Speaker 1: Cal Zone Media book Club book Club book Club. Hello
Speaker 1: and welcome to the Cool Zone Media book Club, the
Speaker 1: only book club where you don't have to do the
Speaker 1: reading because I do it for you. I'm your host,
Speaker 1: Margaret Kiljoy, and we are in our summer read. Our
Speaker 1: four parter are long. It's not actually very long. It's
Speaker 1: barely a novella. It is right on the edge between
Speaker 1: novelette and novella, which is an almost meaningless distinction that
Speaker 1: I only know the difference between because of or categories.
Speaker 1: That's the main reason that any of these numbers matter,
Speaker 1: and the distinctions between flash fiction, short stories, novelettes, novellas,
Speaker 1: and novels. But this one, we're going to call it
Speaker 1: a novella because it's also, you know, a social category
Speaker 1: rather than just a strict word count thing. That's the
Speaker 1: aside you all were really excited about hearing. We are
Speaker 1: reading A Locust House by Adam Ganatti. And if you
Speaker 1: don't remember part one incredibly well, well you can listen
Speaker 1: to it again if you want. But also, this is
Speaker 1: a slightly less linear book than most of what we
Speaker 1: read here, so don't worry about it too much. Like
Speaker 1: obviously the stuff that's in part one is going to
Speaker 1: come up. Especially. I feel like the payoff is really
Speaker 1: for that part is in part four, the end, because
Speaker 1: we're going to switch characters. We're going to switch to
Speaker 1: new characters. Why am I procrastinating by telling you all
Speaker 1: of this because there's a lot of Spanish in this one,
Speaker 1: and I'm not incredibly good at Spanish. But here we
Speaker 1: go anyway. Chapter two Locust House by Adam Ganatti, Golden Hill.
Speaker 1: As you move eastward from Agnes mccanty's studio apartment, which
Speaker 1: sits on the crest of the hill on the far
Speaker 1: west edge of the neighborhood, the streets are wide and
Speaker 1: well paved and lined with cars. It's an older part
Speaker 1: of town, or rather it feels older in contrast to
Speaker 1: Downtown with his expensive wine bars and dance clubs, or
Speaker 1: the coastal areas beach resorts sprawl. The houses in Golden
Speaker 1: Hill are by and large ratty, but as lovingly well
Speaker 1: maintained as a low to modest income will allow. Driving
Speaker 1: up Broadway. As the numbered streets rise, you will see craftsmen, cottages, victorians,
Speaker 1: turn of the sentry, bungalows, white stucco apartments in the
Speaker 1: California Motels style crumbling alpine and facades, railroad apartments with
Speaker 1: French ironwork gates. Inside the Victorians and craftsmens are hardwood
Speaker 1: floors in varying states of repair and old glass gas
Speaker 1: cabinets and big windows and window seats with a view
Speaker 1: facing west of downtown and the airport in the shipyard
Speaker 1: or to the northeast and south rolling hills of tar
Speaker 1: shingle and orange tile rooftops. The skies are blue and cloudless,
Speaker 1: and the rain comes in frequently. As with most deserts,
Speaker 1: that is what San Diego is. A desert, but a
Speaker 1: desert in disguise made green with the water of other
Speaker 1: poorer cities. In the years since, the drought has come
Speaker 1: and the beautiful lawns are gone. But a well located
Speaker 1: coastal town will change in other ways. Development rolls in
Speaker 1: with tourist money or the promise of it. The San
Speaker 1: Diego of now is not the San Diego of then,
Speaker 1: just like the San Diego of then is not the
Speaker 1: San Diego of decades past, when the sleepy beach neighborhoods
Speaker 1: were closer to a post war America. Before that, it
Speaker 1: was ranchland and marsh flats and endless dirt fields of
Speaker 1: low scrub brush. Before that, the Spanish priests and the
Speaker 1: mission above Old Town and further back Native people Lucienno, Caiuhia, Kupienno, Diegenno,
Speaker 1: small tribes in the arid, sun baked Manzanita hills and
Speaker 1: bramble land, or to the west, coastal villages with fish
Speaker 1: and pelts drying on wood racks, small fires, men and
Speaker 1: women pulling abalone from the tide pools. It was a
Speaker 1: quiet time when the loudest sound was the wind, which
Speaker 1: came and comes mostly from the west over the sea
Speaker 1: and onshore wind colder than the warm offshores from the
Speaker 1: east that blow over the deserts and spark brush fires
Speaker 1: and the drier rural parts of the county. On March
Speaker 1: twenty ninth, two thousand two, Golden Hill is a quiet
Speaker 1: part of town in a different way than in the
Speaker 1: time of the Luciennos, and the development that's now spread
Speaker 1: across the country has yet to change the face of
Speaker 1: the neighborhood here now March two thousand and two, the
Speaker 1: predominant language is Spanish, and muscle cars or hot rods
Speaker 1: sit in dusty driveways, next to rabbit hutches or stacks
Speaker 1: of tires in the weeds or small gardens. In the evenings,
Speaker 1: mariachi bands play backyard parties or birthdays or kinsignettas with
Speaker 1: laughing families and candles lit on garden walls and strings
Speaker 1: of light over picnic tables, window signs in Spanish and
Speaker 1: out sails on pork shoulders tripe canalope. The neighborhood is
Speaker 1: full of taco shops, mercados, and carnserias. Stately churches in
Speaker 1: the mission style are semi Gothic. In the middle of
Speaker 1: town is a laundromat with a sleeping cat in the window,
Speaker 1: and there are well kept liquor stores and bars, shops
Speaker 1: selling US to Mexico, phone cards and pinatas, and sturdy
Speaker 1: cowboy boots. The trees are mostly palm trees and they
Speaker 1: line the hilly streets like telephone poles. As you reach
Speaker 1: the eastern edge of town, there are empty lots with
Speaker 1: dog shit, dried white and old car batteries, and the
Speaker 1: bones of cats and birds. In the ice plant and grass.
Speaker 1: There are abandoned apartments, punk squats with kids outside drinking
Speaker 1: forties watching you drive past. There are condemned houses covered
Speaker 1: in graffiti, mostly names in elaborate jagged shapes and colorful swirls,
Speaker 1: or smiling cartoon animals or exaggerated taggers with huge heads
Speaker 1: and big sneakers and a can of Krylon spray paint
Speaker 1: and hand. There are also political murals Caesar Chaves and
Speaker 1: a sea of upturned faces Martin Luther King with a
Speaker 1: finger raised defiantly next to his face, che Guvara Stormy
Speaker 1: with his beard and beret, or stencils of Mexican revolutionaries
Speaker 1: with rifles held above their heads and bandoliers of cartridges
Speaker 1: draped across their chests. Now these are gone, along with
Speaker 1: the muscle cars and rabbit touches and empty lots. Now,
Speaker 1: in twenty sixteen, the young professionals who work in the
Speaker 1: Mission Valley and downtown offices, and the white college students
Speaker 1: have moved in, and many of the Mexican families and
Speaker 1: most of the punks have moved south to Logan or
Speaker 1: Sherman Heights, or further still to Chula Vista or Senya Sidru.
Speaker 1: But for now it's a quieter time. At night, you
Speaker 1: can hear the sound of the freeway as you walk
Speaker 1: down Broadway and there are neons humming from storefronts, and
Speaker 1: you can imagine yourself in nineteen fifties America walking down
Speaker 1: c Street or twenty six at dusk, you will smell
Speaker 1: dinner cooking albondigas, manuato bozzole, pots of beans, well peppered cherizo,
Speaker 1: sopez frying in oil. James Jackson Bozick twenty six and
Speaker 1: Frances Alisio twenty one walk past the shop fronts and
Speaker 1: awnings lining twenty fifth Street. It's night, but most of
Speaker 1: the stores are still open. They wait for traffic to clear,
Speaker 1: then cross the street, passing the fruit stand closed and
Speaker 1: the laundromat open. The smell of pineapples and dryer sheets
Speaker 1: in the air. Frances hums to herself the tune indistinct.
Speaker 1: They walk arm in arm, and James thinks of his
Speaker 1: grandfather's twenty two pistol on the sock drawer and the
Speaker 1: dusty light through the window as he slides the drawer
Speaker 1: open to look at it on his tiptoes. Six years old, Leveda, Colorado.
Speaker 1: Frances thinks of dark trees in Georgia and sky behind them.
Speaker 1: She thinks of the footbridge over the stream in Hinesville,
Speaker 1: and ring snakes bending through the grass, and a crack
Speaker 1: of lightning running in jagged crags across the sky. Eugenio Armandares,
Speaker 1: forty three, sells grilled corn from a stand on twenty fifth.
Speaker 1: He wears a white T shirt with a front pocket,
Speaker 1: light blue work pants, and black boots. As James and
Speaker 1: Frances approach, he's thumbing through a copy of The Reader.
Speaker 1: He folds it under his arm and smiles and not
Speaker 1: so loon. He sees Frances and thinks of his daughter
Speaker 1: back in Mexico. Standing at the water spigot, thin armed, pale,
Speaker 1: struggling to fill a bucket for the goats. The sky
Speaker 1: overhead blue and cloudless, the musky smell of the creek
Speaker 1: in the air. Cheonda, says James. Eugenio nods. Piero lote
Speaker 1: see gustiarra mostos poufoor. Eugenio asked James if he wants cheese,
Speaker 1: conquees orsen Tenemoscotia. Frankie, you want cheese, right, yeah? Please,
Speaker 1: she says. Eugenia nods and smiles at her, and takes
Speaker 1: the first ear of corn off the grill and rolls
Speaker 1: it in an aluminum serving dish of melted butter, then
Speaker 1: drizzles it in dry white cheese, next a squeeze of
Speaker 1: fresh lime and a shake of cayenne pepper. He thinks
Speaker 1: of TV static as the channel's change in a dark
Speaker 1: living room with people sitting on a couch. His daughter
Speaker 1: standing in the hallway door, head leaned on her arm
Speaker 1: against the jam, the light of the TV on her face.
Speaker 1: John Wayne is on screen in military attire, standing in
Speaker 1: front of a tank, squinting. Say, well, you're gone and
Speaker 1: done it this time, didn't you. His daughter says that
Speaker 1: Americans aren't really like that, and her brother says sh.
Speaker 1: The traffic clears and the street darkens, much like dear listener,
Speaker 1: how the hubbub of content must clear out so that
Speaker 1: we can throw to ads. Here's products and services, and
Speaker 1: we're back. The neons of the turf club glow green
Speaker 1: against the gray and black, and the windows of the
Speaker 1: laundromat are bright lit and cheery. A pregnant woman moves inside,
Speaker 1: pulling wet clothes from a washer and setting them aside
Speaker 1: in a wire basket. Now traffic again, moving past, slow,
Speaker 1: yellow white head lights, dull red break lights, flashing. Frances
Speaker 1: wraps her arm in James's, her head on his shoulder.
Speaker 1: All is good, for now, for now, all is good.
Speaker 1: Joey Carr twenty four turns the corner, walking past Pancheta's
Speaker 1: Bakery and Jac's Market, smoking a cigarette, drinking tequila from
Speaker 1: a doctor pepper Can, staggering but comfortable, singing to himself.
Speaker 1: Frances nods up the street. James, is that Joey Carr? Huh, yeah,
Speaker 1: he looks like shit. Eugenio asks James if he and
Speaker 1: Frances want something to drink. James shakes his head. No,
Speaker 1: gracias hues tres dorades. James opens his wallet, takes out
Speaker 1: a ten chilo dos poor al porpino hey cambio see
Speaker 1: grassius miho. Joey catches sight of them and half jogs
Speaker 1: up to the stand and then he's out of breath,
Speaker 1: leaned forward, hands on his knees. James Jackson Bosic and
Speaker 1: Frances Alicia, What are you two vampires up to? Laughing,
Speaker 1: standing up straight again, bringing his cigarette to his mouth,
Speaker 1: sucking in. His nails are painted black and chipped, and
Speaker 1: his hands are sunburnt. His hair is dirty, and he's
Speaker 1: wearing an eyeliner, and he smells like weed and sweat.
Speaker 1: His stained white T shirt reads the Shock, The Shock,
Speaker 1: The Shock in hot pink letters. James smiles. We're going
Speaker 1: to the East Street House show. It's their moving out party.
Speaker 1: They got evicted. You should come with, says Frances. Eugenio
Speaker 1: hands Francs a paper bag with the aluminum foil wrapped
Speaker 1: corn cobs inside. It's heavy. She can feel the heat
Speaker 1: through the bag, and she can smell the butter and
Speaker 1: cayenne pepper. Thanks, she says, thank you, Miihita. He stares
Speaker 1: at her sadly and decides to call his daughter in
Speaker 1: the morning. In his mind, he says he's sorry. Ociento
Speaker 1: letta lociento. Mihita makes a dragon, turns his head and
Speaker 1: blows the smoke to the side. Dude, no way, the
Speaker 1: Avocado Club's closing up shop bummers. James nods. Avocado Club.
Speaker 1: Who calls it that? Some people do? I always just
Speaker 1: called it the Locust House. As Francis Joey's distracted. He
Speaker 1: looks across the street at the seven eleven. Yeah, but
Speaker 1: like but like nobody else does. He looks back at
Speaker 1: James and Francis and smiles. His teeth are gapped in yellow.
Speaker 1: I've always called it the East Street House, but it's
Speaker 1: funny to say the Avocado Club, because I'm all, No way,
Speaker 1: that shit's a sandwich, you ow, not a house. You
Speaker 1: can't live in a sandwich. He laughs and coughs. That
Speaker 1: shit's a it's a sandwich, right, James shrugs. I guess
Speaker 1: I don't know. Anyway, it should be pretty fun. Who's
Speaker 1: playing locust Blood Brothers. Joey flicks his cigarette into the street. Sick.
Speaker 1: James looks at the cigarette lying in the street. Smoke's
Speaker 1: still trailing up from it, moving with the breeze. A
Speaker 1: car passes over it and he sees it again. The
Speaker 1: smoke is still rising. I think I think the new
Speaker 1: band with Omar and Cedric from at the drive in.
Speaker 1: They stepped to the side so a woman with a
Speaker 1: toddler girl next to her can order nessosito nueve. The
Speaker 1: woman tells Eugenio he trus pepsis. Eugenio begins to work.
Speaker 1: Joey pulls another cigarette from his pack at the drive in.
Speaker 1: No way, really is it Mars volta No? I think
Speaker 1: it's called the Facto. Frankie, who else is playing. James
Speaker 1: looks at Francis shrugging, moving units. Francis shakes her head.
Speaker 1: Maybe I don't know, but we should head out, James,
Speaker 1: you want to do this? Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, says James.
Speaker 1: Let's do it. Joey lights the cigarette and sticks his
Speaker 1: lighter into his back pocket. I'll see you around. Maybe
Speaker 1: I'm supposed to meet Kurt at Ray's. We're going to
Speaker 1: ib to buy talking quieter. Now. We're buying some shit
Speaker 1: to take down to Ensnata to sell if you all
Speaker 1: want some. James shakes his head. No, that's cool, No thanks,
Speaker 1: says Francis. All right, late, see you two around. Don't
Speaker 1: go chasing waterfalls. Joey laughs, then coughs again, holding his
Speaker 1: fist to his mouth. Don't go chasing waterfalls, he says again,
Speaker 1: hoping James or Francis will continue the line. They don't
Speaker 1: see us, says James. By Joey, says Francis. James and
Speaker 1: Francis walk down twenty fifth, Francis holding the bag of
Speaker 1: corn cops under her right arm. Yeah that was awful,
Speaker 1: James says, What the fuck? Poor Joey, he's such a
Speaker 1: nice kid. I wish we didn't see that. What's he
Speaker 1: getting from Kurt? I don't know, Heroinugh, geez, no good, no, no,
Speaker 1: no good. I fucking hate that guy. Kurt. His sister
Speaker 1: also is cool. It's not about that, huh, James, he
Speaker 1: looked like he was eighty. Yeah. Yeah, But we're going
Speaker 1: to the party and it'll be great. It will, right,
Speaker 1: it will, Frankie, it will, it'll be great. And who cares? Right?
Speaker 1: Who cares? Ah, James. But still still, I feel like
Speaker 1: we just saw a ghost. They stand at the stoplight
Speaker 1: across the street on Broadway. Joey Carr drops his doctor
Speaker 1: Pepperkhn in the trash and walks into the seven eleven.
Speaker 1: Francis sees Tyler Monahan's dark blue Miata pull up to
Speaker 1: the curb and park on Broadway. Tyler gets out, shuts
Speaker 1: his door, and waves at them emphatically. Hey guys, he
Speaker 1: shouts him across the street. They don't hear it. They
Speaker 1: see him, James look Tyler nice, Hey, Tyler hey. Francis
Speaker 1: looks up as the light turns to green above them.
Speaker 1: The black sky is streaked gray, like lines of old
Speaker 1: scars on skin. She thinks of relief maps, train tracks,
Speaker 1: dirty canals, neosporin, hydrogen peroxide. They crossed the street. But
Speaker 1: dear listener, do you know what would never cross us? No,
Speaker 1: it would never get past us. Is a chance to
Speaker 1: interrupt stories, to tell you about products and services. And
Speaker 1: we're back. Chapter three, Battles and Aftermath. James, Frankie, Tyler
Speaker 1: and I sat on a curb down by the overpass
Speaker 1: bridge and ate our corn and sipped Tyler's flask of rum.
Speaker 1: The rum felt warm in my belly and made my
Speaker 1: head swim nicely, and the corn was damn good. But
Speaker 1: Frankie and I could barely sit still. We wanted to
Speaker 1: go to the party. We wanted to see the bands.
Speaker 1: We finished the corn, we stopped at seven to eleven
Speaker 1: for provisions and walked to the party. The place was
Speaker 1: packed by the time we got there. It was a
Speaker 1: very dark night foggy too, which is something that stands
Speaker 1: out in all my memories of Golden Hill. Foggy nights,
Speaker 1: slow fog when it's dark and there's no moon in
Speaker 1: that thick beautiful mist creeps up from the canyons and freeways,
Speaker 1: and the air is wet and smells a honeysuckle and
Speaker 1: night blooming Jasmine. At the house, A million kids were
Speaker 1: out smoking and drinking on the porch, a whole sea
Speaker 1: of them, and more than that on the lawn, sitting
Speaker 1: along the white picket fence that lined the sidewalk, lying
Speaker 1: in the grass with bottles and cigarettes in hand, or
Speaker 1: up on the rooftops of cars coming in and out
Speaker 1: of the house. Every square foot of the place was
Speaker 1: moving like it was covered in ants, and you could
Speaker 1: hear music from inside, muffled but heavy rumbling. The street
Speaker 1: was lined with vans, and the bands had come in,
Speaker 1: and some of them had their side doors open, and
Speaker 1: you could see all all your heroes drinking or smoking
Speaker 1: or talking or just chilling before they're set. We walked
Speaker 1: past one of the bands standing outside their van on
Speaker 1: the sidewalk, and I stopped the singer and I was like, Hey,
Speaker 1: my name's James, my friend of your cousin Meggie. You
Speaker 1: guys new record is so fucking good. I've listened to
Speaker 1: it two hundred times this week. And he kind of
Speaker 1: just shrugged and smiled and walked off. I was young,
Speaker 1: younger than I am now, and very starstruck and nervous,
Speaker 1: and so much more innocent than the person I've become
Speaker 1: who I worry is a hard time feeling his blood
Speaker 1: some days, as nerdy and uncool and on the outside
Speaker 1: of things as I was at the time. My move
Speaker 1: towards the opposite of that has come with a price.
Speaker 1: I won't say I'm jaded, but I've never felt as
Speaker 1: thrilled by music by white, hot, cranked, wild eyed music
Speaker 1: as I did back then. My love for good music
Speaker 1: was almost religious or maybe sexual. It was pious, desperate.
Speaker 1: Good music made me feel hot headed and frantic, and
Speaker 1: I don't know if I've ever felt so free since
Speaker 1: I wasn't cool, but I was free, and that was
Speaker 1: something good. Frankie and Tyler and I walked up the
Speaker 1: sidewalk and we were so happy and so innocent, and
Speaker 1: I was taking SIPs off this bottle of Mad Dog
Speaker 1: twenty twenty orange flavor I got at seven to eleven
Speaker 1: and was getting solidly drunk, and it felt as though
Speaker 1: everything was new and alive and more colorful and vibrant
Speaker 1: than everyday life. The time, I had a job as
Speaker 1: a reporter for a small wire service in Hillcrest, and
Speaker 1: Frankie worked as an endoscopy clinic receptionist up in La Joya.
Speaker 1: Our lives weren't bad, but the nine to five sucked
Speaker 1: it out of us. It made us feel slow inside, muted,
Speaker 1: dead on our feet. It felt like we were wasting
Speaker 1: our time. But when we listened to these bands, we loved.
Speaker 1: Life seemed vital and strange and triumphant and real. What
Speaker 1: I'm trying to say is I had no arrogance, no stuffiness,
Speaker 1: no true or defined ego. I was terrified of living
Speaker 1: half the time and scared as hell of die eying
Speaker 1: the rest. A lot of us were that way, and
Speaker 1: we wanted nothing more than to sign off on real, hard,
Speaker 1: stupid life and listen to records that were like trains
Speaker 1: crashing into each other and dance clubs exploding into rainbows
Speaker 1: and carnivorous flowers devouring crickets at ten times the normal speed.
Speaker 1: We wanted punk rock, but our version of punk didn't
Speaker 1: sound like a band. It wasn't two guitars, bass, singer, drums.
Speaker 1: We wanted a sound that tore itself to pieces, but
Speaker 1: did it smart. We wanted grindcore turned inside out and
Speaker 1: sped up and then chopped to pieces by a machete.
Speaker 1: The size of the universe. We wanted power, violence with
Speaker 1: a big loving heart and good ethics to match. We
Speaker 1: wanted punk you could dance to and never feel awkward
Speaker 1: or uncool or out of place. If anything, I wanted
Speaker 1: to dance. I wanted to lose my mind and throw
Speaker 1: myself into walls and get sweaty and stupid and feel
Speaker 1: the raw animalness in me. I had many nights alone
Speaker 1: in our cottage, which in Golden Hill, sad, drunk after
Speaker 1: a bad day at work or a fight with Frankie
Speaker 1: in the dark, dancing by myself in front of the
Speaker 1: record player, one hand on the bookcase. I needed bands
Speaker 1: like Angel Hair, Antioc Arrow, Get Hustle, Die Princess, Die Melt,
Speaker 1: Banana Orchid, Black Dice vss Man as the bastard, universal
Speaker 1: Order of Armageddon, celebration, the best, in the darkest, the
Speaker 1: wildest hearts. I still remember the first time music really
Speaker 1: did it for me. I was at the Chay Cafe
Speaker 1: a couple years before the East Street Party, and the
Speaker 1: Locust came out of nowhere and imploded my world. Those short, abrupt,
Speaker 1: sinewy forty five second songs wiped my brain clean, changed everything,
Speaker 1: scrambled my senses, showed me that music wasn't necessarily what
Speaker 1: everyone had told me. It was unlike a lot of
Speaker 1: people I've talked to. I didn't have to work to
Speaker 1: get their music. It made immediately. Of course, of course
Speaker 1: songs should be like this. Of course, this is how
Speaker 1: music should be. That first song at the Chay was
Speaker 1: enough for me to change for the better, and the
Speaker 1: change was natural and easy and comfortable. I didn't consider
Speaker 1: their music scream o or metal or anything else the
Speaker 1: critics called it. I began to see Locust songs as
Speaker 1: pop songs, danceable, rhythmic blasts of thrash and grime and
Speaker 1: humor and new experimental ideas. A few months later, Francis
Speaker 1: Ben Frank and I went to see the band open
Speaker 1: the premiere of the John Waters film Cecil B Demented
Speaker 1: at Hillcrest Landmark, and they played the show in adult
Speaker 1: sized diapers, more or less naked, in front of the
Speaker 1: big screen in a sold out crowd. Their set was
Speaker 1: about nine minutes long, and they played twice that many songs, short, colorful, glittery,
Speaker 1: stutteringly abrasive, robotic, seizure songs just as human as birth
Speaker 1: and life and sex and death. After that, we watched
Speaker 1: the movie, smiling like fools, slurping our soa and picking
Speaker 1: out her popcorn and junior mints. In the scene that
Speaker 1: used their song Nice Tranquil thumb in Mouth, the characters
Speaker 1: show up at a Baltimore Film Commission luncheon and have
Speaker 1: a big shootout with the cops. Thumb my favorite song
Speaker 1: at the time, was looped to extend it and it
Speaker 1: was the catchiest thing in the world. Toe tapping, head nodding,
Speaker 1: but oh man, so fucking savage and strange and brutal.
Speaker 1: When the credits rolled and the band's name came up
Speaker 1: in the soundtrack list, everyone cheered. I was proud, proud
Speaker 1: of my city and the people in it, and of
Speaker 1: this small moment of time. People were excited, excited and
Speaker 1: together about this thing. It was easy to get caught
Speaker 1: up in. Their music became a part of our culture.
Speaker 1: Not everyone's culture, but for some of us it was
Speaker 1: as San Diego as the Tom's deep plate at Poca's
Speaker 1: and gothy wine, drunk dance parties in North Park and
Speaker 1: talking shit about the gas lamp. There's this line from
Speaker 1: Casavetti's great film Opening Night, or Genie Rawlin's character says
Speaker 1: when I was seventeen, I could do anything. It was
Speaker 1: so easy. My emotions were so close to the surface.
Speaker 1: I'm finding it harder and harder to stay in touch.
Speaker 1: That's how it was, and that is where we're going
Speaker 1: to leave it for today. But soon, don't worry, we're
Speaker 1: going to touch base with Agnes from the first part.
Speaker 1: She's around here somewhere. Hazel, who helps behind the scenes, says, quote,
Speaker 1: I really really like how much the city of San
Speaker 1: Diego is almost a character in this book. You can
Speaker 1: tell just how much time Ganati has spent rooted in
Speaker 1: the neighborhood. His prose feels so lived in. That's for
Speaker 1: what I have to say about it. You know. It's
Speaker 1: funny is I don't remember what I had to say
Speaker 1: about it last time, so maybe I'm going to say
Speaker 1: the same thing, but I don't know. I love how
Speaker 1: punk this is. That's like sort of obvious, right. It
Speaker 1: is a punk novella, but it's also it's literature. It's
Speaker 1: written in a very literature style, including making choices that
Speaker 1: Isa John or fiction writer often wouldn't make right. But
Speaker 1: it's telling a really simple day. This is just a
Speaker 1: story about some day that some people had and how
Speaker 1: it was unforgettable even though it was regular in every
Speaker 1: day And I think that this is one of my
Speaker 1: favorite styles of art, is stuff that makes us remember
Speaker 1: that we do live these magic lives and that even
Speaker 1: if like this is why I hate superheroes, Like, even
Speaker 1: if we're not superheroes doing it astounding world changing things,
Speaker 1: we're doing these things. And you can see the resonance
Speaker 1: of how this like flies out across the rest of
Speaker 1: the country. Right Like, I'm guessing more of you have
Speaker 1: heard of or seen the movie Cecil Be Demented than
Speaker 1: have really listened to The Locust or you know, been
Speaker 1: to this type of house show. But yet the band
Speaker 1: that sort of has this kind of house as the
Speaker 1: song on the underground but still mainstream John Waters movie,
Speaker 1: you know. And I think I saw The Locust, And
Speaker 1: what's funny is I don't know two thousand and four,
Speaker 1: I was going to a lot of these styles of shows.
Speaker 1: I also think I went to the Chay Cafe, but
Speaker 1: I weirdly don't know. I have a memory of what
Speaker 1: it might be. But I'm also mixing it up with
Speaker 1: another like Radical Cafe that was up in Seattle in
Speaker 1: the U District, and so I think I actually probably
Speaker 1: never went to the Chay Cafe. And I don't know
Speaker 1: if it was the locust or the body that I
Speaker 1: saw in the copycat in Baltimore at a warehouse, you know,
Speaker 1: on the top floor of a warehouse party where I
Speaker 1: had just left New York to go hang out in Baltimore.
Speaker 1: But I like, I haven't been here. I'm not trying
Speaker 1: to be like I know this neighborhood, I know this cafe,
Speaker 1: I know this band, right, I don't, but I know
Speaker 1: this scene. And I think that that's like why this
Speaker 1: gets to me so much, you know, is because this
Speaker 1: is about how I came up in a way that
Speaker 1: I never see represented. And so I really appreciate you
Speaker 1: all coming along to hear something that's deeply personal to me,
Speaker 1: whether or not it is to you. And I think
Speaker 1: that that includes the horrible shit. You know, there's like
Speaker 1: this almost blase attitude that this story has towards some
Speaker 1: really horrible shit. And both parts one and part two, right,
Speaker 1: but so just real, like those are both experiences I've had,
Speaker 1: you know. Yeah, anyway, we'll be back with part three
Speaker 1: soon enough. You actually know when it's going to be
Speaker 1: next Sunday. That's when we're gonna be back with part three.
Speaker 1: Nus you're listening in the future, in which case you
Speaker 1: already can listen to part three because it'll all already
Speaker 1: come out, unless the world ends between now next Sunday,
Speaker 1: which case you want you listening to this later anyway.
Speaker 1: But did you know that Adam Gannatti gave us a
Speaker 1: biome to read? And this is it. Born in San Diego, California,
Speaker 1: Adam Gannatti now lives on a six acre farm in
Speaker 1: rural Kansas, near the towns of Lawrence and Tonganoxie, in
Speaker 1: half an hour outside Kansas City, Missouri. On September twenty sixth,
Speaker 1: twenty twenty six, the Numero Group will reissue Gannati's two
Speaker 1: thousand and five debut Talking Songs record Run, Hide, Retreat,
Speaker 1: Surrender on twelve inch final. In October of twenty twenty six,
Speaker 1: his fourteenth book, Wild Horseshit will be released by Brett
Speaker 1: and Roses Press in conjunction with Three to one g.
Speaker 1: Recent works have included the Home and Away Quartet and
Speaker 1: the Talking Songs collection The World of Today and the
Speaker 1: World of Tomorrow, issued on cassette twenty twenty one and
Speaker 1: laithe Cut ced twenty twenty six. Gannatti's work is published
Speaker 1: and issued by Brett and Roses Press three to one
Speaker 1: g Hello America, Stereo Cassette and the Numero Group. And
Speaker 1: I'm Margaret Kiljoy and you can find me. I have
Speaker 1: a newsletter comes out every week. It is Margaret Kiljoy
Speaker 1: dot substack dot com. It's called Birds Before the Storm,
Speaker 1: and that's where you can find me. I'm also in
Speaker 1: social media, but I hate social media. It makes me
Speaker 1: really sad. I will be back next week with more
Speaker 1: Locust House and remember until then that any human power
Speaker 1: can be resisted and transformed by human beings. It is
Speaker 1: our moral imperative to become grains of sand in the
Speaker 1: wheels of the machine. Fuck Ice Free Palestine. See you
Speaker 1: next week.
Speaker 2: It Could Happen Here is a production of cool Zone Media.
Speaker 2: For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website
Speaker 2: Coolzonemedia dot com, or check us out on the iHeartRadio app,
Speaker 2: Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can
Speaker 2: now find sources for It Could Happen here, listed directly
Speaker 2: in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening.