The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Mick O�Shea, �Only Anarchists Are Pretty�

Started December 28, 2005 � Finished January 16, 2006; 256 pages. Posted 11 March 2006

Hey, sorry again that I�ve written yet another long entry. Do me a favor � if you just couldn�t muddle your way through it all, go down to the comment section and let me know, and then I�ll try to keep a tighter ship around these parts.

Of course, considering how long it took me just to say that, I make no promises.

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A lot gets said about the prevalent racism around Hawaii. Living here as a kid, I had a few incidents � some name-calling, the occasional threat, and then there was the time my sister and I were camping at Bellows field.

I�m pretty sure I�ve referenced this in an entry a long time back so just if you remember this, feel free to skip ahead 10 paragraphs where I�ll get to the point. Anyhoo, I was about ten, my sister 12, and we were playing around the beach area with a baseball when another kid approached us who was close to our ages. We played with him for a while, but it didn�t take long to realize that he was a stupid and mean-spirited kid. We eventually told him to get lost.

Not more than ten minutes later, his big brother, whom I would place around 25 years-old, marched up yelling and screaming. How dare we not play with his little brudda, he yelled, continuing on to say we were a bunch of haole fuckers destroying the island and the culture, and we should all go back where we came from.

�We live in Manoa Valley,� I said, probably a bit too snotty. That got me shoved as a result.

This was about the age that my sister used to stick up for me and she stepped bravely between us to tell this huge, muscle-bound local who was twice her age to leave me alone. That got her shoved.

This was also about the time that I first read superhero comics. We weren�t allowed to read them ourselves because of the violence factor, but I found a stash in the basement, and I poured through them like most kids my age were doing with Playboys. Right before we left to go camping, I read one (I believe it was Spider-man) that showed the hero throwing a baseball and braining some thug in head, effectively knocking him the fuck out.

I realized that I was holding a baseball.

Yes, Virginia, kids do sometimes imitate violence they digest through media. Not that I expected to knock this guy out. I ain�t that stupid. I just figured I would hit him and he would chase me, which would get him away from my sister.

Klugarsh, in case you�re reading this aloud, this would be the time to take on that Jello Biafra impression that you love doing.

So I threw the ball.

He took two steps toward me, and I started running. Instead of giving chase, he turned around and hit my 12 year-old sister in the face.

We went back to where we came from in a hurry.

Stories like that still continue, but the thing is, I�ve been treated pretty well, and I�m a skinny white guy with purple hair. You think I would�ve got my ass kicked ten times over by now. Especially as I�ve been doing the bar reviews again, so I�m often walking into a place blind and by myself, with no idea who�s going to be inside, or what they may think of some skinny pale white guy with purple hair. Instead, I�ve had people great me warmly and openly, sometimes buying me drinks, sometimes sharing stories, and always with a big smile. You could even say these people I�ve met are filled with the Aloha Spirit, but if you do say that, I�m gonna hit you with a baseball.

But I know there are still plenty of incidents of violence and animosity toward the white folk. And I suppose I, considering my luck, should feel fortunate that it hasn�t happened to me. I bring all this up because one of my ex�s was warned me about such incidents about before I left. I wrote her recently, and told her everything was going fine, with the exception of everything involving my car.

�The car has been here just over five months,� I wrote, �and in that time, it�s been ticketed and towed, broken into and vandalized, hit by a drunk driver, the trunk won�t open for reasons unknown, and last week I had a flat.�

Then it dawned on me.

Guess what color my car is.

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This is another book given to me to review by MaximumRockNRoll for review, which makes it the third book that I still need to write a review for. I�m an ass. Calling this book �A novel about the early days of the Sex Pistols,� O�Shea has obviously (and admittedly) taken his recollections of being around the band during their early incarnation and committed it to paper, filling in a few gaps with speculation and slapping the word �novel� on the cover so he won�t get sued.

Careful readers will notice I did the same thing with my book.

But he, on the other hand, does it very well, showing a good sense of dramatic tension and narrative and believable dialogue. It�s quite good, but I�m not sure what he�s going to do for a follow-up. After all, this is something he knows, which is quite different than just making shit up. And since I still have to write an actual review, I�ll use that as a jumping off point. As if this entry weren�t long enough.

So yeah, something he knows. That leads me into the two jobs I kept; working for the newspaper, and working for the alternative dance club. I think I pretty well have the hang of bartending, but I�m still not sure it�s something I do well, because it�s not really something I know, if that makes any sense. I mean, I know all about bars, but my experiences come down to ordering beer, or whiskey and coke. It�s a good habit. I know my limits on these. I know when to slow down. When I deviated from those drinks for the first time in a long time last year, I woke up with my collarbone broken in three places. I�m now back on the beer or whiskey and coke regiment.

And god, do I love it when somebody orders something that simple. But of course, we�re a club in Hawaii, where the majority of patrons are either tourists who feel like things out of the ordinary, or they�re newly turned 21 year-old military brats who haven�t figured out their niche. So they look at our drink list and want to try all the exotic sounding drinks. I, in turn, have to remember what goes in all of these, while wincing at the fact that the deejay is playing the theme from Ghostbusters.

I�m making drinks like the Alien Brain (Melon liqueur, vodka, Bailey�s floated in the middle with a few drops of grenadine), or the Adios Motherfucker (Essentially a Long Island Ice Tea, but with 7-Up, topped with blue curacao), or the Liquid Cocaine (Southern Comfort, Crown Royal, Chambord, pineapple juice). Thus, when somebody does ask for something basic, but still has a name, I�ve blanked out. For instance, one person (and this actually happened) asked for a screwdriver � a fucking screwdriver � and I couldn�t remember what went in it.

�OK,� I told the girl who ordered it, �you�re about to hear the dumbest thing you�ve ever heard from a bartender, but...� I thought of it just in time, so I didn�t sound like a total retard.

Last week though, while it was rather busy I had two guys order B-52�s. (Half a glass of Guinness with a shot of Jameson�s mixed with Bailey�s). It was really busy, and I was pretty frazzled. I got half of the drink right, pouring the glasses of Guinness, and then confused it with a Jagerbomb, setting two shots of Jagermeister in front of them.

I�ve never found myself in a situation where I had to take an ipecac before (look it up, dumbass). I do, however, know somebody who has, and she described it to me. �Oh, fuck,� she said, �it was nasty. It�s super thick and syrupy.�

Think about this: Guinness and Jagermeister. I would say that I�ve invented a new drink, and we could call it The Ipecac. But the name rings a little too true, and I�m the one who had to mop up afterward that night, so I don't think I'll be serving it again.

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So I�m not the best bartender in the world. Like I said, it�s not something I really know. But I do know how to write, or at least I�d like to think so. And one of the things I do know, is punk. I went to that Pretty N Punk show, though unfortunately, they decided against having any of the promised �free punk makeovers,� because I was totally gonna get one. And the subsequent piece I wrote got into the Honolulu Weekly, but they seem to be taking the Hawaiian work ethic route and haven�t put it up on their Web page, even though it�s been a week and a half since it was printed. I�ll reprint it here for you instead, and I�ll give you a better photo than what they actually used for the article. You�re welcome.

Or perhaps what I should be saying is, I�m sorry.

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Pretty in punk

Depending on your age bracket, you�ve probably been subjected at some point to a mass media presentation of the depravity of the punk scene. There was the Quincy, M.E. episode about the razor blade dancing epidemic and the CHiPs episode about the punk band that not only liked pain, but�brace yourself�sang about it. Martin Scorsese showed the hazards of walking into the wrong club on mohawk night in After Hours while Johnny Depp took on an enigmatic punk-rock gang messiah in 21 Jump Street. And the more recent cult favorite Freaks and Geeks told us that punk clubs are filled with people sporting hairstyles two feet high who break bottles over their own skulls for fun.

Leave it to The Wave Waikiki to emulate the media�s take on punk with their third annual Pretty N Punk showcase. The Wave�s penchant for going over the top with its presentations was evident in the lingerie showcase (the panties and bras for sale courtesy of the shop next door, Lingerie Heaven) that was supplemented with enormous backlit handcuffs lining the walls. Because punks like their bondage gear�and they get arrested a lot.

Staring at the bicycle chains hanging from the walls and with the whiskey prices starting at nearly five bucks, you can�t help but wonder how the punk moniker got co-opted. Fears were assuaged as soon as local band Extra Stout took the stage and kept the crowd entertained with their stage antics and shouted harmonies. Those awaiting the Pretty part of the evening (remember, this was pretty and punk, kind of like beauty and the beast, we think) had to wait until headliners The Enhancements, whose performance was, um, enhanced with models�one of them Miss Hawaii 2005 contestant Kamakoa Page�using the stage as a runway to show off their goodies.

And yes, combining mostly naked lingerie models with songs about beer and feelings of self loathing does seem incongruous, especially to those for whom the punk subculture was about equality, independence and most important, non-exploitation. But with the popularity of alternative phenomena like the Suicide Girls (which some have dubbed �Girls Gone Wild�with tattoos!�), the melding was inevitable. And besides, to the holdouts that still follow the moralistic church of Ian Mackaye whose new folk band was recently featured on NPR�well, how can you grumble when the messiah himself has crossed over? Panties. Banjos. It�s all bad.

And if anyone had any lingering doubts about the importance of the evening (listen up, punks) runway model Kalie Capadona tried to put things in perspective. �There�s certainly some people who came tonight because they wanted to see some ass. But we�re also supporting an independent local business with Lingerie Heaven, as well as some of the local bands, and we�re also doing it for ourselves. It�s all for fun, but we can also use this to our own advantage.�

Pretty-N-Punk at Wave Waikiki



Getting In: Cover charge depends on the event
Dress Code: Insert candy-colored hair jokes here
Soundtrack: Punk light when the bands weren�t on stage, featuring VH1 approved alternative rock like L7 and Jane�s Addiction
Sightings: More than one should be allowed to see without tipping
Signature Drink: Nightly drink specials

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Yeah, I�ve had worse jobs.


Rating: Worth used.

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