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Summer of Lovestock P, Twenty-oh-Three-Plus-Three: Pearlene Whops the Stag Star State

By: Austinonymous (aka Texas Matt)

I stood there standing in the middle of my street—not the cross street as the mainstream media would have you believe. I figured standing there standing made more sense than standing there sitting, or sitting there standing, no matter how sweet the Chocolate Watch Band made that sound. I reckon I must have looked pretty cool standing there by myself, facing due West, toward a long set sun that was probably damn near lighting Calcutta by this point. I couldn’t be certain, of course, since thanks to nature’s folly my eyes are attached to the front of my head, obscuring my view of my full self. Perhaps this is for the better. Perhaps being able to look oneself in the face all the time would be problematic, would make the self-conscious among us that much more self-conscious, in that we would always be conscious of our selves, since we would always be looking at ourselves, and make the un-self-conscious a bit too un-self-conscious, since in these days of widespread mirror technology looking even more at ourselves would make us even less interested in the thing we see so much of already, ourselves.

Anyhow, there’s no way I didn’t look cool standing there standing, partially obscured by darkness, a shadow but for the weakened rays of a faraway streetlight and the growing glare shooting from the hi-beams of a slightly-jaundiced-Caucasian-skin-tone-colored van barreling down my street (not the cross street as the mainstream media would have you believe) ignoring both common sense and a state-sanctioned sign demanding it halt momentarily to catch its breath and gather its surroundings before approaching its final destination, me, standing there standing, now standing there turning, now slinking there retreating to the relative safety of the natural ground aside the road, as the slightly-jaundiced-Caucasian-skin-tone-colored van swaggered by, victorious in this game of chicken, at least for now.

The van turned the corner onto the cross street (not my street as the mainstream media would have you believe), stopped, lurched forward, stopped, backed up, stopped, lurched forward, stopped, as if snuggling comfortably into its sleeping spot for the night, and then opened the side of its mouth and vomited out a scraggly lot still reeking of Arkansas, Louisiana, and perhaps even some state that hasn’t been discovered yet. This was Pearlene, or so I’m told, and so I remember from the other time they stopped by at another house in another part of town in another almost-dried-blood-colored van in another time. Pearlene, you might remember if you’re a fan, a loyal Neus Subjex reader, or an internet pervert who keeps track of every boy with a presence on the world wide web, consists of Sirs Reuben the Beast, Wild Jesse, and Li’l Andy, and they have recently added another element to the mix, this dude who arrived in Austin with potentially cool hair, the harmonium hustler, the idiot of the ivories, killer kraftsman of the keys, Higley on the Hammond. Also on board was a younger gent with very little practical knowledge of Hollywood dogs or really any skill whatsoever at moving merchandise, but who proved effective at occasionally sacrificing his own body to stop projectiles from hitting the important people in the van when they performed at performances and was thus deemed tourworthy, Jody the younger, who is actually much larger than Jody the elder, as is implied by Jody the elder’s official rock music name, Li’l Andy. Jody the matriarch was apparently in haul for the first leg of the tour, but abandoned ship after Reuben the Beast became rabid and threatened the safety and senses of anyone not specifically trained to deal with his outbursts.

Luckily I, unlike most of humanity, am comfortable around Pearlene, and they, for their part, recognizing my comfort and lack of fear in their presence, do not sense and are therefore not excited by the fear pheromones emitted by those less familiar in their first few meetings with these animals. I’d lived through my early encounters with Pearlene, with the growling, barking, and occasional nips at the skin, and I could now safely touch them, rub their tummies, pull their tongues, and even fiddle with their bums without fearing reprisal. It was in the midst of such tomfoolery with them Jody boys when Reuben burst forth from the darkness of the van, grabbed me by my shirt collar, pointed a finger in my face and screamed at me, in phrasing that probably looked real good on paper but was quite awkward when spoken aloud, “Parasite! You’ll not get the best of this damn dirty ape!” before tossing me aside and stomping into my house and rifling through who-the-hell-knows-what until he was satisfied it was not me that was responsible for his condition, nor the human condition in general, though I’d like to think I make at least somewhat of a significant contribution to making this world a terrible place in which to raise children or watch network television.

Those of us remaining outside, all but Reuben, exchanged nervous looks, looks that expressed the feeling that while Reuben’s bloody rampages are nothing to get excited about, this was the first that involved his own bodily fluids, making it a bit more tense and the protagonist of this little part of this little tale that much more unpredictable. Knowing that it’s best not to startle an injured beast, we deemed it wise to send Jody the younger in alone, since he had developed quite the rapport with Reuben over pork chops in Arkansas a few days back, and since he alone had the upper body strength to end it all for Reuben if it came to that. Luckily by the time Jody the younger worked up the gall to cross the threshold into the nightmare, Reuben had found my VHS copy of “Home Alone” and had forgotten his woes, bathed in the warm glow of a young McCauley Culkin’s charming smile. The rest of us entered cautiously, but soon the remaining members of the group found themselves similarly entranced by the young Culkin, and a conversation developed around how such a cute, talented kid could turn into such a punk-ass-shit in his teen years and early adulthood. “Ooooh,” screeched Li’l Andy at the height of the conversation, “he just makes my blood boil!” Things got a little awkward from there, as they often do when a bunch of right dirty rotters like us become fixated on the delightful young Culkin, so we were all a little embarrassed when Vicki, the lady of the house, came home. We quickly shut off the TV, chucked the videocassette under the couch like Chuck Norris chucks bad guys into fire pits and plate glass windows, and started talking loudly about monster trucks and fishing and whether a 5-blade razor is really necessary for shaving our legs, which quickly made the conversation awkward again, so that by the time Vicki got the difficult door open we were in complete silence, simply staring wide-eyed in her direction, which quickly made the whole situation awkward again, which is fine, given that Pearlene are wont to make most anyone feel awkward when they are gathered in one room with little ventilation for sounds, sights, or smells.

Jesse had ascertained from the movement of the stars that it was time for Pearlene to eat, and we worked collaboratively to determine an appropriate food vendor who could satisfy the band’s cravings without offending their sense of propriety. “Brains,” mumbled Reuben from the couch, though we were unsure if he was really at that stage yet, since we’d seen him speak of brains more than once in perfectly good health. After some discussion, and a round of Maoist criticism/self-criticism in which the members of Pearlene discussed their personal shortcomings and vowed to improve for the group as a whole, we came to a tentative conclusion on where to fill up—a coffee shop turned bar turned restaurant with a patio and plenty of fresh brains, if it came to that. Jesse the navigator punched the coordinates into his internal navigation system, consulted his charts, and gave a quick wink to the stars to thank them for their guidance, and we headed off into the night, Pearlene’s first venture into public since a little bit earlier.

The Masque of the Purple Shade of Red Death, or “Das Deathmaker”

Even though Li’l Andy kept kicking the back of Jesse’s head as them Jody boys continued their wrestling in the van, Jesse still managed to pull a sweet 180 and skid into a kick-ass street spot, nearly tipping the trailer which nearly tipped the slightly-jaundiced-Caucasian-skin-tone-colored van along with it. Them Jody boys stopped their horseplay once the van was stopped, and Jody the younger emerged from the side door with a conspicuous wet spot surrounding his left nipple. I forgot to bring my evidence kit, and nobody had the horseradish, popsicle stick, and 1937 buffalo nickel that would allow me to improvise, so we were unable to determine the precise nature of the moisture. Perhaps Jody the elder had nibbled him there during the wrestling, stimulating the breast and sparking a release of fluids. Or perhaps it was a trick Jody the younger picked up during his days as a carnie. Maybe Jody the younger shared the characteristic Jody trait of being able to instantly wet any part of the body at will, a skill with which Li’l Andy has wowed many a potential suitor (not to mention the general public) in the past. Regardless of the cause, all of us were satisfied with the progress Jody the younger was making in selective wetting, and we all gave each other high fives as we walked to the dining and drinking establishment.

We arrived to a crowded patio, our preferred setting for eating and merrymaking, with nary a spot open that would fit our party of seven, consisting now of the Pearlene federation along with me and Vicki. As we looked around in vain for a place to plant ourselves, Jesse became increasingly flustered over the situation. We all tried to soothe him, offering to let him sit at one of the available smaller tables while we stood around him, fanned him with menus, and praised his intellect and good looks, but it was hopeless. Jesse was tired of the band pampering him at all the stops on the tour. Tonight he wanted good old-fashioned camaraderie, looking each other eye to eye, sampling each other’s food, and so on. There would be plenty of time for pampering in Dallas, after all, where a bit of pampering is all but necessary. Higley on the Hammond tried his best to curb Jesse’s fury through a series of calculated pressure point massages, but when Jesse’s face began to turn a purple shade of red and his right pinky started twitching regardless, we realized the only thing we could do was back off and let what was going to happen play its course. We all formed a circle, joined hands, bowed our heads, and prayed to our respective deities that we, and at least a bare majority of the rest of the patrons at this establishment, could walk out of here alive at the end of the night. All were in the circle, that is, except for Jesse, who after unleashing a torrent of spittle-splattering profanities had strutted down onto the lower level of the patio, making his way from table to table, hovering over the inhabitants, his eyes obscured to us by his cowboy hat but surely visible to those below him, who cowered as he walked by each table slowly, turning his head from one side to another, lip snarling at each of the patrons, leaving a path of silence and terror in his wake. He made his way to the end of the patio, then stopped, fixing his sight on a table surrounded by swinging benches, the kind that Pearlene prefers because they’re fun to sit in, and Pearlene values fun second only to unlimited violence. The table sat seven or eight, but was occupied by only two seemingly homosexual women who seemed intent on remaining, even after Jesse bent over their table, his hands resting on the tops of their coffee mugs, and fixed his murderous glare on their faces.

“Look, when this thing starts,” noted Jody the younger as Jesse slowly turned his gaze from one seemingly homosexual woman to the other, “we’ll have to move fast to get him out of here. I don’t mind Pearlene killing a few people here and there, but the band has a social responsibility to ensure their brutality does not escalate to the point of inevitable incarceration, or else the people of Texas will be deprived of their upcoming performances, and that’s immoral.” At least I think that’s what he said, or something like that. To tell the truth, my auditory senses had taken a back seat to my visual awareness and natural reflexes, as is often the case when humans perceive themselves in great danger. Although I was reasonably sure Jesse would not target any of us directly in his inevitable rampage, once the body parts began flying, there’s no telling who could be caught in the carnage. As a result, everything my ears picked up sounded like it was coming from a mile away, through a tunnel, out of phase, awash in tons of reverb, even though Jody the younger was speaking directly to me, apparently trying to suss out where all the exits were so we could make a quick escape. You know, once this thing started.

Jesse had just finished pouring each of the women’s coffee over their heads and hurling their basket of tortillas at the surrounding tables when my keen eyes, made all the keener by adrenaline and other spook hormones circulated on the rare occasion like tonight when I might realistically die, noticed the lips of one of the women move, forming what seemed to be words directed at Jesse. “Oh shit!” exclaimed Vicki as Higley on the Hammond fainted into some bushes, “she’s mouthing off!” Reuben stopped eyeballing the guy near us with the enormous head, while them Jody boys clung to each other like children about to be belt-whipped by Jody the patriarch. Jesse waited patiently for the woman to shut up, and then slowly began to reach for his back pocket. What instrument of terror would emerge from those Levis that would appropriately punish these women for their transgression? A crowbar? A cordless power drill? A Beeljak cassette? A picture of Andy Slob shirtless?

No, no. No. Uh-uh. Nope. No. Not a chance. Those implements are mere child’s play, nothing a pro like Jesse would be bothered with. After all, I’ve seen him kill countless human beings with his feet alone. No, Jesse didn’t need any extra weapons. What he needed, and what we prayed for, was something that would let these stubborn women know the lengths to which he was willing to go to procure their table without actually having to resort to the bloodbath we all hoped could be avoided. To that end, he pulled a long cylindrical object from his back pocket, tapped it in the palm of his open hand a few times (for dramatic effect, no doubt, because it was clearly a very dramatic gesture) and set in on the table, in full view of the women. The cylindrical object began to roll toward the side of the table before Jesse stopped it with his eyes and it halted, its metallic ends peering out through its white and pale blue patterned body, catching the glint of the decorative lights strung over the table. “Oh no! The freshmaker!” exclaimed a suddenly alert Reuben, in what was perhaps the first coherent thing I’d heard him say, ever. And he was right, it was the freshmaker, a pack of mint Mentos sitting in front of the women, beckoning them into a game of brinkmanship they were sure to lose no matter the result. Higley on the Hammond woke up briefly, spotted the Mentos, and fainted again, realizing that once Jesse popped a Mento into his mouth, he was legally entitled to do anything he wished, whether walking through the back seat of a stranger’s car that’s blocking pedestrian traffic, kicking a soccer ball into a wedding party and retrieving it with no recriminations, or ripping this woman’s head from her torso and using it to pummel her partner’s face into oblivion.

“Just leave, just leave!” cried Jody the younger, while Li’l Andy, older and more experienced with Jesse, kept his composure. After all, rather than immediately slaughtering these obstinate women and anyone else within at least a ten foot radius, Jesse was giving them a way out, warning him with his Mentos that if they did not give us the table, the number of their internal organs he would personally rip out of their bodies and bite in half was limited only by the number of organs with which nature supplied them. One of the women, the one who talked back before, eyeballed the Mentos, looked back up at Jesse, and began speaking again. As she spouted whatever rubbish it was she felt necessary to express as her last words on this Earth, Jesse calmly reached down, picked up the roll of Mentos, and began picking at one end, beginning the circular tear that is necessary to access candy packaged in cylindrical rolls. Jody the younger by now had developed a second wet spot to accompany his wet nipple, as our heightened visual senses could clearly see the ivory color of the first Mento in the pack peering out from the exposed foil interior of the packaging.

And then it happened. The woman who until now had sat silently huffed her disapproval, said something to her friend, and then both rose, staring into Jesse’s face as they pushed the swinging benches away with the back of their knees. For a moment it seemed as if their last memories of life would be of the nighttime sky as their bodies doubled back over those swinging benches from the force of Jesse’s lethal 1-2 punch, but instead they gathered their belongings, saturated with the coffee Jesse had poured everywhere, and began to walk away. Vicki let out an auditory sigh of relief that the blood of two strangers would not be staining our couch tonight, and Jesse, jovial now that this thing was seemingly over, and always enjoying an old-fashioned showdown, good-naturedly slapped one of the women on the back as they walked away, appreciating their courage in standing up to him, even to the point of almost seeing a Mento popped. Jesse, all smiles now, turned and waved us over with his Stetson.

We avoided the defeated women on our way to the table. Any freak willing to go that far with Jesse was certainly dangerous in her own right, especially when she was feeling humiliated from having just backed down in front of a patio full of gawkers. Jesse placed the roll of Mentos back on the table, and we received the best service ever at this establishment, though our server was shaking so badly she dropped several of our drinks en route to our table. Very little of note occurred during the ordering process. Li’l Andy became flustered while trying to order drinks for the table, and was very nearly talked into ordering a 72-year old bottle of Canada’s finest champagne (“L’Hoserie”) and a bottle of Mexican grape soda before someone else not so easily intimidated by coffee-shop waitresses stepped up to the plate and correctly ordered the cheapest pitchers of beer the establishment offered. Jesse ordered two glasses of pale ale at the same time, and though the waitress involuntarily shot him a quick cockeyed look, she was not about to question him after the incident of a few moments ago.

Then most of us ate.

Then we went back to the crib (or “my house,” for those of you who don’t understand the language of the younger generation and older folks who talk like the younger generation).

Pooped

The Pearlene boys were pretty pooped by the time we arrived, and came to an official band decision that sleep was next on the agenda. I just so happen to have room enough for at least 5 to sleep in a combination of two lower level rooms, but Reuben chose to slumber outside rather than assent to such “sissified” surroundings, and the rest of the band agreed, fearing that blankets and a comfortable sleeping surface would erode some of Reuben’s rage and adversely affect his musical performances. Not being aware of the band’s plans for immediate slumber, and expecting an all night party, I shotgunned a Schlitz and began jumping from person to person screaming the chorus of “No More Mr. Nice Guy” (Megadeth version—I can’t hit the high notes of the original) in their faces. Jody the younger punched me in the gut and told me to shut up, and the Pearlene boys stripped down to their skivvies and called it a night. Li’l Andy and Jesse shared the extended futon, Jody the younger took the couch, and Higley on the Hammond was content with the rug by the TV, which made sense since his hair was now tangled in the wiring that connected the television to the stereo.

Though Jody the younger’s blow had taken its toll, I was still quite riled up and nowhere near ready for sleep, so I retired to my bedroom and watched Spanish language television with the volume off. I could hear the sound of Li’l Andy struggling to get comfortable reverberating up the staircase to my bedroom. “No man, not tonight,” I heard Jesse say. “It’s too hot.” “Come on, you know I can’t sleep otherwise,” whined Li’l Andy. “It’s fucking Texas man! It’s too hot, I’ll wake up in an hour all sweaty” “I can turn the air conditioner up real high,” reasoned Li’l A after a moment, but there was no response. I’m not sure what they were planning on doing, but either Jesse caved in or one of the two fell asleep, because that was the last I heard of them all night. A few hours later, my eyes still wide open, now watching the overnight network news, I heard the back door slam open, and heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I could tell from the mumbling that it was Reuben, escaping the outdoors and locking himself in my bathroom, which is right next to the bedroom, which is where I lay playing dead, lest Reuben think I was still game for battering around. Reuben let off a small series of explosions in the bathroom, and I prayed they would not reach the bedroom (my god, what if they continued to the bedroom?). I heard water seeping out of something, likely a pipe cracked during the chaos, but Reuben was eventually finished, and he retired once again to the outdoors. I was content to fall asleep to the steady flow of water immersing the bathroom floor and no doubt dripping into the kitchen below (which makes sense on a structural level), and I entered sleephood.

The 28^th Amendment

Even though I could already smell the approaching sunup by the time I succumbed to sleep, I still awoke before anyone in Pearlene. I took Vicki’s breakfast order and descended the stairs to the lower level. The kitchen was pretty much as I left it the night before. Apparently the leak had been contained to the bathroom, which I did not dare venture into at this point without backup. I like to watch Pearlene sleeping, so I did so for the better part of an hour. All were sprawled out as much as they could be in the cramped environment of my living room, all reduced to their briefs (mostly standard white, except for Li’l Andy, who prefers dark blue briefs with a light blue border) and each wearing a pair of cowboy boots. Jesse alone wore a cowboy hat to shade his eyes, in proper Jesse fashion. It is always memorable when Pearlene comes to town because it marks the only time cowboy boots have ever, and almost certainly will ever, be present in my house. All five members had at least one pair in tow. Knowing ahead of time that at least some of the members would try once again to break my “no cowboy boots” rule when they arrived in town, I pleaded with Li’l Andy via cellular phone the day before to leave them in Louisiana and pick them up on the way home. Li’l Andy argued that it is the cowboy boots as much as anything else that gives the band the strength to endure through adversity, and that a large part of their charisma would be lost without their proper footwear. I countered by appealing to Li’l Andy’s sense of decency, of which I soon discovered he has none. I then asked to speak to Jesse, who I deemed more reasonable than the others (at least when he is behind the wheel, that is). I explained that while I understand the band has an image to uphold, they must also consider my personal sense of morality that precludes any and all forms of cowboy boots from entering my house. I noted that even Billy Jack had the common sense and decency to remove his cowboy boots when the shit was about to go down. Since all kinds of shit was likely to go down in my house over the next three months, didn’t it make sense to at least leave the cowboy boots in the van? I explained that they could park the van right on the cross street (not my street as the mainstream media would have you believe) just a few steps from the back door, and they could go out to the van any time they felt the need to wear their cowboy boots. Once they got the urge out of their system, they could come back in. Jesse, starting to become a bit angry (which is rare when he’s behind the wheel) argued that such a system would serve to ostracize cowboy boot wearers, who are, after all, breaking no laws and simply exercising their rights as Americans to enjoy the multitude of footwear varieties offered in this land of the free and home of the brave. We argued a bit over constitutional precedence, Jesse taking the constructionist view that the framers of our great nation consciously designed the constitution so that one’s choice in footwear could never be impeded, while I took the view that the constitution is a living document that must be interpreted for modern times, pointing out that the founders could not have anticipated the development of cowboy boots, let alone foreseen the extent to which they would become such a major faux pas by the twenty-first century, and that therefore I was doing them and society at large a favor by helping wean them from this harmful habit.

We finally struck a compromise whereby Pearlene would be entitled to wear their cowboy boots within the confines of my fenced-in patio, but by no means were they to enter the house. I agreed to hook up some outdoor patio speakers and supply receptacles where they could store their boots. Pearlene agreed to not wear them within 15 feet of the back door, and to take them off and hide them on the way from the van to the boot patio, in order that they remain unseen by my neighbors. This arrangement seemed to be working fine the first night. Jesse’s frequent cravings were quickly appeased by simply going onto the boot patio and wearing his boots for a few minutes, and he was polite enough to remove them before coming back into the house, per our agreement. The rest of the members of Pearlene were a little stronger than Jesse, only having to resort to the boot patio once or twice that first night, sometimes even sharing a pair of boots between two of them to make things easier.

Looking at them this morning, however, it was apparent that their boot addiction could not be overcome by simply placing restrictions on where they could indulge their urges. I was all the more nervous since my lease strictly prohibits the wearing of cowboy boots within the dwelling. Still, watching them cuddled peacefully in their underwear and buckaroos, I found myself tempted to sneak out to the patio and try on a pair myself. My parents taught me it was wrong, and I grew up firmly believing that, but looking at how soundly Pearlene slept while I spent the night rolling about in bed trying to lose consciousness, I wondered if I was missing out on something special. I even began to see them visually in a new light. I find no appeal in the cowboy-boots-under-the-jeans look that Pearlene flaunts, but seeing the boots in their full glory, unobscured by denim, wide open tops yawning out the flesh of the leg, I began to appreciate the way they accentuated the upper calf and the knee, making even the most unattractive of legs (and it has been definitively established by wiser men than me that Pearlene have exceptionally unattractive legs) near stunning in their voluptuousness. I wondered what a pair of Durangos could do for someone like me who already possesses gorgeous legs. My god, think of the splendor! I was getting ready to touch Jody the younger’s leg to see if it felt as delicious as it looked when Li’l Andy began to stir. I backed off and was heading toward the kitchen to get some coffee ready when Li’l Andy suddenly bolted upright, grabbed my answering machine and hurled it in Higley on the Hammond’s direction. Since the answering machine was but one link in the complicated house-wide telephone system, it was connected via wiring to other communication devices. As a result, the answering machine failed to go very far at all before snapping back and hitting a still sleeping Jesse rather sharply in the crotch. Since men being hit with things in the crotch is almost always funny, the incident will be remembered for a long time in Texas lore as a humorous one.

Since both me and Vicki had to go out that day, she to experiment with blades and me to experiment with children, we told Pearlene to get the hell out of our house.  They did.  Later that day I saw them driving around aimlessly through a strange part of town (I, I was there for perfectly legit, not strange, reasons.  Pearlene are the strange ones in this part of the story).  I, I, I am goodhearted, I, I, I, I pitied them, I, I, I, I, I called them on one of their cellular phones to invite them back to my house.  I, I, I, I, I, I soon learned that Reuben had been hospitalized in just the nick of time.  I, I, I, I, I, I, I wondered if he had somehow injured himself in my bathroom the night before (when I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I finally worked up the nerve to have a look I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I couldn’t find any obvious physical damage, but the room itself made me feel very weird), but the other members of Pearlene were tight-lipped as to what had transpired, so I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I dropped it.  I,Ī know Pearlene, and Pearlene knows hospitals, so I didn’t doubt their sincerity.

A Romantic Night on the North Shore

Pearlene had a show that night in Dallas, or “The North Shore” as we hip Texans call it here on the “Third Coast.” Li’l Andy was convinced that everyone in Dallas would look like dudes from Dayton, i.e. dudes with tattoos and greasy hair. More, even if all the dudes in Dallas didn’t look like dudes from Dayton, Li’l Andy was going to act like he was in Dayton regardless, which means he’d find a $7 hooker well into her 7th decade of life down by the 7th street railroad tracks and pay her to escort him to the show, where, compared to everyone else in Dallas, she would still be the most attractive woman at the concert, hunchback and all.

Pearlene then exited my life for a night. Reuben was dishonorably discharged from the hospital, and they headed up I-35 for Dayton AKA Dallas. I believe I stir-fried vegetables for dinner that night, which might not seem relevant, but will turn out to be crucial in the long run (in which terms I like to think).

Chumpstock

Pearlene returned the next day with all kinds of horror stories about Dallas. Apparently some woman with a Lita Ford-like complexion and demeanor and hairdo but not grace wanted them to play first for $25, while giving the no doubt terrific (as most everyone from Dallas tends to be) local band $50. Li’l Andy, always the agitated drunk, was quite drunk that night, and hence quite agitated, and he demanded at least $50, which the band then received, which was probably almost enough money to get the slightly-jaundiced-Caucasian-skin-colored van to somewhere near Waco before they had to dip into the Reuben defense fund (a non-profit entity established not to keep Reuben out of trouble, which makes no sense given Reuben’s nature, but to deal with the consequences, legal and moral, of Reuben’s troubles) to make it back to Austin. They arrived, full of wild tales of witnessing a spectacular car crash and sleeping in a room, tales I knew not to believe until I saw proof, which I soon did, in the form of a fart-shaped scar near Higley on the Hammond’s right temple.

I gave Li’l Andy a massage to get all the Dayton AKA Dallas out of his system before tonight’s show, Pearlene’s first in Austin in over two years, since they tore up the town at their South by Southwest appearance in 2004, of which you longtime Neus Subjex readers might be familiar, since it made the Neus Subjex Neus back in what those of us who fancy ourselves old and wise might reasonably begin calling at this point “the day.” As a bonus, the idiot Tom Perkins happened to be in town this Saturday night, pushing merch for some band he was pushing merch for. There was a bit of confusion as to what time this band was going to play, the idiot Tom Perkins insisting it would be 10 PM, the club itself, Beerland, insisting it would be 8:30-ish. Mixing Saturdays and clocks leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so I’m unsure what time we went downtown. All I can remember is helping the members of Pearlene bathe, and then following them downtown in my albino-leper-skin-(sports model)-compact.

Pearlene was set to play later in the night at the club next door to Beerland, the chumpiest chump club in chump-ville USA, so four of them unloaded equipment while Li’l Andy conveniently disappeared into the night, even though it was still daytime. I snuck into Beerland without paying, just to prove to this stranger outside who was giving me menacing looks that I could do it. Once this was accomplished, my finely tuned moral sensibilities insisted I go back and pay, which I did, and I hope to be rewarded by Jesus Christ for doing so. The band was fine, by which I don’t mean “fine” like “fine wine” or “fine” like “dude, that dude’s ass is fine,” but more like when your parents call and ask how you’re doing and you say “fine,” by which I mean it’s just something to say when something is not irritating you too bad but you are otherwise unmoved and just want to get this part of the conversation out of the way so you can ask for money or get a beer. Li’l Andy, who emerged from who-the-hell-knows-where once it was clear Pearlene was finished unloading next door, told me this band I recently deemed “fine” was going to play a Teenage Head song, but they never did, and I have never trusted Li’l Andy again, nor had I ever trusted him before, hence my appraisal of the environment, including the music, was still a solid “fine,” rather than “disappointed” or “let down,” since I was never high to begin with.

After trying to talk to one of the dumbest human beings I have ever encountered (dumb even by Texas standards), I left the club and sped home in my albino-leper-skin-(sports model)-compact to pick up Vicki for the Pearlene concert. We then hopped back in the albino-leper-skin-(sports model)-compact and headed back downtown. A band with really, really big amplifiers was just finishing when we arrived, and Pearlene began to set up. I urinated in the urinal in the bathroom, where I saw something funny that I can’t now remember, and which haunts me to this day. Perhaps someone else who used that restroom that night can remind me of what it was that so caught my attention as I urinated. I fear that otherwise it will be lost to history, and our knowledge of ourselves and our society and our cosmos will suffer for the loss.

The show itself was terrible. Pearlene played well and all, but there’s only so much a band can do to make a success of a performance in such a wretched venue. Not even Neil Diamond could have pumped up the chump crowd in this chump club. The air even tasted of chump—I tasted it several times just to make sure I was not misdiagnosing its condition at this time in this location. Apparently there was some sort of electrical fence keeping people from approaching within a 20 foot radius of the front of the entirely too-tall stage. Not wanting to break with tradition, traditional folks that we are, Vicki and I remained behind this perimeter with the rest of the onlookers. We’re Texans now, and Texans stick together, right or wrong (though in reality always right, because in reality nothing Texans do can really be wrong, so long as it’s Texans doing it). After Pearlene finished, we told them to find somewhere else to sleep tonight, and left.

In League with Satan, Pearl, Basil, Love

The next day, Pearlene was back at my house again for their daily water purification rituals, full of more horror stories of once again sleeping in a room of some sort. This time they brought some other dude with them, some dude with a confusing name, one of those confusing names like “Roger” (Roger. Roger that Roger. Roger. Ten four good buddy. What? Roger. Oh, OK, Roger that. Roger, Roger) who claimed to be a big Pearlene fan, and who thus raised my suspicions from the get-go. Today, Pearlene would be playing in a record store in the bad part of town, a record store I was familiar with since Jeff the Amish’s new band Dirty Johnny and the Makebelieves played there last summer. I bought the first Queensryche EP that day after the Makebelieves’ set (having traded said EP to someone in 9th grade for the first Metallica album), and I carried it around all night to other parts of town (ever since the night long ago when we were hanging out at Andy Slob’s house with Mykel Board and he made fun of Queensryche and Andy didn’t have any Queensryche on hand so I could launch a counterattack in support of the Queens, I’ve sworn to always have a Queensryche sample handy for just such emergencies). We ended up at a bar where I convinced the techno DJ that they were an early techno band so he’d play the record (which he did, though very briefly). I call it the summer of the beginning of the 4th Ryche, and historians are beginning to refer to it as such in the most updated versions of their textbooks. Those of you who wish to remain on the cutting edge would do wise to follow suit.

The record store itself, from which the summer of the beginning of the 4th Ryche was formally launched, is really the ground floor of an old house, with records and CDs in 3 rooms, and a room across the hall where bands sometimes perform for audiences, along with a bathroom that smelled much, much worse than a combination of a very smelly person on a public bus and the men’s room at Sudsy’s and direct poo. Today, there would be something like 10 bands playing, and Pearlene was to play at 3-ish in the afternoon. This being the Lord’s day, we began drinking Pearls (the official beer of Pearlene) around 1 or so, loaded up a crate (by which I mean a crate) of beers, since this record store was not known (from my previous experience at the very beginning of the summer of the beginning of the 4th Ryche) for providing beer to its patrons, and drove to the bad part of town.

Record stores in Austin tend to be of fairly poor quality. There are a lot of great records floating around, but it is usually hard to find any of them for under $15. Anything less than $10, in most cases, and we’re talking about used John Parr and Eddie Money LPs (which, contrary to what the 18-24 year old demographic has to say are not, like, you know, rad because contrary to what the 18-24 year old demographic has to say the 1980s were not, like, you know, rad). This store was no exception, with $40 Motorhead records gracing the wall. I made a select few reasonable purchases, including at least one record which I was planning on buying later, once alcohol had lowered my inhibitions enough to allow for such a bad decision, but decided to buy now, when slightly sober, when I could reason that I was going to buy it anyway later when my inhibitions were lowered sufficiently to find it attractive enough to buy. It turned out there actually was a keg at this in-store, so I became reasonably drunk in a short amount of time, and, my inhibitions sufficiently lowered, and having no outlet for the bad decisions I felt necessary with such lowered inhibitions since I had already bought the album I was planning on buying once my inhibitions were lowered enough that I could talk myself into purchasing something that only lowered inhibitions would allow, I decided my lowered inhibitions required that I wander into the room storing the country and jazz and other crap records, a room I would never venture near with a clear head. As is usually the case, my lowered inhibitions and resulting irrational behavior and bad decisions led to solid rewards, as I stumbled across a box of water damaged records that had been severely discounted. For really the first time since I’ve been in Austin, I felt excited about a record score, something I could feel on a regular basis in my days of haunting Shake It! and Everybody’s and Moles, where occasionally a great bunch of used records would come in and be passed on to customers like me at reasonable prices. Unfortunately that just doesn’t happen in a city like Austin where the sheer number of hipster residents ensures the price of used LPs will always be annoyingly inflated. It is an unfortunate but necessary trade-off for the benefit of living in a town where you can experience the latest hot trends in men’s hairstyles firsthand while listening to easily digestible indie rock bands at bars on a nightly basis. I wouldn’t trade that for all the cheap Toto records in the Midwest.

Once I became aware that I had struck gold with these water-damaged boxes on the floor, I positioned my body so nobody else could have access to any of them without asking me to move (unlikely, given my intimidating physical presence and the fact that Texans are pussies) and began flipping through them. Among other treasures, I found Tubeway Army’s “Replicas” (99 cents), Budgie’s “In for the Kill!” (99 cents), The Great Society’s complete collection 2xLP (29 cents[!!!]) which I gave to Li’l Andy since I already have everything on it, a 2xLP Country Joe and the Fish anthology that may or may not have something on it I don’t already have but who the hell cares since it’s only $1.99, Jefferson Airplane’s semi-rare “Early Flight” ($1.99 maybe?) which I hipped Jesse to, since I’ve noticed certain hippie tendencies in him, and several other quite nice finds.

Then Pearlene played, and it was a much better experience than the night before. Sure, it sounded like hell as only four people playing loudly in a 15 x 15 room with a vocal P.A. that did nothing but feed back could, but it was loud and raw, and that’s really all Pearlene needs. The 7 or 8 people watching them (the biggest crowd of the day, by far) seemed satisfied. I, being of quite unsound mind by this point, and feeling that Li’l Andy owed me something for finding that kick ass Great Society 2xLP for him, decided I’d better throw things at him until he a) messed up b) didn’t mess up c) something else or d) all of the above, so I tried to throw a shirt over his head to test his blind drumming skills. My attempt was thwarted, however, by Reuben, who, having clearly had to defend Li’l Andy from vicious attacks on more than one occasion in the midst of performing, caught the shirt mid air with one hand while continuing to strum his guitar with the other, tossed it aside, and continued on as if nothing happened. But something did happen, something big—I fell in love with Reuben at that moment and swore I’d marry him once Kentucky legalizes that kind of arrangement. There were other things to think about at that moment, however, so I jotted down my future romantic plans with Reuben on a piece of toilet paper I found on the floor, stuck it in my pocket, and focused once again on the most important business at hand, hitting Li’l Andy with something. I found a beer can, or possibly an empty cup—you never can be certain with these sort of things—and hurled it at Li’l Andy’s head as he struggled to keep up with the frenetic Pearlene onslaught. My aim not being what it used to be, due largely to devastating football injuries, and not helped by the fact that the room itself had begun spinning slightly to the left and back sometime in the last 12-15 minutes, it sailed off a good two or three feet starboard of the target. Based on this trajectory, I recalculated my throwing motion, cocked off another projectile, and was getting ready to try once again when I was rudely interrupted by a hand grabbing my wrist just as I began the forward momentum necessary to hurl an object of this nature (can or cup, cup or can, again, woman or man!). I turned, and there stood Jody the younger, wagging his finger in my face, instructing me that I was not to throw any more objects in the direction of his brother, nor at any of the other members of the band, I suppose, though his eyes said nothing in regard to the rest of them.

My goodness, I thought, I should drop this punk right here, right now, teach him a lesson about touching the wrist that the diagrams now in my pocket made clear was only fit for Reuben’s consumption. Then again, watching him stand there trying to express his authority as roadie/apparent bouncer/bodyguard, I began to pity him a bit. He really is good at very little, at least when it comes to roadying, and he’s at that age where he’s becoming aware of his own limitations. Perhaps I’ll just give him this little victory, I thought. Better to back down than have him crying on my couch out of self-pity the rest of this trip. So I threw the object in my hand at some passing stranger out in the hallway, and tried my best to look intimidated, for Jody the younger’s sake. It was big of me, I know, and I congratulated myself later that day on my maturity and compassion in this tough situation. Li’l Andy would have to go unpelted on this day, but I think all in all, it was worth it for the sake of the larger Jody family.

A bit later I fell over and took Jesse’s bass case and one of the P.A. speakers with me, and that was the end of Pearlene’s set. I was back on my feet in no time, and I helped Pearlene carry a drum stand of some sort outside before Li’l Andy took it back inside, scolding me for removing equipment out of the proper order. There were some other bands that played. One of the drummers had a sweet rack that Li’l Andy was interested in banging on for a while, but, being the type of show that it was, with so many bands and so many people hovering around the rack, he never got the opportunity, and that rack left unmolested. There was a self-described “speed metal” band from Nebraska set to play later in the afternoon, one of those ones whose name it’s hard to decipher on their CD cover because it’s written all convoluted-like. Their van was parked next to Pearlene’s, so naturally the two groups became friends. They exchanged CDs and talked about the perils of being on the road in times like these. The drummer was wearing a King Diamond shirt, a bullet belt, and had hair and sideburns kind of like fictional superhero Wolverine. With that kind of get-up, I assumed he’d be a pretty cool dude, fun to hang out with and all, but such was not the case. No, I tried to talk metal with him, but he blew me off, probably because I, too, was not equipped with a bullet belt, you know, in case some shit went down that afternoon and bullets became necessary.

So I tried again with someone else in the band, a more classic loser-looking metal guy: long, stringy, light brown hair, no shirt, tight jeans that were once black but were now a faded gray, boots with no laces but a bunch of spikes and studs sticking out of them. You know the type— with the look that hasn’t evolved since I tried to look like that in the 7th grade, and, judging from pictures of Vicki and her friends in the 7th grade, for years before that even. He, who I deduced was the singer, turned out to be even more dismal than the other guy. I asked him if he was going to belt out some Queen of the Reich-style screams of the sort often heard when Patrick Lee Patton is around, and he just scowled at me, assuming, I assume, that I was making fun of him, which I most certainly was not, since I appreciate a good scream more than most. Feeling a bit nervous that I was getting no response, I did what I do when I feel nervous when talking, especially when I am noticeably more intoxicated than anyone around me, due less to the amount I drank than to my inability to handle such quantities with any grace whatsoever—I began talking a whole bunch more. I told him about the sorry state of the P.A. and suggested since nobody would be able to hear his ear-piercing screams anyway, he’d best accompany them with some Bruce Dickinson-esque hand motions so the audience could understand what was happening. I demonstrated to the best of my ability—six, six six, I wailed, knees bent, right arm flailing up and down to emphasize the important lines of the vocals, followed by my own ear piercing scream, my fingers wiggling at the end of my extended arm to accentuate the vibrato of my waaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh— but he seemed uninterested, and snubbed me once again. Man, I thought, these dudes must be for real, dead serious, hard to the core—none of that high-pitched screaming poseur-ass shit of so many false metal bands these days. This must be some balls-to-the-wall-petal-to-the-metal-all-hell-breaks-loose-genuine-authentic-speed-metal. Venom-esque perhaps, though they mumbled something along the lines of “no” when I asked them if they were going to play any Venom.

Hopes were high then, as they set up outside to play in the parking lot. I sensed the asphalt underneath my feet heating up, as if the fires of hell were just itching to burst forth once beckoned by these demonic minions. My god, I thought, people are going to die here today. Elderly residents nearby remain close to your toilets. Sonic death! Lay down your soul to the gods rock and roll! Fall to your knees and repent if you please! Join our battalion, we are metal stallions! Power metal! Power metal!! Power metal!!! Then they played, and wouldn’t you know it, after a 45 minute instrumental intro, the first thing the singer did was launch into a high-pitched scream complete with Bruce Dickinson-esque hand motions, i.e., exactly the display he seemed to dismiss coldly as beneath his level of metal intensity only an hour or so before. We’d seen enough, and decided to leave, especially given that Reuben was closer to death than I was to unconsciousness by this point, by which I mean to say that I was very much drunk and Reuben was very much, perhaps even more so, dying. We felt it prudent to procure him certain, one might say, “potions” that might ease his condition. And we did, though the owl feathers and magic corn were a bit more difficult to come by than we’d anticipated. Roger, who had followed us to the show, had seen a church hayride drive by earlier and jumped aboard, gleefully throwing wads of hay in the faces of his increasingly annoyed fellow travelers as they sped off down the road. We had no idea where that hayride took him, and we didn’t much care to find out, so we left.

Scene shift. Aye aye, skipper. We walked into a pizza place. Reuben rather rudely walked up to the gentleman working the register, gave him a big bug-eyed look and flashed him a gigantic thumbs-down inches from his face, and we left.

Then we had Thai food with beer. It was a dark and stormy night. It wouldn’t have surprised me if it was 1987.

On the way home, Reuben, perhaps already in a trance stage induced by rubbing the medicine bag on his scrotum, began humming the theme song from Dallas. I joined in, as did Jesse, while the younger folks in the car acted like they were singing along so as to not feel like poseurs in front of those of us cool enough to have been born in earlier years. Somehow we even hit the key change together, and the storms both inside and outside the van cleared up from the power of love being spread that night. Higley on the Hammond was still very angry that we left during the speed metal band’s set, and would not take part in what the rest of us decided would henceforth be remembered as Lovestock P, Twenty-oh-Three-Plus-Three.

At my house we listened to Shocking Blue and Shocking Blue, even though nowadays it’s acceptable to do otherwise.

In Which Pearlene Takes This Foot and Whops That Side of the Sole Star State’s Face

The next morning I awoke to find Roger, who was almost certainly not with us when we went to bed, at least in any physical sense, sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, seemingly awake but largely comatose. I, on the other hand, was feeling refreshed. I declared (rather loudly given that Pearlene was still asleep) that the best way to go about drinking beer was to begin in the early afternoon, and then stop by midnight, and I swore to uphold this pattern whenever possible in the future. As per the abovementioned understanding, we began our routine about 3pm, a little later than desirable, but still within the boundaries of common sense. To facilitate our progress toward this Monday evening, Pearlene’s final Texas show on this tour, we watched Billy Jack numerous times and kicked things, including each other, for dramatic effect. Then I lost interest in writing this piece, and you got bored reading it, but the gist of the remainder is as follows: Roger waxed nostalgic about his hayride, we ate tacos at Maria’s Taco X-Press which no longer exists in the same sense that it did at the time we ate there, Jesse took the now notably-jaundiced-Caucasian-skin-tone-colored van to some hick who promised to fix it by 5PM but didn’t, Roger waxed nostalgic about his hayride, we met someone related to Reuben who made Jesse look ultra cool with a hat and made Li’l Andy look ultra gay with a hat, Roger waxed nostalgic about his hayride, we watched selected scenes from Billy Jack again to keep Roger from waxing nostalgic about his hayride, Vicki cut Higley on the Hammond’s hair and made him the classiest looking motherfucker in the band and maybe even the whole motherfucking planet, some band played a Neil Young song, Li’l Andy made friends with a dog and fed it corn and beer before telling it he’d keep in touch after the tour he swears, I paid $3.75 for Pearls except when Pearlene got me free ones which is much better than $3.75, most of Pearlene wore cowboy boots as did some others in attendance and I can’t say I approve but I took tolerance classes once at work so I’ve come to promote diversity much as Gort came to promote peace i.e. you couldn’t kill me if you tried punk, I forgot to stop drinking by midnight or 1 or 2 or 3 or 4, Pearlene played a Neil Young song, I once again missed Li’l Andy by about 14 miles with my projectiles, Pearlene played a great set in their best of their 3 Austin shows, I stole a shitload of Pearlene merchandise while Jody the younger was off dorking around and dumped it in the woods behind the club, Pearlene smoked pot with a fat Jamaican guy, I took pictures of a toilet and a fat Jamaican guy, Li’l Andy demanded I cease taking pictures of the fat Jamaican guy but said nothing about the toilet so I took another picture of the toilet, we went to a post-show party where people were listening to Metallica, I screamed “no life til leather!” to the people on the couch listening to their Metallica but they didn’t understand, I didn’t have a Queensryche record with me to make them understand hence the decline and fall of the 4th Ryche was fully in motion, Jody the younger (who is increasingly becoming as anti-social as me I’m so proud of his progress he’s such a goon I love it) declared the scene lame and demanded we return to my house to make another dent in the Billy Jack 4-movie box set, Jody the younger left with me and Vicki while the other dudes in the band stayed behind and dug the Metallica, Jody the younger began craving burritos on the way home, I made a burrito for Jody the younger when we got home circa 4:30AM, Jody the younger woke up in the morning and swore to never again eat a burrito made by me that late at night with that much beer in his system, we watched more Billy Jack movies without the other dudes in Pearlene, we showed the other dudes in Pearlene some gay Nazi biker porn when they finally showed up, Roger acted like he didn’t like it Jesse made no such effort, Pearlene left to go to Dallas for a recording session, Roger went along to twiddle their knobs, I crashed from my three month bender at almost exactly 7:30 PM, July 4, 2006, and I’ve hated everything that’s ever existed anywhere ever since.

Except maximum vegetables and maybe songs that are all like do do do do doodle do.

Special photo journalistic report from roving NSX reporter and confidential socialite, Texas Matt!!

Pearlene, July 3, 2006, at infamous Austin dive Trophys

"Foggy Morning Blues In the Nighttime Sky!"

"Look into my medallion, and start to worship me!!"

"Three fifths of Pearlene with unidentifible groupie wannabees"

"Pearlene through the looking glass.  Open up and say 'Give me two Americans'"

"Andy, still looking to score, buys a beer for the last girl at the party"