You know who I’m talking about. They’re always there at the bar. They’re the barflies, the bar trolls. Who are they? Where do they come from? Do they have jobs? What are they thinking? Are they thinking?
Perhaps as an explaination for you delicate souls who don’t frequent Bear and Leather Bars, here’s who he is:
He is ever-present, usually always either in a corner or moving directly through the crowd in a straight line avoiding all eye contact. Never speaks directly to anyone, but everyone has a story about how he will paw at them with eyes glazed and mouth leering until they have to tell him forcefully to stop. He often (especially in SF) will always have a backpack filled with I don’t want to know what, or a plastic garbage bag filled with same.
San Francisco had more interesting and tragic types, But LA definitely has its share too. Here are a few of my favorites, in no particular order:
#1 PSYCHOTIC KNEESOCKS personality level: none
He haunts The Faultline. He’s always there. …always. He’s sort of between 60 and 90, but with lots of drugs and booze he may only be 25.
He fancies himself the clever dresser because he does vary his outfit to vaguely conform to theme nights. Usually, his outfit consists of a leather vest and a pleated leather skirt. One night, the theme at the eagle was uniform night, so he wore a Lakers jersey over his vest. See what I mean by conformity? However, his defining clothing accoutrement which makes him most notorious and also gives him his nickname is that he never EVER comes in anything but knee-high thick white cheerleader gauge socks. Always.
#2 SATAN’S PRIVATE DANCER personality level: negligible
If you’ve ever been to Sunday beer bust at the
Flatline Faultline, then you know EXACTLY who I’m talking about. He’s the freak who’s up on stage, staggering around in place with his arms up in the air, “dancing”. This guy is so fucked up he’s back to normal and gone. He always wears a fishing cap and sunglasses, and is of an indeterminate age. I’d guess he hovers somewhere between 35 and 95. He appears to live in a perpetual glue huff. Totally amazing. Local phenomena. No discernable I.Q. whatsoever.
#3 THE TOXIC PIXY personality level: does it matter?
The toxic pixy is certainly consistent in his dress (or unfortunate lack thereof) I will say that for him. His age is also in no way questionable. Can’t be a day under 110. He probably used to baby-sit Queen Elizabeth. The first one.
The toxic pixy wears a costume of a g-string. On festive occasions, he’ll favor us with a leather vest and a rubber band for his arm. Or is that maybe a tourniquet? He’s about 5’10 and weighs about 40 lbs after a big bowl of cornflakes.
One time, I was making time with a HOT out-of towner in the back bar, and just as I had his zipper down and was about to go down, the toxic pixy floated up, sans g-string, and tried to join in. Moment ruined.
It’s rumored that he likes to go into the men’s room at the eagle during beer busts and such and squat on the toilet and take a big dump. The toilet is not in a private stall. It’s just there, next to the piss trough. Or is that the Psychotic Knee socks who does that? Not sure. It may be an urban myth anyway.
I have heard from a couple of the bartenders that he sometimes comes in during the day and he’s dressed in a suit and tie. Probably a big producer, or more likely a top agent at C.A.A. He sleeps in his 1959 Chevy pickup truck. That I do know.
#4 EDDIE MUNSTER personality: not currently possible
Eddie Munster must be retarded, so I shouldn’t make fun of him. His vocabulary is a series of grunts and low whistles and giggles. He has attached himself to the leg of every man in Los Angeles at one time or another. In my unfortunate case, it’s been one time and another. He seems simply to want to eat everyone.
Dave was worried about him last week, because he’s been M.I.A. for about a month. I figure his keeper has him locked in a cage somewhere, or maybe he’s stuck in a corner, unable to navigate his way out.
Somewhere, there is a picture of me patting his tiny little pointy head. I hope never to find it.
God knows there are more of them. I’ll write more some other time. There’s the prune, Uncle Fester, Grapeape, The Purse, the coin Purse, and others. ..And I haven’t even GOT to the
San Francisco trolls.
Hmm… curious. I learned last night at the Eagle that there was just this last Tuesday an interesting episode involving the toxic pixy. He came in last Tuesday afternoon in his business suit, but he was covered from his collar down to his shoes in a solid layer of light brown mud. Dried mud. It causes me to wonder… perhaps he lives in the La Brea tarpits?