LUDIC LOG

Behind a Tama drum kit of simple but efficient design sits Charles Matthew Cole, brother of Tonja Denise Cole, son of Arthur and Dalia Cole of Paradise Valley, Arizona. He is a monolith of a man, of such great size that his already cartoonish appearance is enhanced by the way he dwarfs his drum kit, his bare knees poking over the top of the bass drum and his huge hands holding the sticks like splinters freshly extracted from a lion's paw.

Like many people in the milieu in which he exists, Charlie supports his bohemian hobbies of rock and roll drumming and writing Elizabethan romantic verse with a straight job; unlike them, however, he works not as a secretary, a copy clerk, or a waiter, but as a professional wrestler.

Looking at his clothes -- cutoff bluejeans, white Chuck Taylors (no socks), a red t-shirt with "Hulkamania" written on it in yellow letters, and a red-and-white pullover ski lodge sweater -- who could guess that during the season he has black leather, spikes, motorcycle boots, studded shoulder pads, and a zipperhead bondage mask inflicted on him? Well, taking his physique into account, anyone. Charlie (who trades professionally under the name "Rock Hammer", which his bandmates have mockingly altered to "Fuckhammer") is one of those infuriating human beings who in addition to the high crime of being born with a huge, graceful body, further affronted the species by maintaining astonishing muscle tone and robust physical health without working at it at all. He stands slightly over 6 feet 7 inches tall, and only the fact that he is clothed and has a halfhearted orange mohawk prevents him from looking like a half-size version of Michaelangelo's David. At the moment, he sits behind the kit, resolutely checking sound levels by pummeling the bass pedal with his size fifteens and waving to his sister (late entered from the restaurant half of the Dog), waiting for the show to begin, and forming a placid continent of calm in the ocean of angst that is Lethal Injection.

Lethal Injection's lead guitarist, Randy Berridge, has no further need to tune or check levels; he arrived on stage immediately after Price finished up, and set his Fender Stratocaster to his own rather exacting standards. It is common knowledge that Randy is the virtuoso of the group, the finest musician and most technically skilled player in the band and indeed in most other bands on the scene. It is also clear that he has channeled much mental energy into the development of his guitar playing that might have been better channeled into the development of social skills. Randy is a very shy, awkward young man; his conversation is invariably polite and calculated not to offend, his opinions always hedged to appeal to the greatest number, and his participation in conversations always pleasant and minimal. He is, in short, an extremely nice boy.

In circles other than the one in which he travels this might be thought a great virtue; but in this one he is thought to be rather, well, L7. He is thought of as fudging on his obviously high intelligence so as to be deemed acceptable to the widest number of people, and except in his music (where his independence of mind and independent, harsh side is in full, unequivocal display), he seems reluctant to immerse himself in the cultural scene in which he spends the lion's share of his time. Witness his appearance: with his mild good looks, wavy brown hair, athletic build, inoffensive grin, tan Docker shorts/Polo shirt/loafers ensemble, he looks as if he'd be more comfortable in the frat-infested 'dance' club down the street than in a sordid dive like the Dog. And yet being surrounded by such people he would be appalled (not that he'd ever say so, of course).

So here he is, leaning against the wall opposite Percy McJizz, and talking with his girlfriend. In fact, she does all the talking, and he nods and smiles that sad, brave smile one sees on the face of men condemned by their own hand. For Randy's girlfriend is none other than Monica Teagle, and it is she who is no doubt the most fascinating, the most prominent, and the most obvious manifestation of his insecurity.

Monica Teagle is gorgeous, in the way that models are gorgeous; and indeed, she makes her not-inconsiderable pocket money as a fashion model. She is a staple at many clothing stores in the Scottsdale area, and her perfect head appears often enough in hair salon adverts in the Valley's free weeklies that she is always recognized at clubs even without the presence of the boys in the band. She is ridiculously blonde, with a body that would be called flawless no matter what the standard of beauty of the time. Her skin color lies in that nearly impossible to achieve no-man's-land between fetchingly pale and healthily tan; it was a face like hers to which the word "classic" was first applied. Whatever clothing she wears (and tonight, as every night, it's whatever was in the Elle fashion spread the week before), she looks as good in it as she would out of it.

She is also -- and here's where it all falls apart from most people's point of view -- crass, manipulative, stupid, trendy, vain, shallow, ill-informed, annoying, spoiled, and virtually without any redeeming intellectual qualities whatsoever. From Randy's point of view, however, it's very, very hard to dislike any of these qualities when they come part and parcel with having the best sex you'll ever have in your entire life with the most attractive woman you'll ever meet in your entire life.

The poor girl is exasperated, as the heat has slightly disheveled her. She puts her hands on her hips and pouts just ever so slightly; the force of this pout is felt in every heterosexual male libido for a 500-yard radius.

From side door emerges Nicky Bloodhead. As does everyone who has something hidden in their pocket that they don't want anyone to know about, his hands constantly search out the packet of heroin, seeking to assure his nervous mind that it's still there. It is.

"Can you beLIEVE this HEAT? It just makes you want to put on something cotton and turn up the AIR conditioner just as HIGH as you can GET it, DOESn't it?" She lunges at Randy and kisses his neck, running her hand playfully inside his shirt. He smiles that smile and kisses her, not quite as passionately, on the forehead. Nick turns and walks toward the mike stand.

"I hope your dick will be hearing from your brain real soon, Randy," snipes Nick.

"Huh? What did THAT mean, honey? Was he being FUNny again? I --"

"I don't know, hon," Randy replies, defeated. "We have to play now -- are you ready? Do you want to sit next to Price and his, his friend?"

"Okay! I LOVE you! Good LUCK!" She sits on the couch next to Price Western, who does not mind at all, for as we have seen, there is a special place in his heart, or at least his cock, for shallow, attractive women. If it weren't for Price's ready access to myriad other girls of the type, and if it weren't for the fact that Monica was doglike in loyalty as well as intelligence, the two of them would have fucked a long time ago.