Grace Krilanovich - The Orange Eats Creeps

Down by the creek there’s a small town by the name of Irondale, a single lane of highway tacked down right in the middle of a lush forest wilderness the likes of which would do Marty Stouffer proud. I found the rest of my hobo buddies camped out among a few modest houses and sheds situated on a dozen acres littered with mobile home trailers and smelly Meth accoutrements , a display resplendent of the region’s claim to fame in the local papers: seedy clusters of mutant skinless stripped-bare mobile home trailers. This was one of the famous Meth squats of Irondale, a real mustache on the face of depravity. The Jefferson County Leader routinely sent out reporters to lurk behind some crap-filled bathtub, taking notes. More than one soul had been absorbed. Irondale stood as a living monument to Meth dudes who had casually reached a level of ingenuity whereby — after selling the metal siding off their trailers for scrap — they found themselves with nothing left to practice tagging on, so they put the word out, soliciting others to haul in something to fill the void. A yard full of wrecked shit fulfills many needs, doubling as shelter, jewelry, target practice, and…? Some neighbors were once baffled to see a Meth squatter hauling a boat filled with garbage on a trailer with no wheels. When the trailer couldn’t be coaxed into going any further it was unceremoniously abandoned out in the middle of the road, which even by Meth squat standards is pretty resourceful. The garbage that actually did make it onto the property was cast off behind some trees, or used to prop up one of the corners of the skinless trailer, or else dragged off by wild animals for use in their own squats. Very little could grow on Meth squat land and what did was burned down. Massive jamborees were held around giant cauldrons of altered medicine that bubbled delectably away at the fire. Fizzle … hisss … Sick with the indulgent atmosphere we hopped a train to Portland a few days later and in the middle of loitering here and there we happened upon a free show at the teen center. It seemed like the same bag of bagels was following us all over town. The show was put together by friends of those riot grrrls Josh and Knowles picked up in Olympia last month, the book-smart ones with sour old letterman jackets. The door was open to all walks of life: panhandlers, veterans, Vag Warriors. Pamphlets were piled next to uneven glances at the door. We paused underneath a sign proclaiming “Ladies! Chart Your Mucus!” over a crude pictogram showing four skirted stick figures dancing in an agrarian netherworld of crosshatched crops. Murph wrinkled his nose, “Too much information!” A woman in a paisley vest came up behind them. “Bite the apple, babe,” she said, not stopping as she walked by. “Ooh, seeecret knowledge,” Josh hissed. Too much info , too much info they chanted in unison.

Those two riot grrrls weren’t even there but their friend’s band, Touch Boob was. (About Touch Boob: Totally chilling all the time up in Tumwater, they spoke often of life “in the middle of [their] new magical, mysterious, mind-blowing bio-dome. It’s full of various independent stoner-friendly ecosystems. Some are jungle habitats, [others are] enchanted forests filled with endangered mythical beasts and/or creatures… we smoke weed.”) They sucked and it looked like it was going to be a long, tedious evening, so we poked around in the storage rooms in the rear of the hall, filling our pockets with small stuff that caught our eye, only to return to see a band called the Slaves in pressed street clothes, sticky blooms of sweat heaving, gobbling at the air cuz they could barely breathe. The singer was all laid out on a giant platter at the base of the stage. It was clear that something strange was going on. Sure they were from the same school of overcompensating, guilt-tinged showmanship as the DC scene, where efforts to make a safe haven turned rock shows into public displays of group ecstasy, but something bright and adorable shone in their eyes. When he looked down at me I felt sure I was not returning the gaze to anything alive. He seemed shut down for the duration, and that made it okay okay to do or say or think all sorts of strange things.

All the girls piled up in front of the stage to face the spectacular god of rock presenting himself like a stuffed, glory-basted offering in front of them. They hit him and kissed him and toyed with his cock and balls. After the band finished their set, in a silence like death, drenched in sweat he finally lay: on the floor, on whatever , lay pretty much passed out while the girls did whatever they wanted to do to him; he was a passive observer to his own evisceration, spread before a haunted, hunted clutch of demon pervs, girlvert witches. They just dug in. Took his shorts off, had sex with every part of him, whatever. He “slept” through it, locked in a post-gig trance, his body a human sweat lodge fueled by self-pity. Numb to all the voices but his own, the pounding in his head, stained voices of headache after headache. He had beaten so many, pummeled them with his fists: “You wanted me, this is me,” he said… The riot grrrls ran around yanking down banners and sweaty shit, chanting I see a punk club, he sees a strip bar! over and over again. Okay okay, I understand that the stage can be a very strange place to be a girl. I thought originally that this is what men talked about when they waded around with that stabby-serene look at the girls on stage with no clothes on. I will never be able to get my mind around strippers and their kind — they are intangible beings. But if you’re not, if you’re a boy up there on stage rocking out, well then I might perv out on you. Don’t be scared it doesn’t hurt. It’s just me looking, eyes as big as dinner plates… I see a punk club and I see a strip bar. (Rock ’n roll is stripping for girls; DUH! it’s the secret history of rock.) Take for instance: Seth and I are not even at the same show right now. He has no clue. I want to grab him and point and yell, “Look at what’s happening all around you!” Look at her eyes bugging out of her head as she gazes upon the moistened god of war onstage, in full attack mode! (no jangly bullshit) She’s begging him with her eyes! She’s perving out on him with the dead face of the preacher afraid of looking possessed, or of the con man who can’t give it all away…

A couple girls with college accents are doing a research project about local gangs of bloodsucking delinquents. The next day they came out to our camp and talked to Knowles and Josh, then seduced them. Ahh they’re a dying breed. Not many girls out there anymore who wear big shirts with stretchy skirts, boots and a bob, barrettes; eyes crossed like a Burmese cat. Their politics are evaporating faster now that the wind is blowing so much, and the day will come soon when they’ll end up mere rockabilly chicks, their obsessions waning into topics of mall shoplifting, puberty, teen cliques, high school, guns, male criminals, whores, and ’60s French pop. But they remain very resourceful, and like us, will create what they want if it’s not already there. They have their organized shit together, unlike us. We’re just DIY perverts. DIY dirt, DIY death. We do it ourselves oh yes. Seth put my shoes back together with tape. We make do with slipping into unlocked cars, motel stationary, and eating off open plates at the mall foodcourt. We circle around the fire perched on abandoned furniture, or other objects found on the street. Scrounged is better than bought. Sponging is better than working. Our hands are frozen in scooping gestures and our pockets are just big flaps, permanently stretched out by being filled and emptied so many times. Most nights our campfires looked like a crap convention. It’s dumb but it’s true. A huge cardboard cutout of a beer cheer-leader in a cowboy hat had been creased and “seated” in the Best Comfort Chair by either Knowles or Josh. I said, I’m throwing her into the fuckin fire! and sat down.