ESTHER'S ORBIT ROOM

Esther's Orbit Room  today

 In the 1980's,  well before  West Oakland started becoming gentrified, Esther's Orbit Room was the  Dive Of Choice among the pioneering punks, artists, and  early Burners who were inhabiting dirt-cheap warehouses in the neighborhood.   When my all-girl band The Screaming Sirens visited Oakland,  I spent a lot of time at Phoenix Iron Works...which was right around the corner from Esther's Orbit Room, hence, I  also spent a lot of time there. Esther's  was known for making see-though Bloody Marys, meaning that the cocktails were 95% vodka.  The place was so  wild and surreal,  I  appropriated a Disney tagline and began to refer to Esther's  as "The Happiest Place On Earth".   Te geriatric cooks who made the best-and cheapest-soul food ever   would be humping  twenty-something  guys with  dreads or blue Mohawks while dancing to Bell Biv Devoe's "Poison". Under the black ceiling which was  flecked -with gold glitter,  Church Ladies in impressive hats would  rub shoulders with  pimps  and  the crew from Survival Research Labratories.  One morning I was drinking with my friend Steve Heck, patriarch of Phoenix Iron Works, as he  turned down an offer of an under- the- bar blow job from a  dwarf crack whore. I never forgave him for that.

These following pieces are from my book  first book, "Senorita Sin"...and were written on the years in the titles.

ESTHER’S ORBIT ROOM (1988)

 
6:00am in West Oaklanddogs barking off in the distancedown here by the docks, it almost lookslike a post-nuclear movie setBroken windows and burned-down Victorian housesempty lots littered with trashjunked automobiles, overflowing dumpstersstorefronts boarded up with spray-painted plywood

Pucci is opening up the bar at Esther’s Orbit RoomSam Cooke is crooningas she wipes down the barand arranges the retro-rocket red stoolsthat have seen better days...stuffing bursting from the seams

James Brown is screamingan elderly man has a beer and passes out in a corner boothSly And The Family Stone blarePucci pours a line of sloe-gin fizzesfor the crazy rock ‘n’ roll kids who’ve obviously been up all night raving drunk

A rock deal is transacted just inside the doorway

with the day’s first light, somebody spills a drink, a barstool falls over

Percy Sledge is wailingand Pucci doesn’t give a fuckbecause it’s 6:00 in Oakland, Easter Sundaythe after-church crowd will be here soonand they tip real well

ESTHER’S ORBIT ROOM REVISITED (1990)

The Raiders are winningall the guys are clustered around the big-screened TVand Juanita is up there  too, screaming alongand back here near the doorway, sneaking shots of Scotch “My horoscope said I be havin’ good luck.Said I should call my broker.” She takes a furtive pull of her drink and sniffs:“I ain’t got a broker. Got me a bookie,but no broker.” A man in a greasy navy windbreaker slides in, tries to sell her a camera

“It’s thirty-eight millimeter,” he says “Bran’ new!” Juanita cackles-she’s on her fourth shot

“You mean thirty-five millimeter,” she says.

The man leaves, she stares after himpours another shot , pats her copperfoil hair into placesniffs again, adjusts her dentureswith a discreet little slurp and says, ”My horoscope say I be lucky in love this month…butI think I’m just gonna give my bookie a call.”

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HEARTBREAK HOTEL

 HEARTBREAK HOTEL

Valentine’s Day… just the thought of it makes me queasy. I’ve had so many weird, surreal and downright hellish Valentine’s Days, I often entertain the fantasy of going into hibernation on February 13^th and then just popping out emotionally unscathed in the wee hours of February 15^th to shoot a lingering sidelong glance at my shadow. Come to think of it, my shadow has probably been the most stable and enduring relationship I’ve ever had!

Don’t get me wrong- I’ve actually been very lucky in love and love gettin’ lucky, but in my regards to Valentine’s Day itself-and my surviving it- it’s a wonder I haven’t been a recipient of the Purple Heart, for sheer bravery, valor and life-threatening battle wounds.

 In fact, the military-slogan-bearing T-shirts stretched across the buff chests of our country’s off-duty armed forces can best sum up my personal Valentine’s Day experiences:

I KNOW I’M GOING TO HEAVEN, CAUSE I’VE DONE MY TIME IN HELL!

Or better yet:

KILL ‘EM ALL…LET GOD SORT IT OUT!

I remember one Valentine’s Day when the only item in my mailbox that even remotely resembled a heart was a red notice from a utility company. As if that wasn’t bad enough in itself, my evening was packed with shows that only served to rub my “single” status in my face: every damn place I danced was so full of cooing couples I felt like I was performing on Noah’s Ark!

Then there was the February 14 back in the early 1980’s… the date I picked, as a hopeless twenty-year-old romantic, to be My Wedding Day.

My groom and I, in our sole nod to tradition, arrived separately (and not too hung over) at the hall where our ceremony, which had been booked for the better part of a year, was to be held.

I was a vision in an ivory Fifties strapless organza gown, with an over-lay of French lace embroidered with seed pearls. My hair, bleached White Minx, was in a fetching Monroe bob, and under my Goodwill steal of a Juliet veil, I sported my customary Revlon Cherries In The Snow lipstick. As I daintily stepped out of the car, gathering my train, I was astounded to see dozens of buckets of carnations, which had been dyed an uproarious shade of baby blue.

As I wondered who’d Dumpster-dived the Flower District in honor of my wedding, I spotted legions of Low Riders, uniformly bedecked in powder blue Polyester double-knit tuxes… tattooed jailhouse tears and pompadours covered by homeboy hairnets abounded. The four hundred or so bridesmaids were a symphony in ruffled dresses so tight and shiny they looked like they were auditioning to be the Shark’s molls in a special baby blue colorized version of Westside Story.

Just as I was starting to realize that this was not the result of my hangover or an LSD flashback and that Mr. Colorization himself, Ted Turner hadn’t been invited, the Unitarian priest who was to be presiding over my ceremony came rushing out to explain to my groom and I -and three quarters of East LA- that the hall had been double booked.

Tension ran high for a moment, but at the minister’s gentle suggestion we finally decided that a coin-toss was in order. While disgruntled guests from both camps fumbled for quarters, I heard The Best Man whisper to my groom that he had a full tank of gas, a fifth of Scotch, two hundred bucks… and that The Border was only three hours away.

Before my betrothed had a chance to answer, someone pulled out a coin, we won the flip, and had our ceremony first, amongst the blinding neon blue riot of dyed flowers. Speaking of first, I should’ve taken the scheduling snafu as an omen- that turned out to be just My First Wedding. If there are any photos that somehow survived being cut-up or burned, I can assure you they are predominantly baby blue.

Many years later, I foolishly accepted a Valentine’s Day date with Art Boy, to his first major gallery opening. Why I did it, I’ll never know; I was in the throws of an obsessive crush on my best friend, the sexually ambiguous Collegiate Art Department Head, whom Art Boy and I had met in happier times at The Blacklite, an infamous Hollywood dive bar, frequented by a garish parade of luridly made-up trannie hookers.

And there was another little glitch: Art Boy and I had been… just a teensy bit broken up -oh, excuse me, I really meant to say totally hostile and incommunicado- for months.

But hearing Art Boy’s cajoling, purring voice, I magically seemed to forget all of that… as well as the fact that when Art Boy and I had originally embarked upon our passionate and certifiably insane affair three years previously-also coincidentally on February 14^th - it had resulted in the spectacularly gut-wrenching dissolution of My Second Marriage. But Art Boy poured it on shamelessly. He really missed me, he was just dying to see me belly dance again! I caved.

So I went to Art Boy’s opening, dressed for sin in a skin-tight black velvet cat suit and sky-high red platforms, glittering sequined hearts scattered throughout my ass-length, teased-up Pricilla Presley hair do. Art Boy was there, of course… but I hadn’t anticipated the bosomy redhead that was hanging all over him!

Realizing I’d been used for a free performance, I bit the bullet and decided to dance anyway, since I was already there… and at least there would be potential tips. In my frazzled state, I started downing multiple plastic cups of the cheap swill that was barely passing for Merlot.  I was starting my fifth drink when the disinterested gallery owner hustled me to a filthy, closet-sized bathroom, the only place in the gallery where I could change into my costume, since he wouldn’t allow me to use his office.

I didn’t realize that the toilet had been over-flowing until my gig bag had been sitting on the floor for quite some time… because there was no light. Foul mouthed drunks-people drunker than even I was, if that was possible-banged on the door as I changed into costume.

 While I performed, the hem of my costume got drenched in the puddles of beer that had formed on the cement floor, and someone burned a hole in my veil with a cigarette. When I finished my show, Art Boy was macking ardently on the new gal. Instantly, drinks and insults were flung from both sides. My recollection is fuzzy, but I do believe I was the one that started it.

My oldest, most-trusted friend Bobby, who was visiting from Memphis, Tennessee, quickly escorted me out of the melee like the Gallant Southern Gentleman he always has been. Somehow, we wound up at The Blacklite. Collegiate Art Department Head was already there, much to my delight. Much to my dismay, he was there with a date…but by the end of the night, I was infatuated with The Date, who looked like a cross between a gorgeous ‘70’s glam rock fag and 6’ 6” Hitler Youth, with the longest, blackest eyelashes I had ever seen- and they were real!

When the din of the jukebox died down, I detected a Euro Accent. I was madly drunk and melting from lust…and apparently, he was too. That Valentine’s Day, we began or affair- and also a five year long merry-go-round of love, lies, sex, heartbreak, stalking, drug abuse, violence, and psychological torture- between Art Department Head, Tomorrow Belongs To Him and lil’ ole me. You name it, we experienced it. It was a Love Triangle Of Bermudic proportions.

Thank god, all that Valentine’s Day insanity ended in the late 1990’s.

 I’d like to say I’ve learned from my experiences… but I know better. I seem to be feeling a little drowsy …wake me up when it’s over, will you?

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The story you’ve just read is from my book  “Showgirl Confidential: My Life Onstage, Backstage And On The Road” ( Punk Hostage Press, Sept. 2013)

 You can get an autographed copy here:

http://www.princessfarhana.com/shop.htm

EMPLOYMENT FANTASIES

EMPLOYMENT FANTASY #1

I'm the  weather girl for a small, regional television station in the mid-1960s. My hair is styled in a  copper penny colored That Girl flip ‘do, I'm wearing a  pastel A-line dress, and  pale-blue eye  shadow to go with my big flash eyelashes – television tasteful, of course, but in keeping with the period. Gazing directly at the camera, I smile my Yardley Slicker Girl smile, especially on those inclement days when an umbrella is absolutely necessary.

Serious and scientific, I chart cold-fronts, speak with concern about tornado activity in the Midwest,  earnestly predicting showers and possible thunder storms for the Eastern seaboard, in the Tri-State area specifically. Deftly, I attach snow-symbols to the board, with my gracefully tapered hands, their freshly polished Helena Rubenstein nails glinting the studio lights.

 I'm that perky little ray of sunshine in your partly cloudy morning!

 EMPLOYMENT FANTASY #2

I am the bass voice in the classic doo-wop group. I’m the smallest guy in the band, smiling one of those incredibly electric piano-key smiles, spiffy in my bow-tie and shiny sharkskin tuxedo. I start off all the songs with my unbelievably low, resonant voice drawing out the nonsense syllables… DI-DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DIP DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO… until all the little girls scream in a frenzy and nearly wet their  white cotton panties.

HOW DOES SUCH A BIG VOICE COME OUT OF SUCH A LITTLE GUY? The deejays all chuckle in wonder.

It is whispered that I am hung like a horse and have women in every city, but at night, after the show, I  go back to my Colored Only hotel room, get out my rig, and shoot myself into warm oblivion. After years of doing the group’s Fifties hits over and over at fairs, car shows,  and Oldies revivals , I’m discovered one morning on the floor of a cheap motel room, needle still in my arm, cigarettes by the hundreds stubbed out in the amber glass ashtray.

 An illegible note is crumpled on the floor; a picture of an unidentified young man is clutched to my heart in my stiffened hand.

EMPLOYMENT FANTASY #3

I am the person who throws the dummies in cheap horror and suspense films. It’s my specialty – I construct the dummies myself, and experiment with various ways of throwing them so that their arms and legs flail about in an alarmingly  life-like manner, simulating a person who doesn’t want to be falling off a cliff or from the roof of a very tall building. I fix the dolls so that their bodies twist and turn, working perfectly on a shoestring budget. I’m always on cue, and the dummies never miss their mark.

I am an expert in a highly specialized field.

EMPLOYMENT FANTASY #4

I’m a whore sitting in a window in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, on a big, curvy rattan chair. The pinkish haze of the dull-finished Christmas lights surrounding my window give my slightly sagging breasts a rosy glow. My face is worn, ravaged, but still attractive in a dissipated way, the cheekbones and jawline poking sharply through slack skin that’s lost its adolescent resiliency. My eyes are dead, like a shark’s, and painted extravagantly, with black eyeliner that looks like velvet whips.

Some of the other girls are dozing; some have their curtains drawn, but I wait alertly, like a thief, smoking. When a likely party pauses in front of my window, I part my thighs ever so slightly, so that up a length of fishnet hose and satin garters, they can see a hint of pubic hair and the outline of my privates. I exhale a thing stream of smoke and casually let my left hand drop near my crotch; the suggestion of masturbation.

We haggle over a price. He wants me to remove my wig and keep my heels on. In a hoarse voice, I inform him that will be ten Euro extra. I close my shutters, take him to a back room, and wash his penis, inspecting it for sores.

 As he fucks me, I lay motionless on the narrow cot, my eyes fixed on the hammered-tin ceiling.

##

 These stories are from my book “Princess Of Hollywood” ( Incommuncado Press, 1997)

My  latest book, ‘Showgirl Confidential”, is available here:

http://www.princessfarhana.com/shop.htm

LAST CALL

 I was a bartender at a variety of LA dives through most of the 1980's and 1990's... though  it was fun at the time, I can't really say that I miss it!

 This piece was written in 1993, after I'd taken a bartending hiatus  to go on tour  with my band.

"To All My Friends!" Mickey Roark in the film "Barfly"

A few hours behind the bar and it all comes rushing back

the cigarette smoke hanging like a smog shroud, the whisky voices asking for another drink (on their tab, of course) coyly saying before they’ve even taken a sip,

“I’m gonna hate you in the morning!”

The aging, timeworn clichés and  regulars – with an attitude – giving you the once-over while men ask for your phone number

in a broken chalk-scrawl of a voice

Patrons stealing tips off the bar…and thinking you don’t notice

People asking for drinks you’ve never heard of

Lousy tips left by people ordering Crown Royal, paying with crisp new twenties

Filling three orders at once, running the length of the bar

while people grab at your elbows like rabid dogs

 All the dirty jokes

The cocktail waitress winking, inviting you into the ladies room for some blow

Small verbal fights breaking out at the bar; large physical fights breaking out in the parking lot

Fake ID’s and fresh young faces with glassy eyes and boozy breath and drunks banging on the bar with bottles of beer in time to the garbage on the jukebox

The  house phone ringing off the hook with a whining alkie hag on the other end…her fifth call for someone who says he’s not there

 As you break the lips of bottles in hasty removal of the caps

glass in your hands, blood running crimson  into the ice

The pathetic onstage assuming rock-arena poses and playing

the inevitable cover of “C’mon Everybody”

Old barflies knocking over their fourth double shot

wrinkled elderly men  willingly playing bar-back

for an occasional free beer, as you bend over into a cooler slimy  and smelly with spilt ale

The quick disintegration of the people in front of you

The hyper-drive  metamorphosis from being good-humored individuals of average intelligence turning into ornery drunks

There’s not much you can do but pour yourself a shot

and roll with the punches ‘til two a.m.

#

 The piece you’ve just read is from my book, “Senorita Sin”, 1994, Incommunicado Press.

 My latest book, “Showgirl Confidential: My Life Onstage, Backstage And On The Road” is available here:

http://www.princessfarhana.com/book_showgirl.htm