Surveillance Pelicana Chapter 3: ‘What a Revolting Development This Is’

SURVEILLANCE PELICANA

BY

DAN WEISMAN

(The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)

 

Chapter Three Synopsis:

Poetry night continues at the Blue Bayou.

Events take an unpropitious turn towards ugliness due to a

convergence of circumstances attributable to karmic order. Mona

Mona and her friend Roger initiate a riot resulting in the total

devastation of the bar. Tyger and Armor’s escape before the

authorities arrive.

 

CHAPTER THREE

“What a Revolting Development This Is”

 

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Hang around like a glider, comrades, for every eon of

boredom infinitum sometimes passes over an interesting nanosecond,

or two.

In this case, hurtling towards an uncertain future, a

petrified past remains; but only as interpreted by the likes of

Tyger Williams.

Do not pretend to understand the forever never . Simply try

to grasp the momentary soft landing.

A voice from mission control memory recalls the last booster

stage rocketing through space-time at the Blue Bayou.

“All you so-called genius poets suck. You dried out toadies

who think you are …fuggedaboutit.YY ou dried out

suck suck like 10 zillion vacuum cleaners

toady weeds. You

suck. Get fucked.”

Another parish heard from.

So forth and so on after the break as a tall long-haired

performance artist snaps the small crowd with his lashing tongue.

Blah blah blah blah.

Armor ‘s assumes a righteous pose. “But words will never harm

me–nah nah nah nah.”

The crowd gathers momentum growing by an anorexia nervosa

 

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case there, a rotund space monkey here, straggling in random

disorder. The girl, in particular, attracts Tyger’s gaze.

For a girlish slip so thin with an eating disorder, she

appears amazingly sexy in a short short black dress. She turns

on the lights in the dark room like a sodium vapor lamp.

Sweet memories of youth enter the club stage left striding

purposefully to the bar counter. “Uhhh, two cokes please,”

requests a crew cut rap artist. He remembers this night through

age immemorial, or not, depending on random brain waves.

The next poet assumes his historical place on the small

stage above the audience. Tyger and Armor’s have taken their

destined seats in a middle row. The usual interchangable 30 souls

fly like blackbirds into neatly arranged order.

“Fuck you Reagan. Fuck your dirty little wars. Hey fuck your

evil empire and fuck your emperor’s no clothes.” the poet singsongs

raising the potential for confrontation a level beat.

So on and so on he blows hard wired by a surrounding cloud

of cigarette smoke. Someone throws a wadded up piece of paper at

the stage. Wide right. The poet dares not notice.

“Najibullah is a foolah. Hit me with your half-greased

ruler. Wham it in and bam it out. You is feeler than a turnip

sprout.” After break rap poet numero duo rambles.

“ls this a rap, a rap rip-off, or a rap take-off?” Tyqer

 

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requests agreement. “You never know,” he manages.

Maybe there is a full moon. Possibly a few Saints fans are

still hung over psychically. Perhaps the sudden cold snap change

of weather has bent a few, shall we say, minds. It might be

abnormal sunspot activity.

A change in attitude seems apparent for whatever reason.

The natives definitely are growing restless.

“You suck. Rapmaster ‘8’–for booooooring,” snaps the twig

of a small girl who bends rapsters like bamboo. “Fuck you too,

you tool,” he shouts back.

“Booooooring. Boooooring,” continues twig woman gaining an

authoritative air soaring like stars without restraint, picking

up locomotive steam considerable. “Boring, like a sick autistic

gopher. Out damn spot!”

A William Burroughs poster hangs from the wall riverside. He

grins sideways. What a revolting development this is.

Cuckoo George-bent-on-bad-rapping poetry winds to a stop.

“Fuck you then,” and storms off the stage. There is one poet who

knows when it is time to stop.

Rapmeister Dick kicks at a chair on his way to the back of the

bar, perpendicularly turning to owner Big Al Santalucito who, no

request necessary, sets him up with a Jack Daniels shot, Dixie

 

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beer chaser, that is rapped home in a loud show of force.

The next, in this case, poetess begins. She is another neat

looking girl with short black hair, lovely long dress and shapely

body. “Uh-ho,” Armor· s cautions, “I see it coming.”

She recites an ode to her wet pussy. “Not a bad

recommendation for a first date,” Tyger nudges Armor’s who

doesn’t acknowledge due to a jaw dropped open. “I’m in

finally replies.

love,” he

Continues the poetess with wonderful descriptions of her

numerous orgasms while waiting for public transportation in Kuala

Lumpur, Malaysia. She meanders through the five minute time

limitation, then politely refrains to sustained applause and some

tasteful finger-snapping. Life is looking up for Armor·s.

Tyger notices heavier than usual traffic around the bar.

Liquor consumption appears to pick up considerably for some, as

yet inexplicable, reason. In fact, alcohol has replaced marijuana

as the current drug of choice which seems highly irregular.

“What’s the deal,” Tyger finally asks as he turns backwards

to pretty, moon faced, tall as a tree Mona Mona, who looks

sweetly innocent but does some wild performance art with dildos

and blow-up animal creatures.

Drinks free fall, flowing in mass quantity although there

seems little in the exchange of cash for services rendered. Big

Al floats like a monarch butterfly but stings like a drunken bee

 

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maintaining service across the vast bar expanse huddled beneath

the glare of so-called motel art — weird flowers, seascapes

and children with big eyes — hanging above and beyond the bar

railing.

“Shit. Well, shut my earring,” entraps another poet, almost

too well dressed in suit and tie as he begins. “Certainly shit

being a daily unctuous function deserves your full

attention being essential to human condition. Hallowed be our

excrement.”

“O.K., I will give him that,” Armor·s says. At final stage

then, the poet blasts off, then stumbles, tripping over a

microphone chord. The audience, in tribute to Allen Ginsburg,

howls.

Many like the children of the spirit they are dissolve in

mirthful laughter. Armor’s makes another fake fart, then looks

around in bogus recrimination. “He who smelt it, dealt it,” Tyger

charges accurately.

This much seems certain: it is a tough room that night.

Poets like the mighty ocean roar. Their verbose waves of chatter

fall and rise like amoeba plagued red surf. It is a dangerous sea

out there for fair weather sailors.

Big Al yells in the corner. “Hey there! You there, who

forgot your drink. Hey buddy. What will it be?”

“A zombie flash sir,” a bearded youth rap-plies. “Noooo

problem.”

Hey, what is going on here? Only the shadow knows. The poet continues

 

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moving his mouth, true, but nothing comes of nothing.

Tyger contemplates the meaning of this message. Then, a

thought strikes. “Hold it,” Tyger mumbles to Armor·s. “This guy

is drunk as a skunk.”

Ka-boom, splooey, phooey; the general noise level rises like

high tide exploding by a microphone amplified podium beaten.

Those entering the Blue Bayou as if privy to a secret sandbar,

immediately body surf towards Big Al, the rapidly pouring kahuna.

Big Al jumps over the bar — not quite for he is as huge

as two Hawaiian love shacks. Yet, he gives it the old Big Al try,

finally oozing a large pot belly over the bar-top towards

the small stage.

The timid poet eagerly relinquishes his microphone’s

umbilical chord, hoping to disappear into darkness as Big Al

prepares to make an announcement.

“Hey hey hey I don’t usually do this but I have had a big

week,” he announces. “I hit a $5,000 jackpot betting on the

Vikings Sunday.

“So for the rest of the night,” and a pause that refreshes

as present converges with and diverges from bar-life precedent,

“Drinks are on the house.”

“Uh-ho,” Tyger realizes as the Blue Bayou, indeed, starts

turning very ugly. Big Al certainly knows how to attract

everyone’s full attention.

 

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A loud huzzah envelops the tavern as the collected deadbeats

become Al’s new best friends. Various groups embark on favorite

modes of jubilation.

“Have some N’awlins tea, corn-pone,” Tyger abandons caution,

lights a joint, and hands off to Armor’s grasping paw. “Have

another hit brother,” Armor’s swooshes in a lung full, “of sweet

air . ”

Armor’s finishes smoking reefer glowing. No one notices.

Poetry night fast approaches ground zero.

Two men with guitars and a woman sing folk-style “You can’t

beat me I’m working for the union,” in a surreal accompaniment to

the more frenetic activity of poetry patron grabbing on to bar,

doing whatever it takes to get at those freebies.

Big Al pours frenetically like some mad appliance gone out

of control. He is ably assisted by his girl friend, Carol.

Blurt blurt more hurt, the race for space along the bar

outrageously flying fur as songbirds belt out a

“For he’s a jolly good fellow,” dedicated to

approximates

rousing chorus of

you know who.

They end without warning, dashing like dots for the serving

troth. “I will have a peppermint Schnapps,” from voices heard

above the rabble babble.

“Wild Turkey?” “Scotch on the rocks!”

“Bartender, an old fashioned. No, make that a Manhattan.”

 

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Ka-boom! Big Al falls to the floor. Nobody seems to

notice. The poet.ic party has engendered a momentum all its own.

Nobody is in charge anymore.

Drink service, exotic and otherwise, continues at an ever

expanding universal pace. Word travels like a moon shot heard

around the neighborhood, attracting an unusual aggregate in

congregation.

Maybe 60, 70 persons — Nicaraguan exiles, African-Americans

from the nearby ghetto, redneck mothers — paint the Blue Bayou

black, white, yellow, and red with an ad-hoc Rainbow Coalition.

It is a van conversion meat market out there. Little halfpints

down twice their body weight in sparkling burgundy and

imported beer. Bigger piggies further demoralize call liquor

brands by the bygone bottle. Marijuana smoke drifts everywhere.

Nobody is on the podium. Nobody cares. Guess it was time for

another break anyway. Smashing glass sound. And it was time to

break something, too.

“Uh-ho,” Tyger turns to Armor’s who has disappeared over by

the end of the bar to grab-ass the anorectic girl as they grapple

for a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka.

Scene shift to a series of dissolves illustrating the

increasingly anarchic state of the Blue Bayou. Staggering

poets, patrons, patriots got to revolution spinning heads floating on

indeterminable rivers of liqour gushing over the floor.

 

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Spike haired boys and fat chicks with black dyed dreadlocks

sweep across the room playing an imaginary game of what? Who

knows. Who cares.

They rattle around in dark corners, smashing glass in a

modern Greek chorus. Humbaby, wawawawa, a nitrous oxide fit

builds as the building resounds.

More bottles break. Pointless arguments ensue, devolve into

riddles, disdainfully fret their time upon the stage and resume

the usual infinities of anomalies.

Armor’s turns to a blonde haired Nordic beauty, 6’3″ tall

and stacked like a deck of cards. “Who aaaaare these persons, my

dear?” he ever so suavely inquires before clumsily tottering into

a near chair.

Armor’s looks up at what he considers God’s most glorious

creation: Wall-to-wailing-wall titties. “Down spot,” replies the

goddess Mona Mona. “Like yeah,” Armor’s, the dude, abides.

Thronging poets awe behold. The situation is out of control.

Icebergs? Damn them sir, full speed ahead, gulp gulp.

A strange kind of white noise bellies up to the bar wrapping

conversations around curved universes bouncing like superballs

between the cracks in the room’s atmosphere.

 

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Everybody is a comedian. Never heard a story so funny.

Hahahahaha. Noise and confusion starts making too much sense.

Sunspots burst, then vector into dark space tailed by the

now routine liquor in free fall. Big Al like a shot off of

Cecil Fielder’s bat is long, long, way long gone. But he is at

the Wrigley Field of the soul and a fan throws his home run back.

About 10,000 years of mankind’s development is stuffed into

one cocktail glass upright on Mona’s Mona’s nose. “That is not a

bad trick,” notes Armor’s, laid out and back in a corner chair

observing the spaced out action. “Not bad at all.”

“Whose toin is it now,” asserts a middle-aged receding

hairline. “I came here for a good poetry reading.”

“No,” corrects a unison of voices mocking the Monty

Pythons. “You came here for a poetry reading.” Hahahaha laughing

gas. II I am not slurring· my woids,” bald guy asserts defensively

although no one could possibly have noticed or cared.

(Drink calls in the background become quite unusual as

patron and management successfully intermingle, bond, and become

one. Pink lady, Goombah Smash, speedbal 1, Eth cocktail, and

marijuana with a few micrograms of LSD straight up, etc.)

The open mike name sign-up list melts down in the frenzied

chaos. There is considerable confusion about who should read next

if there is a next.

“Oh please God,” Armor’s prays with hands outstretched Jesus

 

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style . “Don’t let it be me . ”

He is gratefully passed over like the ancient Jews in Egypt.

An anonymous poke in Tyger’s ribs follows.

replies. “I read last time.”

“No way man,” he

Finally a very attractive redhead, small and pert, pretends

she is a salmon swimming upstream and mounts the stage. She has

washed up on shore ready to comment.

“Like I have really gotten into the life force here. Every

one of you is like so beautiful. It blows my mind. Thank you.

Thank you. I have learned a lot tonight. You are beautiful. Yes

you are.”

Meanwhile, a bearded man casually flicks lit matches at the

bar flowing with highly flammable liquids and such. Hahaha redux.

The room is swept away by the excrement of its patrons·

exalted excitement. “Is she giving that guy over there a blowjob?”

Armor’s inquires mid-burp. “Don’t ask me,

replies. “I· m not here anymore.”

man,” Tyger

Tyger snaps his fingers beatnik style in automatic response.

Time for the next er er er what-ya-call-it: recitation.

“Everything seems to be da da da, coming up r-oses,”

proclaims a ruddy complexioned youth sporting pink bunny ears on

his fore and a bushy white tale to his aft.

Armor’s looks at Tyger. “Don’t ask,” the T-man preemptively

strikes. “I don’t want to know.”

 

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“Hey man, that’s cool,” Armor’s replies noticeably relieved.

“I knew it wasn’t just me. That’s cool, tool.”

Next. Next. Drum press roll please. Make that a press roll,

kaiser roll, beignet to please. A nondescript boy in horn-rimmed

glasses mumbles,

stage.

stops, begins crying, then madly kicks at the

He mumble, rumbles, crumbles, bumbles, and reassembles. This

fits right in because he seems to be having a nervous breakdown;

er, make that breakthrough.

Then he is the silly rabbit who jumps back in the hat. He is

solid gone.

“I hope he doesn’t hurt himself,” a disembodied motherly

female voice pretends to care.

“Ah, he does that every week,” another through the carnage

reassesses, accent on the second syllable.

nice,” the woman answers through the haze.

Next. Who’s next? Tyger this time

“Well then, that’s

Armor’s nudges.

Hahahahaha. “Have another hit, friend. But no way am I getting up

on that purgatorious stage of dismemberment.”

No matter. A pretty young thing with long thin legs

delicately walks on-stage turning ever so chic on thoroughbred

ankles just the way Francois Truffaut claimed to like them.

For a moment, silent runs the ragged room. It is all the

more surprising for the contrast with the last hour of frenetic

 

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hell-in-training . “It is my great

pleasure to introduce our feature this

evening,” the girl begins with great pomp and ceremonial

circumstance. Armor’s coughs, nudging Tyger yet again.

“Have another hit,” he says passing the reefer. “There is a feature

this evening?”

His voice breaks the suddenly sacred silence of the monumental moment.

“Shhhhhh,” many voices now chime together .

“And in this corner,” the pretty girl with the microphone

continues, “weighing in at a svelte 235 pounds, 5’3″ in his

stocking feet, grey goatee, 50-year-old artistic wonder. It is

Roger. Yes. Roger.”

Polite applause greets Roger climbing into the ring ready for his next opponent.

That would be, in the absence of any clear target, the audience. So, what else is new?

“And in this corner,” the ring announcer motion. “A slick

cat, a mean machine, 6’3″ tall, 150 pounds. It is,” she whispers

to Roger who, as an unindicted co-conspirator replies out of the

crowd’s earshot.

“Mona. Mona. Mona. Let us hear it for these two dahlins.'”

More polite applause. The rowdy crowd seems to be passed out,

passing gas or otherwise resting.

Ahoy there hearty multitudes. Roger and Mona Mona present

arms. For now, amazingly, the room is fairly quiet having soaked

 

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up the wild wetness like a dry sponge.

Mona, Mona Mona begins in manner innocuous singing a

tasteful a cappella medley of theme music from “the Beverly

Hillbillies,” “All in the Family,” “Bewitched,” and, of course,

the crowd pleasing “Brady Bunch.”

“Not bad, not bad,” Armor’s adjudges. A couple of poets by

the bar chant “Go baby go. Let it all hang out. Surf’s up!” and

similar obscurely semi-rude comments.

Roger starts dancing with himself in a slow semi-circuitous

motion. It is about 11 p.m. Big Al has retired to a stupefied

heap on the floor.

The frenetic pace has withered at the vine with time as

everyone has accepted the notion of free booze. Patrons help

themselves at will to whatever is available. A certain sense of

polite kindness now predominates.

Marijuana smoke and liquor fumes fill the atmospheric aroma.

A couple of firemen have somehow gotten word of the party and sit

uniformly cloaked at a table.

Half the persons in the room resemble various barnyard

animals. The rest look like refugees from the Ethiopian desert.

Everybody seems pleasantly plastered as the dynamic duo onstage,

mainly Mona Mona, sing in mellifluous atonal tones. Make

Tyger a pallet on the floor: she penetrates virgin souls, walking

over timeless passion.

 

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Then dear Roger magician presto produces a portable cassette

player. Mona cJears her throat operatic diva fashion. So much for

the pleasant preliminaries. Now begins the rest of the story.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa… a most indescribable wai 1, so

horrible, so awesomely annoying like the worst scratched

blackboard sound combined with a million cats squealing.

Mona rapidly travels up and down the musical scale or what

passes for it to the rabble. Tyger covers his ear. Armor’s turns

around to see a room gone finally to seed just when one thought

nothing else could happen.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, hoohoo-eeeeeeeeeeeek… Oh man, hel 1

of a noisy rain forest. Roger whirls madly like a Turkish dervish

on the small platform–perhaps he calls it dancing.

Kerblam! Kerslam! A number of glasses combustible are

spontaneously smashing. A mirror explodes.

“How much bad luck is that?” Tyger yells above the fray at

Armor’s holding his head. The dear boy seems to have an early

hangover.

The once seemingly dead crowd has hallelujah resurrected. Some spring

to their feet as stirring sprouts bending to the hard-to-fathom

superhuman musical scales.

Up and down driven on by a crazed elevator operator in the

person of tall as a tower and thin as a reed, moon faced Mona

Mona. “EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeee … ” Fingers continue scratching a song

 

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along a tortuous black chalkboard. “AAAAAAaaaaaaeeeeeeee … ”

Yeah, right. Tyger looks at his watch hand. T-minus infinity and counting.

Rather T-max delivery for how long has it been–three minutes, four, and counting.

Is that all?

Seems like return to forever.

All that passes for attention rivets stagebound.

Mona Mona definitely exhibits an unusual style.

Geezus bejeezus, Mona Mona is breaking the sound barrier.

And Roger? He is perched like a mad parrot at the front

of the stage making obscene hand gestures, apparently at the

cowering crowd.

“What the actual fuck!” the fat man in the corner starts yelling in

competitive fervor as he stages a last stand. “Fuuuuuck! Fuck

you already!”

He rises. “Fuck you already and your fucking Yoko Ono

imitation.” He walks hands clenching rather menacingly towards the

stage.

“What do you think?” Tyger asks Armor’s who does not respond.

Tyger pokes his friend. Armor’s removes wadded paper napkin

from both ears.

“What? Hey, I’m finally enjoying this,” he says.

“Never mind,” Tyger screams. Armor’s plugs his ears again.

Fat man and Roger stand practically eyeball to eyeball at

the edge of the stage. Roger continues making hand gestures, which

 

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are beyond conflicting interpretation. The fat man, red face,

looks like a bloated seed about to germinate.

What we have here, gentlemen, quoting Cool Hand Luke’s

Strother Martin warden, is a failure to communicate. And how.

From the rear, near the bar, a few loose objects spin into

view. They grow astronomically.

They are the usual space garbage missiles defying gravity–

glasses, bottles, pretty much anything not tie-dyed down. Then

trails a steady explosive stream of anti-matter.

Ash trays, candle holders, glasses, every kind of projectile

imaginable, clothes, a bit of what is that–sheetrock? Holy shit,

have another hit and by all means quack, quack, duck.

Man oh Manischewitz, the crazy broad won’t stop. She

continues wailing in a superhuman effort to prove the outrageous

power of her vocal traik.

Roger and the fat man square off, push leading to shove as

they wrestle to the smashed glass strewn floor. Six minutes and

counting mission control.

Some higher power needs to scratch this bitch off the

mission. “Here this small prayer Lord,” Tyger asks, “and make it

stop.”

Art if art is anything is truth. The truth of the matter, in

this case, is Mona Mona and Roger bite. Sad but truth.

 

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Patrons near the back rise in agitated states and blast off,

launching chairs towards the stage.

danger in

What’s

hearted

Big Al, }ike some huge hibernating bear sensing

his den, rises groggily, and warily, glances around. “Uh.

happening?” he asks half a heart, half a heart, half

onward.

“Nothing dear, go back to sleep,” Carol, his girlfriend,

answers. “Oh. Oh. O.K.,” Big Al mumbles and collapses back into

his fetal position. Lucky guy. Di course, he’ll regret this in

the morning.

Let’s face facts, comrades in confusion. A full-blown poetry

riot has erupted.

Two large motorcycle types go from table to table picking up

the asteroids, flinging them across the universal rumor, tumorous

growth room.

“Oh my goodness,” exclaims Tyger as a little old lady pulls

off her wig, pushing it into an old man’s face. “She’s bald.”

“And she has a moustache,” a lip-reading Armor’s notes,

obviously impressed.

Time expands by a minute, two, three; stops, reforms, and

like an earthquake rumbles. Ultimate truth is going down

splintering wood all around the bloody blooming booming bar.

like

A large table gracefully pirouettes in the air and tumbles

down cracking. “Waaaaaeeeeiiiiii!”

 

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Riotous sounds share Mona Mona’s loud tribute to art and

outrageous fortune. Disorder, comrades, and a lovely poetic

passion reign supreme.

Armor’s smiles approvingly, turning to Tyger. “I am getting

into this now,” Armor’s reports. “This is one of the better open

mikes, I do believe, sir.”

Tyger surveys the anarchy with an alarming conclusion.

Armor·s joking. Right?

Finally, at long last, the wailing appears to subside

although it is hard to say if this is so given the Blue Bayou·s

chaotic din. Mona Mona evacuates the stage, punctuating her exit

by grabbing a chair and smashing it on top of the Roger

offending fat man who promptly collapses in a heap.

Roger carefully dusts off himself and takes the microphone.

“Thank you all very much. We’re stopping now,” he says. “You have

been a lovely audience. I hope we can do this again next week.”

“Oh yeah,” Tyger says. “Fat chance.”

Another type of wailing can be heard in the distance. It

seems to be approaching rapidly like a comet or … what·s that, a

police siren?

Danger. “Ai-ooga everyone,” Armor’s says rising to the

occasion.

The place tones down considerably. All appears much calmer.

The visual wreckage, however, belies that pleasant aural

 

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illusion.

The Blue Bayou resembles Hiroshima mon amour after the atom

bomb was dropped. (In a dark corner, a couple on a first date

discuss Wallace Stevens and the concept of chaos versus order.

How quaint.)

“Ai-ooga, aiiiii-000,” the unmistakable signs of law

enforcement close in on the anarchic state. Armor’s again

removes his paper ear plugs.

“Sounds like the cops,” he says. “We better like a banana

split.” “Nooooo problem,” Tyger replies stirring like a wok-man.

A growing bonfire sparkles in the corner. The firemen run

for cover in the opposite direction. Roger shakes someone’s hand,

ready to beam me up Scotty out and over to Tchopitoulas Street.

“Yes, let’s do this again sometime,” Armor’s says as the dynamic

duo approach the escape hatch.

“Let’s do lunch,” he adds exiting though the fire door.

The police siren approaches ever closer announcing

itself loudly now that the furor has split ended.

Our nutty cosmonauts vanish into the night. Lost in space

and feeling the impact of a special moment far out memory

recalling. They like stars in a black sky suspended mote float to

the vehicular module.

 

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A postscript dear comrades: Such was the last open mike

poetry night, or any performance, at

persons were arrested.

the Blue Bayou. Only five persons were arrested.

Tyger and Armor·s blew a lovely last “fatty” joint before an

existential retirement. And no one ever saw Big Al, Roger, or

Mona Mona again. Thank goodness, once more, for small favors.

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