World of Ong

My first year in Seattle, I was on the verge of being homeless. Being a muralist in Seattle at the time, the only place that I could find cheap to live was in an artist commune. Five collective artists renting out a 2000 square foot warehouse in the middle of the SoDo District with a show gallery in the foyer. The loft consisted of two painters, two writers and a pianist who had to build our rooms. We had church pews for a dining set, airline seats for our lounge and a swing that was attached from our 25 foot ceiling. We set up the swing from a broken down office chair, and if you got high enough, it would shoot through our 12 foot windows and you can basically float above 1st avenue. Every Sunday we had to endure the opera, La Boheme, while the writer tapped away at his vintage typewriter. After so many Sundays, the rest of us would head to Torrefazione for our morning coffee, then to Elliot Bay Books for a little reading. We had a resident homeless guy that slept outside of our service elevator which was the entrance to our suite.

We also had a wet behind the ears, token Asian guy. The female writer took it upon herself to mold this kid into a metro sexual effeminate male. He was the heir to the maker in China of those cheap crappy sunglasses you buy at 7-Eleven for 6 bucks. My drinking buddy, the couch surfer at the time, and I usually stole him away and took him to his first of many strip clubs and brought him home drunk more than half the time. The female writer did not appreciate what we did to him that much. But we showed him the life. He personally thanked us later with a box of cheap sunglasses when he arrived back in China.

The floor below was occupied by an S&M shop that created whips and other naughty toys. Every once in a while, you can hear a whip crack and a sudden scream right after. The floor had cracks between the boards, and every once in a while, I would come home to all my loft mates sprawled out on the floor with eyes to the cracks watching the whipping or lashing of a women, a short scream, then immediately after, you could hear a guy say "That works!"

Above was a personal trainer. Every other Wednesday, we could hear the aerobics go up and down our ceiling, and shortly after, the squeals and panting of the women that the trainer had seduced afterwards.

Down the hall, we had a thespian that would dress up in the Italian clown outfit, donning the top hat, full body polka dotted suit and the Venetian character's Zanni mask. He would live above the refrigerator while his roommate would sleep on the pedestal in the middle of the room. He never spoke a word.

All the while, next door, Bill Nye the science guy had his studio. Walking by, we would always see his moss covered van and some kind of flashy lights within his window. Every once in a blue moon the Promise Keepers would hold meetings in the King Dome directly across the street from us.

For extra cash and to pay the bills, I bartended at the Art Bar located in down town Seattle. The things I would see. The Fetish shows, the after hour rave parties, 24x7 partying, VIP rooms, free booze, backstage access, midnight shopping at the S&M shop, celebrities, fashion models, strippers, free cover to any venue, penthouse parties, private suites at the Key Arena, and stealing AC/DC's beer while they played. The type of partying where you didn't want to stop or else you would feel the guilt trip for the weeks to come. We were kings and queens of Seattle.

The painting shown above shows how ashamed, if there was a god, he would be with the state of the world in its condition at that time. Maybe it was just our mindset at that time that seemed out of place. In the background, you can see the long lost forgotten god of my past. Agog, the god that helped me through my college years and its debauchery, the god that let me live through all the cliff diving experiences, the lost idol that helped me through all the torments of youth.

# posted by Juanito the Bandito @ 12:02 AM