Return To The Dada Dream Café
I went there just after falling asleep. It’s a bit seedy. The 7 foot tall, blind, Canadian doorman admits no one who isn’t grotesque, deformed, eccentric or a former hockey player. The smoke of illegal cigarettes hit you like mustard gas when you enter, your feet stick to the floor, the clock runs backwards and two inches of 80’s blow coats the walls of the unisex toilet where, at the moment, Ann Coulter is furiously masturbating with a wadded up gun permit. The entire place reeks of enigmas. The only thing on the jukebox is Edith Piaf singing Christmas carols in Yiddish. The bartender is a laid-off hangman who dreams of getting his job back, and appraises the customers' necks with undisguised lust; the bouncer a clubfooted Israeli midget Kung-Fu expert suffering from scrofula. The TV blares something about an EMP and then falls suddenly silent. The 80-year-old barmaid has breasts large and hard as cannonballs and cleavage so low cut that a family of peregrine falcons have built a comfortable nest between them. Donald Trump’s hair often hangs out here on its night off. Ms Emily Dickinson sits demurely at the bar in a tight, obscenely short black dress, wearing fishnets, no panties, imagining delphiniums and enormous cocks. She is drinking Screaming Orgasms. John Keats sits down beside her and drunkenly mumbles something about brides and beauty as his hand slides dangerously up her wrinkled, virginal thigh. This could be her night to collect seed. Monet munches listlessly on a salad of lily pads. The greasy, connected Italian owner sits alone in the corner speaking out loud and gesticulating to no one as his favorite blonde, one-eyed dwarf goes down on him listlessly beneath the table beside the bar’s mascot, a mangy wolverine. Her knees hurt, but she gobbles dutifully on. Hillary Clinton flirts with everyone, but just can’t win. Hunter Thompson crows with joy that modern forensic science has proven Nixon had no soul. Satan sighs, stares into his drink, bored to death. Gloria Steinem claims she is a virgin just doing research. At a table, Jesus, Moses and Mohammad discuss hopeful plans for world peace. The Buddha smiles, but does not participate in the discussion. Everyone ignores them. Ronald Reagan has Margaret Thatcher bent over the pool table, hammering her with demented obliviousness, and they both moan, “free markets!” when they come. Someone mutters, “Rosebud” over and over. The atmosphere reeks of opium and depravity. Charles Manson and Charlie Sheen enter together carrying handcuffs and whips. The place is filling up. The barmaid comes over to me, her falcons stir, I order a beer and a bump. It’s exactly my kind of place and I’m not leaving until I wake up and stumble out into the unwelcoming dawn.
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