12/ Spin Age Blasters

"Spin Age Blasters prefigures the youthful Fall at their finest, combining primal punk rock with fractious art rock. In fact, in a different world, vocalist Dave McManus could be Mark E Smith in a Don King wig. " (Stewart Lee, Q, May 1998)



Hoping a foot 'n-a-half's distance'll take some edge off the vitriol, I start my slide across the yellow Checker's rear bench seat * and away from a sagging middle. The increasing agitation between Niznik and our hosts—the three-headed Grotesque in the driver's seat—is playing "Chopsticks" on my nerves. And they've all noticed. So, as I can no longer feign innocence nor indifference with any measure of credibility, I'm executing plan B. Resolved: To openly concede the friction, yet rise above the fray; an aspiration I figure demands at least a higher perch. The unexplored territory to my left should do the trick! But when I reach the spot my shoulder sinks level with the well-worn door arm, the terry towel part of the make-shift patchwork seatcover giving way to a deeper snake pit in the cushion's cracked vinyl than the one I'd just left. Not exactly the comfortable eagle's roost I'd hoped for! Worse still, from this even more hunkered-down perspective Bob's jerky body language cum escalating vocal distress wastes no time rushing past ruffling to maddening.

Pitching forward & backward in bursts with a death grip on his own galloping harangue—imagine Larry Mahan on a runaway bull—Bob's seems intent to pop my poise'n trigger a paroxyamic episode. And for their no-small part our Beantown "benefactors" aren't exactly making nice either! All while a "utopian" tongue wags in my head that there's no brawl here at all, — "Bobby's only giving 'em a helping hand with highway directions"—a second, more reality-based voice prods I acknowledge that it's gonna take a psychological dredging on the scale of an Army Corps of Engineeers' operation to turn this river of ill will around!

But, even if I had the digging equipment, I'd be for sure disqualified as honest broker; all of a sudden I'm showing stripes. I mean, in light of the current ploy by the hateful hacks how could I present other than transparently glad Niznik's rant's on the rise? Front windows are being cranked down and forward vents spun open to direct an 80 mileanhour wind into our faces! It's Boston's latest attempt at seating their adept antagonist.


* Wondering how I got there? See Chapter 11.

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What this's all about and where it's going I still can't say. Mainly, cuz I'm too fucked-up to know. But, alas, I'm not too fucked-up to worry. Why? Firstly, because it's not like Bobby to be wrong on his hunches. Yes, he goes way the hell over the top on occasion—like now for instance—but whenever he does he's usually grounded in some good basic reasons to gripe. Secondly, there's a deluge of palpable dread pulsing steadily into my emotional bunker where stores of self-deluding serenity lay neatly wrapped in oilcloth and stockpiled as a last-ditch hedge against inevitable panic attacks. See, imminent threats of my drowning in a flood of anxiety really get me going —they're what I'd call really reliable indicators. So, from where I'm sitting ... and sinking ... Niz and I and our one ride allthewaytotheWestCoast are goin' under fast. Truth is, I'm suddenly goddamn thankful that there is a Bob to dish out a little hell on our behalf!

"Close the fuckin' windows you idiots!" commands Niznik into the cockpit.

If expressions returned are any indication, Niz can indeed be sure he's been heard by the astonished "Tea Party" sitting between us and the jackhammer brakes of a slowing westbound convoy of ROADWAY trucks turning Route 70's passing lane into a figurative orange-cone zone.

"Always in the WAY, always on the ROAD ", quips I, parachuting in right behind Bobby with what I trust will sound a lighthearted note.

But, as usual, I've managed to foul my lines. The glaring juxtaposition is an enormous undulating silk which catches in the treetops focusing the wrath of both sides; beneath I dangle in a crossfire of look daggers until Smokey pulls up on the right drawing attention sufficient to allow me to cut myself loose and drop to the ground.

In spite of the land-mined terrain—and now an added risk of friendly fire—I continue sifting the bombed-out ruins of what appears irreconcilable impasse, searching the taxi's small confines for cryptic postures of accommodation among the quarrelsome quartet. Why hope? I dunno, just my stubborn streak probably. I mean, here's the way it stacks up against our even making it as far as the Missouri border with these guys: (1) we're slowing way the hell down; (2) they've cranked the radio to earsplitting; and (3) the trio's bogarting a fourth fucking joint. Now while these are certainly all bad signs arguing against rapprochement, there's really nothing I can bring myself to characterize as conclusively abortive.

Hey, what's going on with me anyway!? This back and forth stuff, I mean. Once and for all I'm gonna set me straight; until the "in service" light on the dash actually blinks green, —signaling this cab's been "hired"—I've every reason to assume the terms of our cross-country trip remain unchanged: Bob and I ride free to Frisco.



Omniscient Narrator: Minutes later, Brian—certain he sees a thick glass partition slam closed on Bobby's protests—springs into ... er, inaction. For McMahon can only muster the will to curl up quietly and cup hands 'round a flickering final prayer for two days peace ("or however long conventional navigation estimates a non-stop auto trip from Indy to Frisco takes"). But, alas, peace is not to be.

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"RENDER UNTO CAESAR!" mandates the monster from its front seat hangout.

If more proof of the brute's sober intention were sought it's at once bestowed in the cabbies' triggering the Checker's trip-meter; numerals roll over 'n over like payoff fruit in a cartoon slot machine. The taximen underscore with lunatic laughter the carillon fare-box melody tallying the boys' mounting debt in DOLLARS—causing Brian to flashback on a recent, similar scene where mere CENTS scrolled before his eyes— but then it was on a gas pump gauge.

Yeah, that's right— during the last fill-up, matter-of-fact! Which, not incidently, I'd like to remind everybody Bob and I fucking paid for entirely!!

A-ching/a-ching/a-ching—3 Cherries on the meter! How the fuck could we owe 35 dollars already. Hey, that's all we've got between us; and this ride ain't even out of Illinois yet forchrissake!! Either these freaks are goofing on us bigtime or ... what? I dunno. Or maybe I do. Maybe we're hallucinating! Hey, that's it! We all musta smoked some treated grass before 'n the weed's so good I just fucking can't remember the details. But it's okay cuz Bob'll be getting his shit together in no time. If anyone can maintain it's fuckin' Niznik!

Well,—it's definitely not me.

Like that time a couple months back when I ate a handful of "Asthmadors"—actual over-the-counter medicinal cigarettes! Yes, Virginia Slim, I said CIGARETTES !! Doctor-recommended smokes as prescribed to patients in the medieval 60's for the treatment of ... asthma! Of course, non-asthma sufferers (like yerstruly) discovered in due course that the cure contained among other ingredients a whopping dose of the cheap thrill "bella donna". Interestingly, the 3-inch papered "pills" had a slow ingestion time (after all they were meant to be smoked for therapy, not swallowed for a high ). Consequently, this "misuse feature", as it were, allowed a short interval of "control" during which the abuser could find it possible to, uh, let's say, leave a party, get all the way home, make it inside the front door & past the parents & into one's bedroom before having it fuck him (or her) up totally. And that's exactly what happened to me. Yes, I even made it into my room; but like I said, I can't maintain. Where cooler "heads" would have most certainly prevailed, I managed to spin a steady stream of outrageous halucinations into behaviors so eccentric, so horrifying, that eventually my habitually television-sedated parents became terrified enough to step out of the cathode ray and beat a path to the telephone.

Well, Nancy made the calls, actually—under Mickey's direction, natch. And after soliciting recommendations from most of Lakewood's City Services—Fire Department, Hospital ER, Parks & Recreation—the folks finally settled on an affordable option proffered in the consensus opinion of the good Father Schnerr, our parish priest, and our quack family doctor Clifford Wilcox. Which reminds me, ... the doctor's wife was a real trip. As attending nurse, Mrs. Wilcox projected more the image of gas station attendant than RN; she'd keep rubberbanded in her labcoat a fistfull of dollars ready to make change for the practice's predominantly "cash-only" transactions. But, sorry, I digress. Here then was the antidote for my first experiment in over-the-counter self-medication: A "vigil" (in Schnerr's words) or an "observation" (in the Wilcox lexicon) would be maintained by my parents—through the Johnny Carson Show then into & beyond the Late Night Movie, if need be— followed by next-morning visits to St. Clement's Rectory and the Wilcox office/residence duplex on Detroit Avenue for check-ups of soul and body, respectively.

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Id drops me abruptly back into ego consciousness so's I can watch another close call between our vehicle's front end and a "Love It or Leave It" bumper sticker. Jerked to a full stop, I worry all my previous failures to maintain'll pale in comparison to present circumstances. I reach inside my duffle for the McMahon toolbox and begin rummaging through for, uh, coping skills, leveling devices, ... things like that. Hey, here's a bit of Exaggeration, some Obsession, ... hmmm, more Exaggeration ... and, of course, a pile of old squeezed-flat tubes of Panic. No fucking wonder I'm not phoned by others in times of their great distress!

On the other hand, items which won't be found in Niznik's skill set include just about everything that's in mine. And anything else that's impractical toward getting a problem solved. So, logic suggests overwhelmingly that in situations like this, one'd probably be the wiser in deferring to Bobby's lead. Now that much practical sense I do seem to have. I only hope Niz's got a handle on this wierd money shit, that's all! Oh yeah, Doubt is also in my box; but for the record I'm betting he didn't pledge much of our bread, if any, to this little junket. It's just I can't figure one thing: why the Trolls' toll-ticker reads the exact sum which happens to be the amount of our freakin' nest egg!

Back in Cleveland, John Morton's always telling me, " Brian, you should learn to use your paranoia to your advantage instead of your fucking undoing!" Goddamn good advice. And, believe me, I get the concept. And I am working on it; but, admittedly, so far I'm not quite there yet. Still, thinking now about Morton—specifically, his constant and disiplined will to power—I'm all hyped to try something ... anything that'll syphon some of the angst from my emotional bog and into THEIRS. Like, say I were to name the refried beans "Howard, Fine, and Howard" and goof on them for a while as they've been doing on us! Okay, it's a little cute; but considering how vulnerable I'm feeling it seems a giant step in the right direction. Naw, ... I guess I'll leave it up to Bob. Undoubtedly, he's been workin' on a plan to stop these greaseballs from looking so inconsolably happy !

"Right now, assholes—stop the fucking car!!" Bobby's brass tops the audio mix.

And that's how it's done!—sure, if you're Doc Severinson. Well, the Stooges aren't smiling anymore. Yeah, but are we closer to what I had in mind? No, not really. Now I may never get to say, "Dudes, wake me when we get to California"? I mean, even if I wanted to.

At this point,—if I thought Bob'd let a thought in edgewise—I'd try telepathy again ... if the car wasn't fast becoming an echo chamber of accusation and recrimination ... and if I didn't doubt seriously that there's so much as crawlspace left in Niz's hothead. As I shag more and more shards of his smoldering indictment off the pyre, I paste-up a hasty sketch of Bob's overcooked version of the original trespass.

His log clearly clocks the threesome crossing the line sometime during our refueling at the Mobil Station. And then it gets fuzzy. Something about the McDonald's across the street ... uh, the hamburgers ... no, actually, the drinks! Then, it really gets confusing when, while yelling at one of the "assholes",—I'll call him "Shemp"—Niz bursts an Alaskan pipeline of details about his (Shemp's) actions before he finally got the order over to the service island where we filling the tank.

Oh, wonderful—Bob and Shemp rasping about a coupla Cokes! Sodas we drank over an hour ago!?

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"Man, I don't even wanna fucking hear any more of your goddammed shit!" says Niz, abruptly summing up.

Well now, there's a break!

A split-second later it's "Larry's" turn. Armed with a surfeit of censure Niznik suddenly swamps the Stooges' chief counsel, the frugal "Fine", whose cheap defense—dished out in shotglass-sized servings of four letter words—washes away quickly under Bob's downpour.

Next, Niz leans into the wheel man, "Moe": Pull the fuck over! That exit's where we're gettin' out, fuckhead!" he adds, finishing the thought.

Then, whirling, —seething something about "Brian" having never been (something-or-other)— Bobby returns to familiar territory, shoving the younger Howard's left shoulder hard sending his whole upper right body into the passenger door.

"Ow, fuck man!" yowls Shemp on impact, adding sentences I don't hear clear.

Though to my ear the addendum sounds a tone of weak apology, it also apparently, carries the import of a lame excuse cuz it draws one hell of an angry response from Niznik. Lurching forward—but this time softening his voice—Niz pokes Shemp repeatedly with two stiff fingers in the forehead, "The difference is it's his fucking (poke!) first time (poke!!) you idiot!" (poke!!!).

There, — the odd posessive pronoun reference; that "his" MUST mean me!

Last Chance Texaco, dudes! ... I figure I've about a minute to try 'n cool this situation out. Cuz Bob sure ain't doin' it. I decide to talk some "shop" at Moe: "Hey, man, what's it like drivin' a hack in Beantown?"

But that falls flat, so I go again: "Say, I'll bet your tips're pretty damn good on Beacon Hill!"

None of it's workin'. In fact, my patter may be making matters worse. Moe's glaring at me in the rearview mirror; Larry''s ignoring everybody, loudly banging the dash to Led Zepplin's "Whole Lotta Love"; and Shemp's shaking his head back 'n forth—a raging welt over each eye—mutterin' under his breath that Bob's "either a lunatic or just plain fucking uncool". Oh, yeah ... and Bob's tellin' me to "shut the fuck up!"

Moe pulls over.

"C'mon, Brian, this is where we fucking get out!" says Niznik, dragging me & my duffle & his beat-up guitar case out onto the gravel berm. He kicks the door closed so hard it flies right open again giving everyone a last sour look at each other before Shemp's hand comes out thru the window and pulls the rear hatch shut.

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"Bye-bye, assholes!" Bob seeps, delivering our oozing farewell with a shit-eating smile & a hand-puppet wave at Fine who's going up and over into the back seat where he's about to land with a thud in the sedan's fractured furniture.

As the Checker patches-out from the cleft in Bob's chin, three stone-blind mice from Massachusetts are giving us the finger. Instantly, any sense of fiscal obligation I'd been nursing up to that point disappears into scarlet horizon along with all opportunity to rescue my near-full carton of Chesterfields careening side to side in the rear window.






Under "Vacancy" neon glowing dimly atop the off-ramp, I take first stab at the city name centered in the big green highway sign still blocking our view of the actual motel.

"Eff-ing-ham," I read aloud, its lettering fluorescing lightly in a passing headlamp. Never heard of it. Are we still in Illinois?, I wonder, calculating the minutes 'til nightfall.

Then Niznik says it: "Effiinghaaminghamingeffiineffinghaminginghamingam"; and I realize—shit, I'm really too fucked up to calculate anything!



Omniscient Narrator: Later that night—early morning, really— echoes subside enough for words to make some kinda sense to Brian; so Bob recounts what he'd reasoned on their run through western Indiana. How they'd been Mickey-Finned* by THREE ACID HEADS FROM LONG ISLAND (not Boston [to McMahon East Coast accents all sound the same]) driving an OLD CHECKER CAR (not a cab ). NO, Bob says, there was NO METER, NO FAREBOX, AND NO GLASS PANEL between the seats. Simply put, McMahon and Niz'd been picked up hitchhiking then slipped LSD in Cokes from McDonald's. Besides "easy ice" each got a single tab of the same Blue Flats that the THREE-HEADED MONSTER had been tripping on for two days (Niznik finally got the trio to show the stuff so he could be at least relativley sure the boys hadn't been killed). The New Yorkers thought it was cool. "Just a joke, man," they said. And that's what a lotta the arguing was about—Bob didn't find it so funny. By the time Bob got 'em to stop the car, Brian was peaking, ... which is why they wound up at Effingham's Economy Inn instead of thumbing on into St. Louis.


* Readers familiar with Jaguar Ride's early chapters detailing McMahon's 18 years of paternal oppression may most appreciate the irony of Brian's being slipped a "Mickey" during this first week of his liberation!

99


Once in their room, Bob confesses gleefully to Brian, "To tell the truth, man, that shit's really fucking me up too. For a while I couldn't figure out what the fuck was happening!"

As far as Brian's concerned Bob's the Michelin Guide for acid trips; so McMahon listens respectfully into the night as Niznik finds myriad ways to pronounce Brian's "inaugural" one of Bob's "best ever" as well. Sampling from every vending machine on the second and third floor landings, the pair snack 'n snicker 'til the sun comes up. Next morning, completely exhausted, near broke from the room rate, and still grindin' their teeth down from the heavy speed lode, the boys check out at around 9 am declaring themselves to be "happy as fuck".

As another day, like every other day, draws thousands of licensed Illinois drivers into
I-70's Westbound morning rush hour lanes for the tedious commute to ... St. Elmo, Bob— jerking the vertiginous Brian back onto the berm while thrusting out a thumb—coins a phrase for the nation's progeny: "We're fucking going to Disneyland!"

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