Depending on How You See a Thing
For some reason I have Grace Quek in my head, aka Annabel Chong. She’s fascinating and it’s horrible.
Spiros Markou, the Greek writer and critic, summed up Chong’s dilemma when he recently said to me “emptiness, she seems to be filled with emptiness, and therefore tries to get fulfilled through the body.” While pondering his remark, an early scene from the documentary kept coming back. It is of Mrs. Quek reminiscing of happier times, when her daughter was very young. She fondly remembers her daughter’s independence from a young age, and tells of leaving her alone while she and her husband were away. She used to pin a handkerchief to little Grace’s clothes, she says, and instruct her daughter that if anything went wrong, or if she wanted to cry, to use it.
Last night I went to the open mic at Jazzbo’s in Ashland again to have a good time. It was a splendid night, but questions lie as an aftermath of the evening’s climax. Towards 1am some Andrew Dice Clay wannabe went onstage and started a “comedic” routine of revulsive, bilious, crass bullshit. People started disbanding. A friend stood up and shouted, “Get off the stage!” (which reminds me of some great lines in British films and novels, songs). After shouting this, he took it further by saying, “No. No. Get off the stage,” and unplugging the guy’s mic. Diceman obviously took offense and left the stage for a few moments, while a sweet, feeble groupie of his got up to announce that “We have the freedom of speech and should be allowed to say what we believe,” while other audience members called my friend “Ashcroft.” I just sat there quietly, kinda eating my belgian waffle and feeling like I was at dinner theater. Diceman got back up on stage and, fingers quivering perceptibly from 20 feet, read a more tolerable “poem.” My friend became Ashland’s pariah. Who has the fucking right to freedom of speech now? I’m no textbook of etiquette, and no veteran of open mics, but I assumed that something like that would have blown over with a better sense of humor, with a more casual air. But, people got ass-tight! Is that how it goes? Unfortunately for my friend, who is a big-town boy at heart and a little more worldly and less Republican than that crowd, he’s likely (ironically) become more notorious than Diceman at Jazzbo’s.
This is a picture of Will. I’m going to buy him a belt so he doesn’t blow away. He’s an Ashland fixture, a street musician. He’s witty and gentle in this refreshing innocent way, doesn’t need to shave, and has never kissed a girl.

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