I was discussing the music of The Shaggs with someone today and came up with this:
It’s like a child running up to you and hugging you with sticky chocolate or peanut butter hands, and you want to say, “Aww! How cute!” But instead you just punch its little face in.
Warmth and violence. If only all music would inspire such contradictory, simulataneous emotions in me, I’d probably go and out and see more bands.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about “The Rickolator!”
He’s a gent that Melusine and many San Francisco friends saw in a club in New Orleans many months ago. He is medium height, brawny and built. Slightly Neanderthal face that some ladies might consider, “steamy” (though certainly not all), dances like he’s wriggling out of a straightjacket, and is playing the field in the most overt manner imaginable, sidling up to his Goode Laydee Victimmes and mouthing breathily words probably along these lines: “Hey baby, come here often?” “That’s a smokin’ dress you got on. Bet it would look good on my floor.” “Hey toots, wanna come to my place and see my rock collection?”
Et cetera.
Friend Christie teased him one night. Licked her fingers, outlined her nipples, splayed her legs, all in the name of good, healthy nightclub fun. The lad was beside himself, naturally, but received no further favours from Mademoiselle Christie beyond imaginary material for his nightly wank.
My friends speculated about the gent. “What’s his name?”
“Oh, it’s gotta be ‘Rick’!”
“No, uh-uh. ‘The Rickolator’!”
“Where does he work?”
“Bagel shop, probably.”
“That one? Over there?”
“Let’s go see.”
(Enter ladies into bagel shop.)
“Is Rick here?”
“No, he just left, sorry.”
(Ladies exeunt bagelrie, stifling guffaws. Once outside, they are incapacitated with laughter.)
That, in a nutshell is “The Rickolator!”
Last night, Melusine and I were at Club 1984 dancing to Go-Go’s and old Siouxsie and stuff, and the dear woman clutched me, pulled my come-hither-sailor locks away from my ear and screamed over the music, “Oh my god! It’s ‘The Rickolator’!”
“Where! Where! Oh my god!” I had only heard the story before — never seen the man, the legend, “The Rickolator!” himself.
She pointed him out. He was wearing a red clingy shirt and undulating beneath it whene’er he felt he was being watched by a Hot Betty. He had two Hot Bettys with him, both fawning and giggling over the charisma that seemed to be oozing from his Planet Of The Apes face like a ruptured boil. He began dancing for them. Doing a male-stripper-type dance.
It was a bit much, really.
He was a piece of work.
He wore a frizzy mullet. Proudly. Oh so proudly.
Me to Melusine: “Who does he think he is, Steeeeve Perry or someone?”
He was “The Rickolator!”
And he knows which way is UP.
More recent Quippages:
Marquis: “You and I are always after The Help.”
Melusine: “They know how to serve!”
Melusine: (in reference to a Cuteboy who keeps proving himself aesthetcially pleasing in more ways upon every encounter) “He’s thwarting my doomslant!”
Melusine: (talking about work) “And the men? They’re just going to have to worship me from afar.”
Some Chick: (to Marquis on Halloween) “Are you a Shim Shamette?”
Marquis: “I’m a man.”
Chick: “Oh! My god! Wow!” (pause) “Are you gay or bi?”
Marquis: “Are those the only two choices left these days? I’m … Adventursome.”
Chick: “So you take the plate and push it away if it’s not appealing?”
Marquis: “Well done!”
Melusine: “Those people there are like pigeons — frantic, dirty thinnngs!”
Marquis: (speaking of his barstool) “I do so love a good swivel.”
Marquis: “Would you like to be seated in the Quipping Section?”
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