Dennis O'Neil, et al, �The Deadman Collection�
First of all, just to get the book stuff out of the way, I was introduced to Deadman from Alan Moore�s run in Swamp Thing. I also read a four-issue mini-series that came out, probably somewhere in the mid 80s, and thought it was pretty ok. Right before I had my final day at the bookstore in California, this collection came in. I looked it over, knew I was already shipping too many things across the ocean, and the price tag was a little too high, in any case. So I passed, despite some interest.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I finally got some reserve cash built up and ambled into a tiny, poorly organized bookstore near the university and saw this same boxed collection under a stack of books and periodicals on the floor � for cheaper that my store was selling it!
Actually, I guess that statement�s not too accurate. Yes, the price was cheaper, but this copy was a little more battered (if I remember correctly, the first copy I saw was still in shrinkwrap). Second, employees of the store in California get an additional 50 percent off the cover price, so that new copy would have cost me less � but only slightly. In any case, even if I had paid the three or so dollars less, I would�ve felt ripped off, �cause this is laaaaaaaaaaaaame. This collection, spurring from the so-called Golden Age of comics must refer to the color instead of the value, because it�s nothing but American Cheese. I would consider bringing it back with me despite the size and weight when I return to California next week to sell to my store, but I noticed they haven�t sold their copy yet.
Of course, I don�t really talk about the books, and seeing as I just did three paragraphs, I should shut the hell up about it and talk about me. Of course, I still need a tie-in.
Deadman. Yeah, that�s how I feel. I just got another piece published in the local weekly paper. If you want the link and the picture, here you go. The thing is, they published it after slicing off the bottom, which I thought was rather important. It�s a rule in journalism not to put anything important at the end because it might get cut to make room for advertisements, and that�s what seems to have happened in this case. So, if you haven�t already clicked, then I�d rather you just read the review right here, as originally written.
And if you did click the link and read already, well, that�ll show you for jumping the gun, huh?
Depending on how fortunate you�ve been in life, �Last Call� may be the most painful term you�ve heard. There are many on this island who can�t bear to hear those words spoken and travel from place to place trying to extend their night far into the next day. With the Wave�s recent closure, one of the easiest joints to accomplish this is at Galaxy Night Club.
Finding Galaxy, for those not well versed in the nightlife scene, may be a little tougher as, like the beast with three heads, the club is known by at least as many names. Aside from its mode of operation under the Galaxy moniker, many still refer to the club as Seventeen�s, though that name passed away long ago. In addition, Galaxy occasionally features their Dungeon night (usually once a month), where the entire parking lot is fenced off to shield those who want to wear even less than they do on a normal evening.
Open until 6am, Galaxy serves as an insomniac�s paradise, but as it�s strictly BYOB, planning is paramount. And people do plan. Walk in the door after 2am when most places and patrons have called it a night and you�ll see a ton of people who refuse to call it quits carrying around enormous bottles, usually in both hands. It makes sense, for with a ten dollar admission charge and a $2 re-entrance fee, you should keep the best stuff with you and keep lots of it, as everybody knows that once you enter, it�s gonna be a long night. What they hoard is far from stock carried over from discount days from the local liquor barn either. Employees of the club must have the most well stocked cabinets at home from the sheer variety and volume of booze left behind in the wee hours of the morning.
With the excesses that happen behind the entrance, it�s probably fortunate that the club is only open on the weekends � it probably takes the remaining five days to clean up the place. Featuring two separate dimly-lit dance rooms, both lettered with cigarette butts, spilled liquor, and liquids of an undeterminable sort near the couches that are in abundance utilized by exuberant couples (and sometimes triples, and more), this is not a place for those with cleanliness issues. It�s best not to think about it.
Though the two DJ rooms showcase numerous genres throughout the evening, as the sun gets closer to rising the tone changes primarily concentrating on House, Trance and Breakbeat music, which is appropriate � at that time most of the patrons can�t make out their own words, much less decipher others. The plethora of styles goes past the music pumped through the sound system as well, and it�s one of the few places that serves as a venue friendly to all walks of life and sexual persuasions. What�s nice about that is that Galaxy serves more like a community than a standard club where the only goal is to desperately search for your next pick up.
Those who doubt that statement should try and make it until 6am, when those house lights finally snap on. For then, you can witness those who stumble out in solidarity, knowing that they have at least 18 hours before hearing that dreaded last call again.
- Galaxy
1739 Kalakaua Ave
Open Friday and Saturday, 10pm � 6am
- Getting in: 18 and up, BYOB for those 21 and up with ID.
- Dress Code: Less is more. Unless you have more latex or leather.
- Soundtrack: Starts with alternative and gothic, moving slowly toward house as the evening wears on.
- Sightings: If you�ve ever done a double-take at an outfit that looks outrageous, chances are they�ll be there.
- Signature Drink: As it�s BYOB, you create a signature of your own, but whiskey and rum are popular.
Yes, Galaxy is the reason I feel like a Deadman. As I�ve mentioned previously, I�ve had nearly no time that wasn�t revolved around working for the club, or writing for the paper, or this blog. Even writing for the paper had fallen by the wayside because in order to do that, I had to go out and find a club to write about. Since I usually have to set up the bar before nine in the evening and wouldn�t get out until three the next morning, it made it hard to visit anywhere. Galaxy, however, is located a mere two blocks away from my work, and is usually filled with people who frequented my bar until we threw them out.
The funny thing is that apart from seeing people I know and like, I really don�t like the place. Obviously, there�s the Trance music which isn�t going to gel well with me, but the place also creeps me out a little after that many people pour that much liquor down their throat. Not that I�m judging, I mean, look at this.
From creeped out to creepy in the span of a single camera flash.
Plus, there�s a level of reparations that happens at this club when they see me. I�ve poured them a lot of booze over the night, and when I�m not behind the bar, they feel the need to reciprocate. The problem with this is that is been few times where I manage to get out before daylight breaks, and sometimes the party moves back over to the local dive bar that opens at the same time Galaxy closes. Since I always work on Saturday (and sometimes Sunday), this tends to make me a little spacey.
How spacey, you ask? I can give you an example. After one particularly long Friday night/Saturday morning, I drove home, slept for four hours, and then drove back.
Oh, hell, I�ll need to backtrack a little. The week prior, I left the dive bar at around 10 a.m. Parking is limited in Waikiki, where my club is located, and when I returned to my car, one of the businesses that shares the parking lot with the club decided to attach a note to my window, saying I was in a tow-away zone, and warning me not to leave my car there again.
Fast forward to the next week, after going home and sleeping for four hours. I pulled back into the parking lot, which was already filled with cars. While staring at the filled stalls, I noticed that my car wasn�t there.
�Oh shit,� I thought to myself, �Did they tow my car? Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!�
And then I remembered I was in my car.
Deadman, indeed.
Tonight, in twelve hours to be exact, my club will host the busiest night of the week, that of the Ghostbusters soundtrack. Most of the people that I know will go to Galaxy afterward.
This should serve as formal notice that I ain�t going.
---Update: It's now 20 hours past when I first wrote this. And yes, I went.
