A Tarantulas Robe Check

09:29 Jinan 1 #2001

A shot of nicotine, caffeine, ephedrine, The Phenomanauts and here I am. A thick haze of that uniquely flavored Guandong Pearl River Smog squats over the Nanhai Corridor about as subtle as a 400 pound hooker on a squeaky wrought iron bed.

It’s been a while since the words have dripped from my finger tips into digital oblivion. Nonetheless, I’m here. I’m present. I’m ready to tear away at the crystal blue metallic skin, I’ve managed to shell away in these last few months.

Alkobar the Crustacean, is officially ready to be boiled alive and cracked opened for your dining pleasure.

Alkobar, came about one wild LA weekend when I stole the family car, quit my job at the radio station, and kidnapped my best friend to go and see The Cult playing at the Santa Monica Civic Center circa 1986.

As the halcyon manic rush of risky behavior wound down, we found ourselves eating breakfast on the nearly abandon Santa Monica Pier. The smell of salt water and cresol wood ties drifted over the only place that was open, a dingy little fish taco hut with some old hippie junkie working the joint.

We sat deflated, knowing that the reality of our small town cock sucker blues were a four hour drive across the desert and would have to be endured, yet again.

We sat somewhat in silence, as little shit birds flew in and hopped about looking for crumbs. My buddy Dee, who had a pension for hanging weird shit from his ears got it in his mind that he wanted a dead bird’s foot to add to his collection and proceeded to torment our little feather friends with a mantra of, “Bird! Give me your foot!” He jumped about a few times like a crippled cat, trying to pounce prey out of instinct but with little success.

Shit, were we hung over? No matter. The pulse of the ocean with the waves hitting the pier in the early morning sun seemed to trance me out. I was long gone when Dee, snapped his fingers in front of my face. I shook my head and said, “I am Alkobar.”

I began to explain my vision of a figure that emerged from the shore of the ocean in what looked like Samurai armor that glimmered like the sun almost too painful to try and look at. The warrior walked out of the ocean slowly with purpose like any conquistador in the new world. He paused as he breached the waves and stood on the sand, drawing his sword and planting it in the ground with solid defiance. He began to remove his helmet with face mask, revealing my own face and there I stood a golden vision of my higher self, “I am Alkobar.”

Needless to say, Dee was taken back by my story. This only validated the vision. I sat slightly shaken and asked for a cigarette, which was unusual for me. The smoke did that beautiful cobalt tinted dance in the swath of morning light that beamed through the open door adjacent to us.

A little black bird popped up on the table and tilted his head to examine us curiously with abandoned caution and then helped himself to some of our food. “Bird! I want your foot!” but the intent was nothing more than the seeds of an inside joke that still works almost 30 years later.

Dee, would later write a poem about this entitled: Alkobar the Crustacean. It was only then that I began to understand the symbolism of my vision. Where I saw conquering hero in magic amour, he saw a person struggling to escape that shell in which he found himself incased trying to protect the sweet soft inside. The truth may actually be somewhere in between, depending on which shore Alkobar lands on.

Anagrams for Alkobar The Crustacean include:

1. A Bacchanal Reek Tutors

2. A Attachable Rocker Sun

3. A Attachable Rock Nurse

4. A Calabash Neck Torture

5. A Calabash Rocket Tuner

6. A Cabala Rockets Hunter

7. A Cabana Rocket Hustler

8. A Charlatan Obese Truck

9. A Canasta Butler Choker

10. A Cantata Ruble Shocker

11. A Tarantulae Orbs Check

12. A Tarantulas Robe Check

13. A Tarantula Sober Check

Imagine the geeky giggles these are generating. (I love top play with the online anagram server).

Dee’s poem was a road sign in a critical turning point in my life. I had been playing the soon to be dead rock star game, with a 25 dollar ticket a show, where the only audience was the demons hiding in the walls, the roadies lost in the carpet, and the lone spotlight coming from the flame under the glass I put my lips to. I knew it was time for a change and in some ways that poem indeed gave me a tarantula sober check.

We are all whores to some extent. Some are just better than others. It’s the nature of the machine we live in. Some get through by numbing out the pain of squeezed soul, while other remain blissfully unaware of a calabash neck torture from the handlers which guide us to generate profits. For what end is known only to their reptilian cold blood. There are some cures for example; a attachable rock nurse like my good friend Dee, who writes poetry about us can help.

You get the gist. I’ve got tortillas to roll out. Oh man, it’s good to be back. I better take my pill to make sure Alkobar’s armor stays on the shelf until the next episode.

and you wanted a protein bar?

Madness is like a fine wine that often sits in the cellars of our minds, waiting to be uncorked like a cabalas rocket hunter!

End 10:47