Spike and Mike: Santa Cruz

I have no recollection of how the hell I got to Santa Cruz from Van Couver. I would think I'd remember a bus ride that long. Maybe I'd finally flown enough that I could forget a flight, regardless of what a magical experience it is, and should be. At any rate, I walked with my luggage from the bus depot to where I was meeting Spike. His last assistant had left Spike's very nice BMW parked at the bus station when they split. I recieved no explanation of why this person had left in such a hurry, but Spike was helpless without them. He did not drive and needed to be chauffeured around in order to promote and shmooze and have a good time.

Spike grilled me to see what kind of an uptight prude I might be. Did I like to go to strip clubs, bars, parties? Did I like movies? What kind of shitty music did I listen to? Did I like dogs?

I told him I could have fun anywhere, I enjoyed seeing naked women but more so on my own than with friends, I loved movies and we discovered we shared taste in old music, all the way up to Sabbath. Sabbath in Spike's mind killed pop music for good. I loved Sabbath, and lots of what followed including hip hop. The only hip hop Spike liked was Sir Mixalot's "I Like Big Butts." As for dogs, Spike's pooch Scotty, a Scottish Terrier who was the official Spike and Mike mascot was with him and we were already getting along well.

Where we really bonded was in our reverence for Mike. Spike loved that I'd known Mike and he hit me up for every Mike story I could offer. He told me great stories of their early days. Getting busted for showing Deep Throat at Mellow Manor, the house they lived in in Riverside and launched the festival from.

"We were fucking raided. Cops with guns and clubs, busting us showing a porno."

He also told me of waling into an upscale jewelry store with Mike to get a nice watch as thank you and congratulation gift for an animator of there's who had just won The Academy Award for best short animated film. The jeweler saw the leather jacket on Spike and Mike's purple beard and snubbed them. Mike gave him time to prove that he was not intentionally being an ass and then pulled out a few thousand bucks in cash.

"Excuse me, your snootiness. My associate and I wish to spend this rather large sum of money on a watch for our friend who just won an academy award. Perhaps you could reccommend a jeweler with a less snobbish attitude to take our money." Spike and I were both roaring as he described the jeweler's attempts at kissing their departing asses.

Spike decided I was alright, and after sticking my luggage in the back seat of his car, being carefull not to disturb Scotty's bed, we got to flyering.

I'd mellowed from the old days, but I still loved finding ways to get past people's defences and herd mentality when trying to put flyers in hands.

"Sex with me. Sex with me here. Sir, sex with me?" I'd say as I passed the flyers out. People had to know what the flyer actually was after such a delivery. Spike got a kick out of this and started mimicking me, changing his line to "Sex with that guy. Sex with that goofy guy there. Hey Lady, sex with my friend? He's got a big schlong." Well, it lacked subtelty but Spike seemed like a fun loving guy. He named me Jensie. Everyone got a nickname. I think it renaming people was a power thing. Spike had a name for everyone he knew. Jensie was preliminary. I'd go through several nicknames before Spike settled on one.

Later as we hit the bars I got a look at his leather jacket. Some guys at a Santa Cruz tattoo parlor were painting it up for him. A giant portrait of Loyd, one of the Sick and Twisted shows most gruesome characters graced the back panel. Slogan's were written all over, things like; "The only thing my government's done for me is to try and kill me, and steal my money" and "Youth is wasted on the young."

We checked out the theatre where the show was playing. Here we were, in Santa Cruz, where corporate America had to fight like hell to get a coffee shop or bookstore on the little pedestrian mall and we're playing at the damned nine plex. Why we weren't on campus or at the cool art theatre right down the street I'll never know. But the employees at the nine were sweet and I didn't complain.

Our lodgings were great and terrible. It was a great place. Walking distance from the beach, a kitchen, a bedroom, decent sized bathroom, but I didn't have any space of my own. I would be living in the living room, on the couch. I would be with Spike 24 hours a day. This suited Spike who seemed to never want to be alone.

The worst feature of our lodgings was Rhonda. She owned or at least ran the place and we had to sneak past her as we came and rent. We never made it past.

"Mr. Decker. Mr. Decker, there's dog doo on the lawn. You have to pick up your dog doo Spike."

"That aint my dog's doo."

"He's the only do here Mr. Decker."

"That's racoon shit."

"No it's not. I know what racoon doo looks like. That is dog doo."

"Well can't I pay extra and you have your yard guy pick it up?"

"Mr. Decker, you have to pick up after your dog. You've been staying here for years, you know the rules. I don't want to see anymore dog doo."

This conversation was followed by, "Jensie, pick up the dog doo."

"Fuck you."

"I'll give you five Spike bucks."

"Deal."

Spike bucks were tickets to the festival. We'd trade these to people for free burritos, smoothies, falafel even CDs. That Spike knew about the Spike bucks shocked and delighted me.

I took to getting up early in the mornings, and hour or two before Spike. I could have a cup of coffee and some quiet time. If Spike woke up and I wasn't there he'd get bitchy despite the fact that he would just sit and do paper work, make phone calls and avoid paying his creditors for as long as possible for the first two hours he was awake. He wanted me there, just in case he needed me. So I wrote in my journal, a-lot.

Spike didn't actually drink much. He'd nurse a beer all night, but he loved to go to bars, and when he'd been there long enough he'd act drunk. Sometimes while flyering he'd act mentally retarded. He'd have me offer folks a chance to see him dance if they'd take a flyer, and when they took us up on it he'd flail and shimmy and when folks believed that he was disabled he was thrilled. He'd pretend to be gay, or a Hare Krishna. Spike loved to play roles. Mostly he pretended to be dumb. This was his way of negotiating and it was as effective as it was infuriating.

I'd listen to him as he dealt with the animators. "Spike I need $500 bucks to finish the film and get a color print."

"Okay, just send up the pencil test."

"No, Spike, last time you used the pencil test. I dont' want to sell you the pencil test. You've seen it, now if you like it let's get the thing colored and reshot."

"Okay, can you send the pencil test? I like the pencil test."

"Spike, No! Send me $500 bucks to finish it or I'll just finish it on my own."

"Okay, I'll get you some money. I heard you. Send me the pencil test."

In the end he usually got what he wanted. So effective was his dumb act the flyer boys were all sure that Spike was an idiot. I knew better. There was a brilliance in there, but he was helpless at times. He'd glaze over when over stimulated or overwhelmed and that was when he needed someone to step in and help. I could relate. As a kid I had refused to take my Ritalin and I often became overwhelmed myself. Luckily I didn't have to argue with Spike. I did what he wanted to do, we went where he wanted to go and I had a great time.

Spike had a lady friend in Santa Cruz named Beth. I'd take him to Beth's and I'd sit outside in the car, sometimes for hours. I'd listen to music and I'd read. I was trying to get into Kerouac at the time but I wasn't having much luck. I prefered his poetry. I got some more Bukowski. Bukowski almost always came through. In fact reading him was almost too easy and felt like eating candy but it was good candy, and a good candymaker is an artist to be sure. Often Scotty would be waiting with me and if he or I got too bored we'd go for a walk and he'd piss on things. Sometimes I'd piss on things too.

Bryna came up for a visit. Spike called her Mary. Again, Spike did not call you by your given name.

"Hey Mary how ya doin?"

"Good Al, how are you?" she responded unphased.

Amazingly Spike had never recieved such a response. He never called her Mary again. He never called her anything. She became "the girlfriend." I was most impressed with Bryna.

Spike took the weekend to go out of town with Beth. Bryna and I had rented a small no frills, no kitchen room next to Spike and I's place. We would sleep there while enjoying the kitchen and bath tub and stretch out space of the bigger room.

Brna worked the show with me, and we walked home with a couple thousand dollars stuffed safely down the front of her pants. Spike did not want us leaving it in the theatre's safe.

Spike got home the night before Bryna would board a bus toward home and took us to dinner. He was reluctant to admit it but he like the girlfriend. He was reluctant because he was completely against the concept of monogomy.

"They come out with a new playboy every month Jensie. Why you want to keep one issue and have to look at that same issue the rest of your life?" he'd ask me whenever he decided I wasn't being messed with enough.

It took me a while to come up with a response, but eventually I realized, "Spike. The first issue of playboy featured Marilyn Monroe. I'd look at that the rest of my life before I'd give it up to see some airbrushed magequin with a boob job in one of the new issues. And besides, I've spent a lot time with you and I get to look at my one issue way more than you get to look at any issues at all."

"Shut up Jensie."

I did all the MC-ing in Santa Cruz as Spike did not like to host the show. I developed my stage skills and I got great at shooting down hecklers. I'd use the standard old lines at first.

"Ah, that's sweet. I remember my first beer."

Or if they continued, "Hey buddy, I don't knock the sailor's dicks out of your mouth down at the docks when you're trying to to work."

Eventually I learned my own responses that suited me better. "Excuse me, what's your name? John? Hi John. Everyone say hi to John. Good, now everyone please, repeat after me 'John is an important person.'"

The whole audience would say it together "JOHN IS AN IMPORTANT PERSON"

And I'd continue, "Perfect, now 'John is deserving of our love and attention.' "

"JOHN IS DESERVING OR OUR LOVE AND ATTENTION."

"Great, great. Now please, somebody give John a hug." If John looked like he could handle it I'd hug him myself. If John was especially far gone I'd end with, 'Now, everyone please repeat once more, 'John needs to shut the fuck up.'" John would love the attention and I would have been nice enough to not feel bad about really hitting him with the hard stuff if he continued.

I loved MCing. Occasionally Spike would guest spot. One night he decided to have me bring him up as a Hare Krishna he would announce that we no longer supported the violence and negativity of the Sick and Twisted show and would only run wholesome cartoons from now on. He'd continue for as long as it took to get a heckle and then he'd let the heckler have it in the face with the flowers. High concept comedy it wasn't but fun to be sure.

We needed flowers and as always one of Santa Cruz's many young politically motivated, spare changing squatters wanted in for free.

"You bring us some flowers and we'll let you in." Spike offered. Minutes later the hippy was back with a huge boquet of flowers, gorgeous. "He must have a girlfriend working at the florist." Spike figured. We felt terrible walking home that night and seeing the flowers torn from every planter box on the block.

The crusty punk, homeless/campers were more prominent in Santa Cruz than in S.F. or Seattle and I was judged by my changing sense of fashion. I no longer wore baggy raver pants and long t-shirts. The kids on the street saw me as part of the nebulous entity that is Mr. Wilson, The Man, The Oppresive Capitolist Power Structure. One kid in particular annoyed me and seemed disugested by me. He'd stand outside the theatre and play his guitar badly while singing about how he'd someday dance on the grave of the Industrial Millitary Complex. I was hoping his grave dancing was better than his music.

I ran into an old friend, Heather, and she had become a Santa Cruz Camper. She was involved with a group used a police scanner to monitor the local cops. She was involved in the local community garden projects. She did more than stand aroung talking about how being dirty was going to bring down the system. She was pregant. Daddy? Yes, you guessed it, he who would dance on the graves of the blah blah blah.

I borrowed Spikes BMW when I went to pick Heather up for breakfast at the squat where she was staying. I got a kick out of arriving in a vehicle that was such an over the top symbol of conspicuous consumption. The crusty's gave me the evil eye as I pulled up to the old broken down hotel. Then Heatheer ran out and jumped in the car. I turned up Sabbath's war pigs and off we went, the yuppie and the squatter. Heather was smart and had a great family. I had no doubt she'd be fine. I asked her about her life and didn't bother with sharing my opinion of the soon to be father.

Spike's buddy Rick was the only republican in Santa Cruz and of course he owned the largest headshop. He sold rock and roll t-shirts and tees with clever/stupid sayings on them. The pipes and rolling papers were in a back room as was the one part of the store that really reflected Rick's own tastes, a large walk in humidor full of cigars. Rick let me sample a cigar a day. Cigars I'd never have afforded otherwise. I'd save my cigar smoking until Spike was in bed or otherwise occupied. Then I'd sit and enjoy the beach and a smoke, maybe a beer or a cup of hot coffee. I'd quit cigarettes finally a year ealier. How the hell did I get addicted to cigarettes. No cigarette ever tasted this good.

Rick was cool. He was conservative as hell, I was as far to the left myself and we both realized this meant shit as far as our getting along. We both cared about people and wanted the best for the world, he was just insanely wrong about how to achieve this goal. We'd talk music and art and love gone wrong. Love gone wrong seemed infinately more entertaining than love working out right.

The University of Santa Cruz is one of the few campuses I remember vividly, never confusing it with the others. This beautiful school sat in the woods and seemed a part of the woods. Attending school here somehow turned girls gay. Spike called them LUGs, lesbians until graduation. I called them adorable.

We met one lesbian who I'd bet dollars to dildos is loving ladies for life. Her name was Spike and she was so enthusiastic and positive while also mellow and peacefull. I adored her. She invited Spike and I to the big house she shared with a few other girls and we amazingly enough became regulars. These very young girls got such a kick out of the dirty old man and his friend/assistant. Spike actually behaved himself. He seemed to understand that these girls were too cool and smart and full of life to be hit on and treated like furniture. I liked seeing him in the role of sweet biker uncle. Spike, or She-Spike (everyone gets a nickname) worked in a cookie store and I couldn't walk past without getting a free cookie. Cookies, cigars, what next free CDs?

We met a couple of girls who had a few more years under their belts and were just jaded enough for Spike to put the moves on. Shannon and Paula worked in Santa Cruz. Spike took all of us to dinner at a great restaurant that changed the menu every few months to a different ethnic food. We would be enjoying Bolognese cuisine. I wasn't sure if Spike didn't know how to read or if he was blind but I ordered for him. When his raw chicken, sizzling brick of cast iron and flavored oils showed up he was sure he was being put on.

"What the hell is this? Aren't you going to cook it?"

Our waiter was also the owner of this very cool place. "You get to cook it." he explained and he took his leave.

"What the hell am I paying for. I'll stay home if I want to cook."

The girls and I were laughing but I could see Spike was serious and I was sure an awkward moment was coming.

"Spike, if I cook it will you shut the fuck up?" I asked.

"Jensie you're a pussy. Go ahead and cook it, pussy. 'Look everyone, I'm pretty little Jensie, everyone likes me, I don't argue with anybody. Cook my own food? Sure. Here's all Spike's money.'"

I finished his Chicken getting creative with the different oils. It smelled great and I was sorry they didn't have a vegan dish made the same way. "Here ya go Spike. Eat up."

"Thanks, Pussy."

Next stop some lame dance club playing all the hits. I sat outside to wait for Spike and have a cigar. Shannon joined me on the patio. She'd never had a cigar and I hadn't had many moments alone lately so I had a couple of extras. I gave her one and showed her how to cut it and light it. I explained that durring the depression kids would collect and trade the labels. I took the label and folded it to make her a ring. Believe me or not, I was just being conversational. I wasn't intending to flirt her up. I saw the look in her eyes as she admired her cigar label ring and took a pull off the large phalluc symbol in her mouth. Oh shit.

We went back to their place and Shannon started rubbing my shoulders. I was getting nervous. Spike and Paula were there so I felt safe, for now. I rubbed her shoulders a bit and realized just how attractive she was. I would never want to cheat on Bryna, but I knew that the way you stayed faithfull was to not play games with seeing how far you could go and still be innocent. You would of course push yourself past the point of no return. The point at which an affair becomes inevetitable is always long before and affair becomes an affair.

So, when she slid her shirt up, I told her I'd done all I could do.

"I have a girlfriend so I can't really do any more than I've done."

"I have a boyfriend, it's okay." She leaned in to kiss me.

"No, I'm sorry. That's it for me. I'm going to go take a walk or something."

She was embarassed and I felt bad about that. I hung out outside until Spike finished striking out with Paula. What sucked is that Shannon was really cool and I would have loved to have been friends with her. I guessed it could still happen.

Spike was wearing me down. He was negative all of the time. It would be amusing at times but without a break from it it got to be too much. Spike would watch TV so he could tell you how much everyone on it sucked. He'd walk down the mall and hate on every person we passed. His world was populated by stupid and cruel people who were out to get him. I insisted on time apart from him but I had to fight so hard for it, it was hardly worth it. I didn't know how much more I could take.

I got a brief break when he needed me to run some films to the theatre in San Jose. Driving his BMW which handled unlike any car I'd ever driven, down highway 17 was a wonderful experience. 17 cuts through woods with trees blocking out all but a thing strip of sky overhead and the road twists and winds, just close enough to the ocean to let you feel it's presence without seeing or hearing it.

I was still capable of enjoying my time with Spike. We both loved food done right and we ate out almost everynight. Spike would usually pick up the tab but then he'd remind me of it the next day when he asked me to pick up dog shit.

"Come on Jensie. I bought you dinner."

"Fuck you Spike. You can't pay for my dinner and they charge me for it later. I wouldn't have eaten if I'd known it would mean cleaning up dog shit."

We'd argue about and then Rhonda would start ringing our phone and knocking on our door.

"Spike? Are you in there? I see your car. Spike there's dog doo on the lawn."

Spike would eventually part with some more Spike bucks and I'd scoop up some dog shit. Then I started hitting him up for copies of "The Best of The Fest" on VHS tape and T-Shirts. These would make great Christmas Presents.

We went to a steak and potatoes type restaraunt and the food was much better than one would expect at such a place. The kitchen came up with a great vegan pasta for me and Spike was moaning in ecstacy as he ate. We had in common a love of good food. Spike sent two Spike Bucks back to the chef who came out to meet us. We expected some rotund bearded man, we got a beautiful blond girl with an amazing smile and fast enough come backs to keep Spike in his place.
Cheffie (everyone gets a nickname) became Spike's new pal and he was hoping for more.

We saw Cheffie almost daily for a couple of weeks and then she came to Spike in tears. She needed money. Spike gave her $200 and she promptly dissappeared. Spike wasn't mad at all but he was heartbroken. We went to the restaraunt and we were told that Cheffie hadn't shown up all week, so she of course no longer had a job there. The waitress had seen us around and knew we were friends of Cheffie's. She confided that Cheffie had a drug problem and had fallen off the wagon. We both knew that crank and coke were prominent in the service industry, but Cheffie was on H. Spike talked the waiteress into giving him an address.

"This is a bad idea Spike. We have to let her go." I told him as we drove to the house. Spike didn't say a word.

We knocked on the door and it was answered by a zombie. The house had sheets hanging everywhere dividing the space into seperate rooms. It was deathly silent but we found out many people were home. The zombie at the door seemed incapable of forming a coherant sentance. Spike pushed past him. I followed about ten feet back. I knew this was not a smart or safe thing to be doing. Spike found Cheffie's bedroom. He went in. I waited for ten minutes and then he came out and we left.

"God damn rich kids. Taking their parent's fucking money and becoming god damn junkies. It's so fucking romantic. These over priviledged little assholes. What great pain are they escaping? I'd have killed to have had the opportunities they have and they just waste mommy and daddy's money shooting shit into their arm so they can feel real. Fucking assholes."

Spike ranted all the way home. I drove and listened. I understood this was his version of mourning. Cheffie would keep in touch. Spike eventually even let her come stay with him in San Diego to try and sober up. She just scammed more money and dissappeared again. Until he was burnt and I imagine she found a new fool then.

As if this wasn't enough Scottie had been getting increasingly listless and we took him to the vet only to find out they wanted to amputate one of his rear legs, as soon as possible. Spike spent that night alone with his dog. I sat out front looking at the ocean and reading. I gave him space but I wanted to be close if he needed anything.

The next day we took Scotty to the vet. While he was in surgery I saw a woman in the waiting room bawling. A vet tech brough out a box and I knew it contained the remains of her pet, probably just ashes. The tech set the box next to her and she seemed unable to look at it. I couldn't figure out anyway to comfort Spike so I approached her.

"Excuse me, can I help you with that?"

She looked up at me, her eyes glossy with tears. "Yes."

I picked up the box and walked with her to her van. She was sobbing heavily. I put the tips of my fingers on her forearm. "I know what your goin through. It hurts to lose a pet."

She gave me a look that wasn't angry but seemed to say I didn't know shit. "I ran over him. With this van. I went out to look for him, and I ran over him." I had no idea what to say and unfortunately I think my face said it all. My expression must have read 'You're right. I have no idea what that must feel like.' I just said "I'm sorry." and I went back in side to wait for Scotty.

Scotty would stay at the vet for a day or so to be observed as he recovered. He looked good and was happy to see Spike.

The next few days were actually fun. Spike wanted some escapism. We hung out at Spike Jr's place, we went to eat at Spike's favorite places. We avoided the bars and Spike didn't put on the television once. I even bought him a t-shirt reading "Fuck You, I have enough friends."

One of Spike's favorite places to eat was the Saturn Cafe. It was wig out wednesday so I fashioned a wig out of some flyers. I really went to town on it, making a Raggedy Andy mop top for myself. We got our Wig Out Wednesday two for one special and my picture went up on The Saturn's wall. After a delicious dinner Spike and I decided to split some chocolate tofu pie. It was pretty good, but Spike found it more fun to play with, especially when he discovered he could roll it up into very convincing looking little turds.

The next day we packed up our goodies. Scottie was back and he was already learnign to get around pretty well as a tripod. His long Scotty hair hid that he was mising a leg. Best of all he was alert and happy. He was the Scotty we knew and loved.

I was loading him into his nest in the back of the BMW when Rhonda showed up and she was determined that Spike pick up "Dog Doo" before whe would chuck us out.

Spike asked her what Dog Doo she was refering too. As she pointed it out, Spike happily scooped it up, and ate every last, chocolate tofu pie bit of it, getting plenty on his hands and face and shirt. Rhonda ran in terror, I fell on my ass laughing and big brute spike just stood there looking innocent, and confused and lonely, chocoate tofu pie smeared across his silly mug.

A buddy of Spikes flew up to drive him and Scotty home. I stayed a few more days at my hippy friend Sara's and a roommate of hers then drove me home to Bryna who was up, at just past midnight waiting for me. I gave her the candles and black slip I'd bought in Santa Cruz. She put on the slip, I wrapped around her and we fell asleep. It was good to be home.

>>>>Go to next story, Spike and Mike; Crew Leader: Costa Mesa>>>> This one's the most, "Dear god don't let my mom ever read this" of the bunch. In fact, you might consider skipping it to unless you want to know way too much about me. You've been warned.