The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Jon B. Cooke (editor), �Comic Book Artist: Alan Moore and Friends�

(Started August 22 � Finished September 9, 2005; 128 pages). Posted 24 December 2005

Technically this probably doesn�t belong in my book review list, mostly because it�s a magazine, not a book. I�m not including the dozens of magazines I read in the numerous visits to the hospital with my father, so why is this getting special treatment? I suppose this gets in because this is really text-heavy with tiny typeface and small margins, and had more information that that actual birthday biography of Alan Moore I reviewed a couple of months back.

And because I feel like it. So there.

I didn�t mean that last entry to sound so gloomy. Yeah, aside from working at the bookstore, the trip back to San Jose kinda sucked, but I don�t know what I was expecting. Well, I suppose I know what I was expecting � free drinks and dozens of adoring fans. But I have daydreams of grandeur.

Plus, I had been gone, what, three months? Not much time for people to decide they miss having me around. In fact, knowing my circle of friends it�s unlikely that in three months they realized I was gone.

And San Jose was only one day out of seven and a half that I was there. For the most part I was in Oakland and San Francisco, and I used that time to re-connect with three different hot obnoxious girls. The primary reason for visiting was to make a birthday visit with this chick, but tantamount was the Trust dinner held in my uncle�s name.

That dinner filled three functions: I could take the birthday girl out to a fancy dinner and I wouldn�t have to pay for it, as I certainly can�t afford functions that cost $140 per person. I�d also get the chance to hang out with my mother, as I wouldn�t be able to visit during actual holidays, making it the first one I�ve missed in, well, close to ever. Finally, if you read that older entry about the dinner, you know that this event comes with an open bar.

It�s now proven � I will travel amazing distances for an open bar.

One note, before I get into the telling of the evening�s festivities � One person privy to all sorts of private information about me once remarked that I have a talent for writing things that are bothering me and clearly expressing my feelings without compromising the identities of other parties involved. I don�t know if this will be possible tonight.

Hell, I don�t even know that I want to guarantee any anonymity.

How�s THAT for foreshadowing?

---

As a precursor, if you�re new to this site, or even if you aren�t, I really suggest you read that older linked entry, because it�s five in the morning as I type this and I have to go work a double shift at the bar in twelve hours and don�t want to do any sort of recap. Yes, that�s right, while you all have dinner with friends and family tonight and tomorrow, think of me as I pour overpriced drinks for whomever else is friendless enough to venture out to hear crappy emo bands in the early evening, or deathrock dance music later in the night.

So yeah, read the old entry. Need the link again? Here you go. You�re welcome.

Ok, now that we�re all caught up, I can start by saying that after my mother bought the tickets for me and my guest, she gave me a quick warning.

�Your aunt was quite worried last year because of the girl you brought,� she told me, sounding a little embarrassed. �Can you please tell your date that even though the drinks are free, there�s no need to try and finish it all?�

�Ah, mom, this one�s Irish,� I replied. �That means she can hold her liquor.�

Like I said, she seemed embarrassed to bring it up. But there�s always been this sense of inequity regarding my immediate family and the offshoots. My sister and I often joke how we were supposed to be the black sheep of the family tree. After all, I had one uncle who was a nuclear researcher, his wife was in nursing, and the other uncle was a lawyer who argued in front of the Supreme Court. In contrast, my father was a divorced marriage counselor and my mother was a teacher.

After my parents were divorced, the differences in income became all the more apparent. The lawyer expanded his house so often that I feared he had the Sarah Winchester disease. His three bedroom house expanded to six, along with a pool, a basketball court, a four car parking garage with overhanging attic, three lower decks and a life sized recreation of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Each time we made our trek up to visit I played a game seeing how long it took to find the newest installment to his property. It never took long.

In contrast, I, through the power of punk rock, realized we were on welfare.

That probably needs explaining for the non-punk. I was 16, listening to the Repo Man soundtrack, singing along with the Circle Jerks �When the Shit Hits the Fan.� The chorus goes like this:

My mom came home and yelled to turn down that noise. I helped her gather things from her car. Among the things I collected were loaves of bread, five-pound blocks of cheese, and some bags of assorted groceries.

�Holy shit!� I said to myself. �We�re on welfare!�

At least, I hope I said it to myself. I know my mom was really struggling, trying to take care of both me and my sister, while trying to keep her financial difficulties private, probably because she didn�t want us to have some sort of complex. In the meantime, both my sister and me were acting like, well, pretty much what you would expect 16 and 18-year olds to act like. But, hey mom, we�re both really sorry, if that means anything. We didn�t know, or if we did, we were just too self-absorbed to care. Sorry. Everything is appreciated.

Ok. Tangent. Sorry. In any case, I don�t think my sister and I had a good idea of class-ism when we were children, though we certainly noticed that our cousins didn�t have to drink powdered milk. My sister finished high school and went straight into the workforce. I was kicked out at the beginning of my sophomore year and played in bands while working menial jobs. Neither of us were totally black sheep material � no unwanted pregnancies, no drug addictions, no murders � none proven anyway. But I, for one, still felt the inequalities on those holiday visits.

It wasn�t that I felt like I was on some lower plane, just because I was poor. I did, however, sometimes feel like some were condescending, simply because I hadn�t taken courses at the University of Berkeley. To tell the truth, that didn�t bother me. Yes, so the two offshoots of my family had more money, and their kids had quality higher education. But despite the low expectations, my sister is successful, working in HR with a major computer conglomerate. She makes a decent living and owns her own home.

As for me, well � I�m happy with my life. I think that�s the best sign of success.

And I�m still going with the tangents. Sheesh. In any case, I think I�ve always felt inadequate in the eyes of my cousins because I wasn�t wealthy and successful. I sometimes feel they�re wondering when I�m going to stop with the purple hair and get a normal job. And as the years tick by, I think they�re a little surprised it hasn�t happened yet. Since it hasn�t, they seem a little wary of what might happen, as if I were a loose cannon of sorts.

So I find myself at the dinner, a little earlier than the rest of the posh crowd. My cousin sits himself at the piano, playing a quick Gershwin tune. He remarks as he plays that the piano is a little out of tune. The entire night is held in his family name, so I can�t resist.

�Well,� I say, �what kind of slipshod operation is this, anyway?�

He continues playing, but keeps up the conversation with me. �You know, Dean,� he says, �you may not like the people here, and I certainly don�t like the majority of them, but everybody paid a lot of money to be here tonight, so let�s try and treat them with a little respect.�

I was a little stunned, but not so much as so I can�t react. �That�s the lamest thing you�ve ever said to me,� I say, leaning in close. �What, did you think I was going to run around denouncing the lackeys of the capitalist system? Did you think I was going to insult people for their status?�

All good, well phrased arguments. Then I blew it. �Jesus, man, you think I can�t conduct myself with class in a situation like this? I�m not a little kid.�

Of course, ending a statement with �I�m not a little kid� is the equivalent of acting like one. �I�m not a little kid! I�m not, I�m not, I�m NOT!�

Crap. Sorry, I was a little shellshocked. In any case, I walked away, shaking my head. My cousin met me in the hallway as I was talking with my date, and asked me to meet him outside.

�Actually,� I said, �I�m really not interested, thanks.� A high-class version of �I�m not listening!!! Lalalalalala-lah!�

�Well, I�m trying to apologize, and make things right,� he responded. �So please � indulge me.�

I followed him outside, whereupon he explained that even though he wasn�t in attendance the previous year, he heard all about evening, and everything that involved my date and me.

�Look,� he said, �all I know is that the girl you brought last time vomited in my mother�s house. And then there was something about a blog...�

Yeah, I wrote a blog,� I said. �Did you happen to read it?�

�Read your blog? No, I have better things to do with my time instead of reading blogs. Like breathing oxygen.�

�Yeah, well, if you had, you may have seen how your brother was overreacting in the first place, and now it�s now carried onto you.� He gave me a hurt look, but I continued. �No, I expect this kind of shit from your brother, but this � this is totally unexpected.�

That seemed to hit home. He doesn�t get along with his brother, and hates comparisons. �Well,� he said, �I�m sorry. It�s been a constant barrage since you first said you were coming, and I think I just got sucked into that. It�s hard to stay distanced from when you hear about it every day for three weeks. You do your thing, and you do it with the purple hair, and that�s just fine for you. I think I forgot that.�

�And so what?� I said, �your brother has been setting up crisis management since he found out I was coming and bringing a date? You have a contigency plan in case I happen to say �motherfucker� in mixed company?�

�Well, I don�t know what set it off, but you know my brother � it�s like somebody else told me the other day, if you look up �self-importance� in the dictionary, there�s a picture of him.�

See, that would be funny, except of course it�s not true. However, I do think if this guy looked up self-importance, I bet he would expect to see his photograph.

In any case, I walked back inside the hall, and explained what happened with my date. I tell her there are members of my extended family who are worried the two of us are somehow going to embarrass ourselves and/or others and taint the dignity of the dinner.

�What,� she says, �Are they worried we�re gonna rush the bar screaming, �SPRING BREAK!!! SHOW US YOUR TITS!!!�

�Maybe,� I said. I think I looked a little shocked and hurt and the realization.

�Aw, that�s lame, baby.�

�Yeah, I know.� I looked around, seeing the first people enter. A few were dressed in tuxedoes, others wearing ties that probably cost as much as my entire outfit.

So, my cousin is worried that my date and my presence might sully the event with our low-class upbringing?

Fine.

I saunter over to the bar, striding tall and proud.

�Jagerbomb,� I tell the bartender.

�I�m sorry?�

�Don�t be sorry, just make the drink. Half a glass of Redbull, shot of Jagermeister.

�I, uh...�

�Oh, I get it, you don�t have Jager. All right, give me a Zombie.�

�I uh...�

�Jesus christ, I�ve only been a bartender for a week, and I know these. Long Island Ice Tea? Irish car Bomb? Adios, Mutherfucker? Brain Hemorrhage?�

Another bartender steps in to save the poor confused barkeep. �I think you can get those kind of things over at Waves,� he says, with a touch of snobbery. �Oh I get it, you think that just because these people are a little older, they don�t know how to party? Wait until the end of the night.� I order a Jack and Coke while he ponders the exclusivity of the event.

As we move past the crowd, a magazine photographer approached, excited to see somebody attending who didn�t look like they might suffer a flashbulb-induced heart attack, particularly since my date was decked out in a red dress, one of the few flashes of color in the joint. He takes down our names in case the photos are published. I give him mine.

�And by the way,� I mention to him, �I should say this entire event is held in honor of a close relative of mine. So if you want any dirt, I�m the man to see.�

�Oh,� he says, �They told me to say to try to avoid any quotes or pictures from you or your family.�

�And speaking as a fellow reporter, that didn�t raise some alarm bells?�

He didn�t have a good answer, and soon after, it was time to go in the main hall for the dinner. Last year, we were seated next to a guy who made flavored after dinner liquor for a living. This year, we were seated next to a judge whose apparent lust for life was to put drug abusers away in prison.

�Most of them,� he told the table, �I put away for using heroin. I�d say 70 percent of the people I sentence are related for crimes because of heroin use. Even if their charges aren�t drug related, I know who�s on heroin.�

The woman sitting next to him was fascinated. �How can you know that?� she said. �I mean, how can you tell who �uses�? Is that the correct term? �Users?�

�Oh, heroin uses aren�t very bright,� he said. �Most of them haven�t had any education. You can just tell.�

�Well,� I interrupted, �What about the heroin uses who are college educated? What�s the litmus test on that?�

�I�m not sure I know what you mean. The people who I put in jail who use heroin are uneducated and have low intelligence.�

�Really,� I said. �Are you sure? Have you thought that the ones who are in college and on heroin are simply smart enough to not get caught?�

The judge seemed shocked by the suggestion and cut off further conversation. At least he did until he started to feel the effects of the sauce that was flowing. Later, with alcohol-fuzzed eyes, and a notable slur in his speech, he used the word �heroin� more than your average William S. Burroughs novel.

---

I don�t know if this is true, but it felt like each time I raised my glass some member of my family was silently taking notes like they were planning an intervention. A once-a-year special event with an open bar is not the time to judge behavior, people.

With the nervous glances, it felt like I should ease up on the free booze intake. I didn�t, but it felt that way.
And as for the wild Irish rose who accompanied me, she kept up with me, and we both managed to conduct ourselves with dignity and grace, and neither of us ended up puking at the end of the night. Always a sign of class.

I hope the rest of my extended family will remember this, as that was the last time I�ll go to this event. Hopefully this rectifies the hand-wringing if I�m not there to tarnish the culture of the affair.

Bitches.

---

As a final note, seeing as it�s now Christmas eve, I�d like to share another family moment. I asked my dad last week what he�d like to do for Christmas.

�Nothing,� he said simply.

�Nothing?� I asked.

�No, nothing. I mean � it�s Jesus Christ�s birthday. Whoopie.�

I looked at him for a second, not saying anything. Finally, I spoke.

�I think you just proved that we�re related.�


Rating: Worth working in a used bookstore and getting for cheap.

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