In the true spirit of tangentialism, digression, asides, run-on sentences, and general blathering tendencies we’re not going to go right to the heart of this story. The meat, that is, shall be there in due time, but not before we all endure some discussion of what it is like to live in The Heartland.
Have you ever heard of, or experienced, a Midwestern Crisis? That is, other than the short-lived punk rock band of the same name? This real-life, true predicament-slash-catastrophe is about having to grow up and reside in this barren wasteland. It is not something you can simply wash off. Desolate geographically. Desolate economically. Desolate culturally, worst of all. Actual people, as opposed to rudimentary animals with thumbs, are few. Many struggle with letters and numbers, focusing instead on putting the key in to go, and shotgun operation
And they’re well-versed in a broad spectrum of hatred. This may start each day when one of two things occur: either the alarm clock goes off, or they are affronted with a vision of themselves in the mirror. So, not necessarily in order thereafter, comes hatred of black people. Then, hate of any type of “ferner,” especially Mexican people. Special hatred is reserved for gay people. “City folks” as a whole are thoroughly detested. And let’s not forget those damned godless commie pinko liberals: How dare they?!
Let us not hold back here. We’re not going to hide. We speak from experience, firsthand, having been raised in the Tall Corn State. There is not a city or town in the entire state that we have not been to. If you beg to differ, go knock yourself out. Get published in some other learned journal of literature. We don’t care. Criticism is welcome. Chances are, some good people could be caught up here in the whole messy swath of a broad brushstroke.
That’s how life works. Tough shit. Own it, and move on. The discerning reader will recognize the beauty and simplicity, will be able to take a joke amicably, embrace the Art of Life.
We hate those who say it, but: “That said…” an average Iowan has had far too much to eat. Thus, the prevalence of 5X T-shirts, and the “husky” department down to the store. Excuses abound: genetics, zero exercise, zero ambition, eight-inch thick pork chops, laziness, and television addiction. Many individuals develop the Standard Iowa Beer Belly. Excessive beer can draining only partially explains the phenomenon of the stereotypical frontal protuberance that no T-shirt of any size can fully disguise. Still no apologies. This is truth.
Your common Beer Belly Bob shops at Fleet Farm or Farm and Fleet, whichever. There, they load up on cases of shotgun shells and other survival gear. No tellin’ when the goddamn Democrats are gonna come to take their guns and rights away! Ya gotta be ready. This worry occupies fully one-third of the limited brainscape of the average Bob.
The remaining ingredients come from the state liquor store. Funny and ironic that such rabid anti-communist morons have no problem purchasing cheap beer, Everclear and Jack Daniel’s from the very government that has created a socialist monopoly on all booze. It’s laziness, again. Who wants to drive all the way to Moline or Rock Island to prove a point? Billy Bobs always select their purchases in “jug” size. Yep, saves a trip. We’re talking about individuals who desperately need belts on their jeans, which have fat butt cheeks creeping out the top, and glistening, sweaty, glaring ass cracks proudly visible in between. We are not kidding or exaggerating. Just a terribly unscenic vista of Americana…
Now stuff the whole kit and caboodle into a dusty pickup truck and the equation is nearly complete. Maybe you’ve seen the road signs along rural routes with the shotgun dings rusting out all over them? Yes, that was Beer Belly Bob going about, fulfilling his destiny, being all that he’ll ever be. You’ll never catch him in the act of shooting one of these signs. That’s because Bob is a bit of a wuss. Look, with a no brain, no pain mentality, he doesn’t even know enough to recognize his own personal Midwestern Crisis.
Whether it be the 1980s, or nowadays, many young people would agree that Iowa is a good place to grow up, to learn about the realities of the Crisis, and then get the hell as far away from there as possible. It is a place where a person’s brain could wilt on the vine. But Iowa City? There’s a glimmer of hope, like a diamond in the rough. Smart, creative and beautiful (it is said) people from all over the world gather there, at least for a while. Some even stay on forever, having fun, thumbing their noses at Beer Belly Bob smack dab in the middle of his pigsty.
Kids gravitate to Iowa City not only for the pursuit of higher education. Some are looking for “themselves” among the serious students and true nuts of all stripes. Some luck out and do both: find themselves educated! It’s also a helluva place to embark on an extended alcohol bender, touring nightly bashes held religiously, with or without the broad array of readily-available natural and pharmaceutical Earthly Delights.
This brings out the discourse phase of this little story and into the meat of the matter. Our subject, Dogbait, loved alcohol. Other remedies he eschewed. Something about them may not have mixed well with whatever personality disorder he rather unsuccessfully tried to conceal. This is not to say that people did not like him, because generally he was fun, gung-ho up for anything, and quite a merry prankster in between the psychotic episodes. Nobody would split an apartment with him or anything like that. Too close to the action, as it were. No, he was the dark horse who would show up late, solo, to any gathering after emerging from whatever flophouse he hadn’t been expelled from yet.
In 1983, the Crow’s Nest was a medium-sized club on the main drag lining the western edge of downtown. It was a bright spot, a refuge from the surrounding Crisis. Billy Bob would never be found there. Punk, reggae, and new wave bands played there regularly, midway through meandering the country between more civilized places. On the night referred to here, the Circle Jerks headlined. Have you seen, or heard them? What’s with their band name? Anyhow, several hundred black-trenchcoated hard core individuals showed up and ponied the five bucks to get in.
It was a typical nightclub setup. The Dance floor ran along a four-foot high stage. Then carpet with round tables and vinyl-coated chairs, tended by apparently-starving waitresses. They didn’t mind being called that back in those days. In the back was a sizable though unremarkable commercially manufactured bar manned by hefty, bearded bartenders in black shirts. Their expressions clearly conveyed, “We’re itchin’ to fight and/or eject some skinny punk after we’ve softened him up.”
The dedicated, some with dates, arrived early in order to begin to endure the pain of two opening acts that both royally sucked. This recipe really helps the initial beers whistle down the gullet. And of course, you could smoke in a bar back then, like a real human being with rights. Herb smokin’ still had to be accomplished traditionally: prior to arrival, and in the restroom. Those were the good old days.
Dogbait’s time was valuable, to him, and thus he showed up intuitively for the Jerks headlining set. What strange and atrocious behavior would he exhibit that evening? The gang were cheered by his sudden presence, especially given that he approached clutching four pitchers of Old Style, two in each fist. All of them were well on their way by then. “Bottleheads,” as Minor Threat called them. Greetings and smashing toasts were exchanged. The girls, dates or whatnot, seemed vaguely satisfied with explanations of Dogbait’s existence. Everybody turned full attention to the spectacle of the Circle Jerks as they were introduced.
Some instantly hit the dance floor, slamming violently. Others remained within reach of the never-ending supply of soothing pitchers of cold beer. Before long, the dance floor was awash with purely non-Billy Bob humanity. As the scene developed, or devolved depending on perspective, Dogbait nudged Charlie with his elbow.
Charlie mouthed, ”What?” in the din. With a large maniacal grin, Dogbait turned to face him closely and opened the front of his trench coat to reveal an 18-inch long. device resembling a flashlight, with a handle at one end. He looked at it, then at Charlie, with unrestrained conspiratorial exuberance.
“Check it out, man! It has eight D-cell batteries!” He shouted into Charlie’s ear.
“What the hell is it?” Charlie was perplexed, admittedly.
“It’s a cattle prod, dude! I got it at the Fleet Farm today!” He was so proud. And super-stoked in a disturbing way.
“What for?” Charlie failed to understand, understandably.
“Watch this. Just watch, man!”
So Charlie did watch, intently, as his crazy friend ambled through the packed dance floor, minimally shuffling to the rocking beat. Several companions noticed how Charlie concentrated on Dogbait’s movements. They would ask him, ”What gives?” He could not find any meaningful words with which to respond. Besides, the band was jamming full blast, and nobody would have heard him, anyway.
On a dance floor alive with slamming action, all parties seemed headed in every direction at once. But then, one particular guy just sort of stopped. He looked like he ran out of gas mid-tune. Everything and everybody else raged on. Just this one guy had dropped out of the activity. Charlie observed, as the young man stared off into the distance, glassy-eyed, trancelike. Clubbing and dancing no longer held the same importance to him.
For the moment, this was the only individual in the venue to have received an unhealthy dose of electrical voltage, on top of a gut and head full of beer. He was an anomaly, an abnormality. Like a zombie, he decided to slowly make his way from the dance floor to a chair by the tables. There, he sat very still, all mellowed out. You know, he was probably O.K., or at least would be, just not right then. Surreptitiously, for fear of becoming Involved, Charlie monitored the poor guy from afar, concerned for his welfare.
Shortly thereafter, it occurred to Charlie that Dogbait was still out there, dance-shuffling around like a malevolent perp, selecting his next victim. Scanning the crowd, of whom not one noticed anything amiss, he finally laid eyes on his errant friend. Dogbait looked directly back at him, smiling like some lunatic who had just crapped into his hand and flung it at somebody. The man was unquestionably pleased with himself. So you see: one man’s horror can be another’s good fun. Indeed, Dogbait probably enjoyed prodding these cattle much more than this writer enjoyed prodding the Iowans.
Others were surely shocked that night, touched by Dogbait’s cattle prod unwittingly. We thought they simply faded away from the usual causes, with a word to friends like, “I’m just not feeling well…” Keeping track of things like this is difficult when inebriated. Checkin’ out the chicks, jammim’ to the Circle Jerks, it’s just too much. At some point, he prefers to remember, Charlie considered confronting the villain and wresting away the offending electrical device. But Dogbait was a pretty powerful dude, running on craziness and who knows what else. Some things are better left unsaid, especially if you have pockets full of your own, albeit only self-destructive, felonies to consider. Remember, they were in a relatively small oasis, surrounded on all sides by Billy Bob’s hunting grounds just beyond the city limits.
Instead, the Daily Iowan hinted at the story in the column:
Police Beat
— Iowa City Police are investigating several instances of electrical shocks reported by patrons attending a concert at the Crow’s Nest nightclub Friday evening. Electric utility technicians have been enlisted to explore the possibility of faulty wiring and stray voltage relating to the sound system and stage lighting. No serious injuries have been reported.
No Comments