Friday, January 7, 2011
About the Velvet Hammer
He informed me, in language not this delicate, that he'd like to severe the genitalia of these KKKers and shove in the mouths of their mothers. I was intent on finishing my drink and let him prate with his alcoholic bile--it had the memorized rhythm of a nursed resentment that could be rattled off, word for word, at split-second provocation--until the bar maid emerged from the backroom and said "Okay, Bobby, just leave the man alone and let him enjoy his drink." Bobby, who'd maintained a slurring, snarling Gordian knot of a grimace, a result, no doubt , of too many years of blown opportunities and short term day jobs and shorter term love affairs, suddenly let his face go slack, all those tight coils of resentment giving to the gravity of his situation.
He stared into his drink while the bar maid wiped the counter and emptied a bucket of ice into the bar well. It was a cozy little nest of diluted dreams defied the SoCal sunshine during its years on La Jolla Blvd., Bird Rock's ground zero for bad ju ju. The Velvet Hammer was, by the time I rolled in for drinks years after whatever conviviality it contained had lapsed and sputtered , was an enclosed argument with the sunny side of things.