But first…
A brief overview of Dakonda's deal, from what I can tell: He's a tad older than us, late 50's? Little
hard to say exactly, but then it's always that way with musicians and other
lunatics in general: That quasi-youthful
vibe tends to permeate regardless of actual age. So The D-dude is an accomplished
multi-instrumentalist who has apparently played with some very big names. But seems he's not playing with those anymore. Not sure exactly WHAT he does at this point,
aside from wrangling people for OPEN-MIC exploits at the local vegan teahouse
that's run by a handful of young Krishna fellaz. Which is fine, it's SOMEthing to do in
between vitamin infusions.
Dakonda certainly seems a kind-hearted soul. Also, unconventional: He wears these really
huge, metallic-aqua, roundish, Mickey-Mouse-style running shoes. Pretty striking, those things. And remember, Chris met him at the
vitamin-therapy place, so my first impression when I saw them standing together
on the curb as I pulled up was: "WHAT is with those fuckin' SNEAKERS,
MAN?" But ya got used to them
pretty quick, as they actually suited his personality in an uncanny way the
more you got to know him.
ANYWAY… So, Dakonda wasn't in the same boat as my
husband. He was being treated for
something else at the holistic vitamin place.
Not cancer, but he was having some vitamin-issues and it's frankly not my
place to go into that. Regardless, he
was FULL TO THE BRIM with energy. I
wondered if they were shooting him up with TOO MANY VITAMINS at that freakin'
place. Manic
is a good description, yeah, he had the mania-thing going: Talking non-stop much of the time, switching
topics with lightning speed so that your head would be spinning and you got the
feeling that his brain-cells were careening like a pinball machine around the
inside of his head: His THOUGHTS were,
most definitely. Somewhat exhaustingly lovable with his overwrought
enthusiasm, he'd be right in the middle of a rapid-fire diatribe about
Carlos Santana and - BAMM - switch gears:
"…AND…AND…life is long…and we must…there's enlightenment to be found…if we
are OPEN…" I'd be
like: "Huh? Oh, okay…new topic I guess." But it was fine, and me and Chris had been
thru so much trauma in recent months - with more uncertainty ahead - that the
diversion of just being around all of that positive fervor flying offa Dakonda
was oddly healing. At first…
* * * * * *
So yeah, also milling around the café` are the KRISHNA BOYS,
the ones who run the place. Not what
you'd expect when you think of Krishna dudes.
Nobody was bald and no single red
roses, no tambourines. THESE young'uns
are quite mod. A half dozen of 'em in
their early-to-mid-twenties - some quite handsome and all with full heads of
hair, sporting identical straw fedora hats.
Like a tiny army of mini-Indiana Joneses
boppin' around the joint in aprons, wielding trays of herbal tea, hummus and
pita chips.
Dakonda has brought a bright blue solid-body electric guitar
and a flute, so we have that to look forward to. I should
mention that during Tranny Houston's performance, Dakonda giggles furtively and
begins filming the performance - along
with the room's reaction to it - on his iphone.
If Tranny Houston is my first
red flag of the evening, THIS little move on Dakonda's part is my second.
OKAY! Pretty much up
to speed here. Tranny Houston has
finished her big number, and the place is starting to fill up with some magical
characters: Couple of college kids with
guitars, staring at their laptops or iphones.
These kids today. The techno-zombies. A middle-aged poetess or two. Me and Chris of course, and I'm heartened to
see another couple in our age group enter with guitars and amps. They spot us,
too, and we greet each other tentatively, hopefully. Oy vey, always hopeful…
So after I've complimented Tranny Houston on her
performance, he glares at me like he wants to smash me over the head with his large
plastic bag of putrid, decomposing sneakers.
I look at Chris, who sits beside
me smiling and nodding pleasantly up at Tranny Houston. Jesus - How
does he DO it? My cheerfully stoic
partner in crime.
Tranny swings his head from me to Chris: There's obviously some
kind of inner debate going on in his poor, shattered, QUEEN OF THE NIGHT psyche.
And then sanity (or most likely, apathetic exhaustion) prevails. With a disgruntled HARUMPFFFFFF, Tranny turns away from us and plops a noisy squat
onto a rickety stool, dust and possibly some moths poofing up all around him/her. How utterly charming.
I look at Chris: "Should we just leave? I'm feeling…weird about this…"
He is positively incredulous: "No way, baby! This is our night out! Now get
up there and do your number!"
TO BE CONTINUED….
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