groups of six.
Their leader muscled his way to the fore. “Caught you red-handed!” he announced gleefully in the sullen silence. “You’ll hand that contraband over now, if you please.”
“Forget it,” Mr. Judy said.
“You’re not leaving this building with that wicked poison in your possession,” the leader assured her. “We won’t allow it.”
Mr. Judy glared at him. “What’re you gonna do, Mr. Nonviolence? Preach us to death?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said grimly, veins protruding on the sides of his throat. “If you resist us violently, then we’ll mace you with pepper-spray. We’ll superglue your bodies to the floor of the Capitol, and leave you there soaked in bottled blood, with placards around your necks, fully describing your awful crimes.” Two of the nonviolent thugs began vigorously shaking aerosol cans.
“You Salvation?” Starlitz asked. He slipped his hand inside his photographer’s vest.
“Some people call me that,” the leader said. He was tall and clear-eyed and clean-shaven. He had a large nose and close-set eyes and wore a blue denim shirt and brown sans-a-belt slacks. He looked completely undistinguished. He looked like the kind of guy who might own a bowling alley. The only remarkable quality about Salvation was that he clearly meant every word he said.
“You might as well forget about that gun, sir,” he said. “You can’t massacre all of us, and we’re not afraid to die in the service of humanity. And in any case, we’re videotaping this entire encounter. If you murder us, you’ll surely pay a terrible price.” He clapped his hand on the shoulder of a companion with a videocam.
The guy with the minicam spoke up in an anxious whisper, which the odd acoustics of the rotunda carried perfectly. “Uh, Salvation … something’s gone wrong with the camera …”
“How’d you know we were here?” Mr. Judy demanded.
“We’re monitoring the Capitol’s security cameras,” Salvation said triumphantly, gesturing at an overhead surveillance unit. “You’re not the only people in the world who can hack computers, you know!” He took a deep breath. “You’re not the only people who can sing We Shall Overcome. You’re not the only ones who can raise consciousness, and hold sit-ins, and block streets!” He laughed harshly. “You thought you were the Revolution. You thought you were the New Age. Well, ladies, we are the change. We’re the Revolution now!”
Suddenly, and without warning, a great buzzing voice echoed down the hall behind him. “Up against the wall!” It was the cry of a police bullhorn.
A squad of heavily armed Secret Service agents burst headlong into the rotunda, in a flying wedge. Salvation’s little knot of pro-lifers scattered and fell like bowling pins.
At the sight of the charging federal agents, Vanna, Mr. Judy, and Starlitz each sat down immediately, almost reflexively, tucking their laced hands behind their heads. The four members of 90s Girl sat up a little straighter, and watched bemused.
The feds surged through the rotunda like red-dogging linebackers. The pro-lifers blocking the other exits panicked and started to flee headlong, but were tackled and fell thrashing.
A redheaded woman in jeans and a blue-and-yellow Secret Service windbreaker danced into the rotunda, and lifted her bullhorn again. “The building’s surrounded by federal agents!” she bellowed electronically. “I advise you dumb bastards to surrender peacefully!”
Her yell tore through the echoing rotunda like God shouting through a tin drum. The pro-lifers, stunned, went limp and nonresisting. She lowered her bullhorn and smiled at the sight of them, then nudged a nearby agent. “Read ’em their Miranda rights, Ehrlichman.”
The fed, methodically bending over groups of his captured prey, began reading aloud from a laminated index card. The pro-lifers grunted in anguish as they were seized with cunning Secret Service judo-holds, then trussed like turkeys with whip-thin lengths of plastic handcuff.
The woman with the bullhorn approached the assorted smugglers, stopping by their Sony boom box. “Jane O’Houlihan, Utah Attorney General’s office,” she announced crisply, exhibiting a brass badge.
Mr. Judy looked up brightly. “How do you do, Ms. O’Houlihan? I think you’d better take it easy on these Japanese nationals. They’re tourists, and don’t have anything to do with this.”
“How fuckin’ stupid do you think I am?” O’Houlihan said. She sighed aloud. “You’re sure lucky these pro-life dorks are wanted on a Kansas warrant for aggravated vandalism. Otherwise you and me would all be goin’ downtown.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Vanna told her timidly, wide-eyed.
O’Houlihan glared at them. “I’d bust you clowns in a hot second, only it would complicate my prosecution to bring you jerks into the picture … Besides, these dipshits just hacked a State Police video installation. They screwed it up, too, the cameras have been malfin’ like crazy all morning … That’s a Section 1030 federal computer-intrusion offense! They’re gonna break rocks!”
“It’s certainly good to know that a sister is fully in charge of this situation,” Mr. Judy said, tentatively lifting her hands from the nape of her neck. “These right-wing vigilantes are a menace to all women’s civil rights.”
“Sister me no sisterhood,” O’Houlihan said, deftly prodding Mr. Judy with one Adidas-clad foot. “I didn’t see you worthless New Age libbies lifting one damn finger to help me when I was busting check-forgers in the county attorney’s office.”
“We don’t even live around here,” Vanna protested. “We’re from Ore—I mean, we’re from another state.”
“Yeah? Well, welcome to Utah, the Beehive State. Next time stay the fuck out of my jurisdiction.”
A Secret Service agent clomped over. His sleeveless Kevlar flak jacket now hung loose, its Velcro tabs dangling. He looked very tough indeed. He looked as if he could bite bricks in half. “Any problem here, Jan
ie?”
O’Houlihan smiled at him winningly. “None at all, Bob. These are just small-time losers … Besides, there seems to be an international angle.” Sachiho, Ako, Hukie and Sayoko looked up impassively, their mascaraed eyes gone blank with sullen global-teenager Bohemianism.
“International, huh?” Bob muttered, gazing at the girl-group as if they’d just arrived via saucer from Venus. “That would let the Bureau in …” Bob adjusted his Ray-Bans. “Okay, Janie, if you say so, I guess they walk. But be sure and upload their dossiers to Washington.”
“Will do!” O’Houlihan beamed.
Bob was reluctant. “You’re damned sure they didn’t try to get into any police systems?”
“They’re not that smart,” O’Houlihan told him. Bob nodded and returned to his cohorts, who were hauling handcuffed pro-lifers, by their armpits, face first down the echoing corridors. The arrestees wailed in anguish and struggled fitfully as their shoulders began to dislocate.
O’Houlihan raised the bullhorn to her lips. “Take it easy on ’em, boys! Remember, one of them is a secret federal informant.” O’Houlihan lowered the bullhorn and grinned wickedly.
“We don’t raid police systems,” Mr. Judy assured her. “We wouldn’t ever, ever raid federal computers.”
“I know you don’t,” O’Houlihan said, with a chilly I-know-all cop’s smile. “But if you little hippie bitches don’t knock it off with the toll-fraud scams, you’re gonna do time.” She examined her polished nails. “If I ever meet you again, you’re gonna regret it. Now get lost before I change my mind.”
The seven contraceptive conspirators immediately fled the building. The unlucky pro-life agitators, now beginning to argue violently among themselves, were being flung headlong into a series of white Chevy vans. “Whew,” Vanna said. “That could have been us!”
“I think that’s supposed to be us,” Mr. Judy said, confused. “I mean, it always was us before … I guess that’s what they get for trying to be us.”
“Boy, that cop Jane sure is …” Vanna drew a breath … “attractive.”
Mr. Judy cast her a sharp and jealous look. “Come on! She’s the heat!”
“So what?” Vanna shot back, wounded. “I can’t help it if she happens to be ’way hot.”
“Great,” Mr. Judy said sourly. “Well, we’d better blow this nowhere burg before your girlfriend puts a tail on us.”
“What about the Mormon Meteor?” Starlitz demanded.
“Have you gone completely insane?” Mr. Judy said. “The place is swarming with feds!”
“Not anymore,” Starlitz said. “This is the perfect time to boost it. They’ll blame it on Salvation’s crowd!”
Sachiho, who had been listening with interest, spoke up suddenly. “It’s cool car,” she remarked. “Gnarly American car to buy for trade balance. I like it excellent! Let’s rent it and make cool video like ZZ Top.”
“Great fuckin’ idea!” Starlitz said.
“We have a perfectly good van that’s a lot more use,” Mr. Judy said.
Sachiho looked utterly blank. “Wakarimasen … I think we Nineties Girl have to go rehearse now.” She did a little serpentine side-step. “Good-bye to you forever, okay? Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” She quipped something in Japanese to the others. They began laughing merrily and bounced off down the stairs.
“Now that’s attitude,” Starlitz said admiringly, watching them go. “Those gals have got some real dress sense, too.”
“But we’re done here now, Leggy,” Vanna said. “I thought you couldn’t wait to go see the kid.”
Starlitz grunted.
Mr. Judy took Vanna by the wrist. “I’ve got to level with you about that issue, Leggy.”
Starlitz stopped gazing in admiration and looked up. “Yeah?”
“There isn’t any kid.”
Starlitz said nothing. His face clouded.
“Look, Leggy, think about it. We’re abortionists. We know what to do about unwanted pregnancies. There never was a kid. We made up the kid after you came back from Europe.”
“No kid, huh,” Starlitz said. “You burned me.”
Mr. Judy nodded somberly.
“It was all a scam, huh? Just some big scheme you came up with to lead me around with.” He laughed sharply. “Jesus, I can’t believe you thought that would work.”
“Sorry, Leggy. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don’t hold it against us.”
Starlitz laughed. “You did it just because I got absent-minded that time, and didn’t bring you back your dope. I got a little distracted, so you shaft me! Well, to hell with you! Good-bye forever, suckers.”
Suddenly Starlitz ran downhill, headlong, after the retreating Japanese. “Hey!” he bellowed. “Girls! Nineties Girls! Matte ite kudasai! Roadie-san wa arimasu ka?”
Vanna and Judy watched as Starlitz vanished with the Japanese behind a line of trees.
“Why’d you lie to him like that?” Vanna said. “That was terrible.”
Mr. Judy pulled a jingling set of keys from her pocket. “ ’Cause we need that van of his, that’s why. Let’s drive it off back to Oregon while we’ve got the chance.”
“He’ll get mad,” Vanna said. “And he knows where we live. He’ll come back for all his stuff.”
“Sure, we’ll see him again all right,” Mr. Judy said. “In four years or something. He’ll never miss the stuff, or us, in the meantime. When he sees something he really wants, he doesn’t have any more sense than a blood-crazed weasel.”
“You’re not being very fair,” Vanna said.
“That’s just the way he is … We can’t depend on him for anything. We don’t dare depend on him. He can’t think politically.” Mr. Judy took a deep breath. “And even if he could think politically, he’s basically motivated by the interests of the macho-imperialist oppressor class.”
“I was thinking mechanically,” Vanna said. “We had a really rough ride through the desert, and we just lost our only mechanic. I sure hope that van starts.”
“Of course it’s gonna start!” Mr. Judy said, annoyed. “You think we did all those years of work, and organizing, and consciousness-raising, and took all those risks, just to end up here in the world capital of reactionary family-values bullshit, with our engine grinding uselessly, unable to move one inch off dead center? That’s ridiculous.”
Vanna said nothing. Contemplating the possibility had made her go a little pale.
“We’re gonna drive it off easy as pie,” Mr. Judy insisted. “And we’ll change the paint first thing. We’ll lose that dumb-ass televangelist logo, and paint it up as something really cool and happening. Like a portable notary service, or a digital bookmobile.”
Vanna bit her lip. “I’m still worried … The kid’s gonna want to know all about her father someday. She’ll demand to know. Don’t you think so?”
“No, I don’t,” Mr. Judy said, with complete conviction. “She’ll never even have to ask.”
DORI BANGS
True facts, mostly: Lester Bangs was born in California in 1948. He published his first article in 1969. It came over the transom at Rolling Stone. It was a frenzied review of the MC5’s “Kick Out the Jams.”
Without much meaning to, Lester Bangs slowly changed from a Romilar-guzzling college kid into a “professional rock critic.” There wasn’t much precedent for this job in 1969, so Lester kinda had to make it up as he went along. Kind of smell his way into the role, as it were. But Lester had a fine set of cultural antennae. For instance, Lester invented the tag “punk rock.” This is posterity’s primary debt to the Bangs oeuvre.
Lester’s not as famous now as he used to be, because he’s been dead for some time, but in the ’70s Lester wrote a million record reviews, for Creem and the Village Voice and NME and Who Put the Bomp. He liked to crouch over his old manual typewriter, and slam out wild Beat-influenced copy, while the Velvet Underground or the Stooges were on the box. This made life a hideous trial for the neighborhood, but in Lester�
�s opinion the neighborhood pretty much had it coming. Epater les bourgeois, man!
Lester was a party animal. It was a professional obligation, actually. Lester was great fun to hang with, because he usually had a jagged speed-edge, which made him smart and bold and rude and crazy. Lester was a one-man band, until he got drunk. Nutmeg, Romilar, belladonna, crank, those substances Lester could handle. But booze seemed to crack him open, and an unexpected black dreck of rage and pain would come dripping out, like oil from a broken crankcase.
Toward the end—but Lester had no notion that the end was nigh. He’d given up the booze, more or less. Even a single beer often triggered frenzies of self-contempt. Lester was thirty-three, and sick of being groovy; he was restless, and the stuff he’d been writing lately no longer meshed with the surroundings that had made him what he was. Lester told his friends that he was gonna leave New York and go to Mexico and work on a deep, serious novel, about deep, serious issues, man. The real thing, this time. He was really gonna pin it down, get into the guts of Western Culture, what it really was, how it really felt.
But then, in April ’82, Lester happened to catch the flu. Lester was living alone at the time, his mom, the Jehovah’s Witness, having died recently. He had no one to make him chicken soup, and the flu really took him down. Tricky stuff, flu; it has a way of getting on top of you.
Lester ate some Darvon, but instead of giving him that buzzed-out float it usually did, the pills made him feel foggy and dull and desperate. He was too sick to leave his room, or hassle with doctors or ambulances, so instead he just did more Darvon. And his heart stopped.
There was nobody there to do anything about it, so he lay there for a while, until eventually a friend showed up, and found him.
More true fax, pretty much: Dori Seda was born in 1951. She was a cartoonist, of the “underground” variety. Dori wasn’t ever famous, certainly not in Lester’s league, but then she didn’t beat her chest and bend every ear in the effort to make herself a Living Legend, either. She had a lot of friends in San Francisco, anyway.
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