Rub a dub dub
Four men in a tub
And who do you think they were?

The drunkard, the baker
the cocaine taker
the great drink-maker

They all drowned at sea

'Twas enough to make others glance

Rub a dub dub
Five men in a tub
And who do you think they were?

The wisher, the faker
the lost hip-shaker
the well-known fist-taker
the real estate maker

They all drowned at sea

'Twas enough to make others dance

And meet their maker

Rub a dub dub

Welcome to

The Club.

I was 17 when I went to my first bar. I had tried to enter Daddy Warbuck's in Cathedral City but, empty-handed, I was carded and turned away. I heard men holler I was a "chicken with good meat". I left embarrassed. A few weeks later I had learnt the slang then it all made me laugh.

I returned home with a plan during that shameful night. I would create a fake ID by making copies of my friend's driving permit. With careful placement and manipulation of the many photocopied cut-out letters (and a lot of white-out), the final product became my own personalized learning permit. A tracing wheel's marks made believable tear-off perforations.

A month later, I returned to Daddy Warbuck's. I proudly showed the doorman my creation. He held it up to the light, observing.

"Go."

He returned the customized artwork to me.

There was a backflow of people and, with the Palm Springs' heat, passers-by from the outside could feel the steam from the group in the foyer. I was beginning to sweat outside, standing still with nowhere to move, as the doorman allowed more people to pass. The bass from the music was pounding at my feet.

Christened, I cautiously walked through the red velvet drapery.


Kids at school called me weird for being a musician. And since I was the first boy to get both ears pierced, I was labeled The School Faggot. I was threatened, bullied, and fellow classmates duct-taped my car's exhaust pipe shut. The more they tried to intimidate me, the more I would do to suggest they simply fuck off. I began wearing thick eye liner but what made things worse was I had become a good-looking kid. But I had carried heavy emotional baggage since 11 years old so I felt indestructible: let them try to metaphorically knock me down. Their efforts would prove to be in vain, especially since most of my friends were musicians themselves. My friends and I loved MTV and, although classically trained, we knew practically every song on the radio.

That's ABC!

That's Robbie Nevil!

That's Bruce Hornsby!

Wait. That isn't the Jackson 5.

"I never can say goodbye boy, oh, no, no I..."

And so it became. We would listen to The Communards at our get-togethers, drinking MD 20/20 until we puked.

So when a couple of friends and I had a threesome one night, I felt a calling. This is when I studied Cathedral City in our Coachella Valley, learning of Daddy Warbuck's.

Then approaching the entrance and being turned away.

Creating the fake ID.

Christened.

Now with the crowd, sweating in the foyer; walking through the drapery, the bass pounding at my feet.

I knew the song the DJ was playing. I wanted to dance. I was graciously advanced toward the front of the line inside. Areas of my body were groped and touched but I didn't care.

"Let me through! Let me through!"

Soon, after advancing, I saw chickens, just like myself.

"Listen! It's The Communards!"

I was welcomed onto the lit floor and offered cigarettes, moving - moving toward the soundtrack of, what would be, my life.

I saw waiters donning bunny headgear, delivering cocktails; a mud-wrestling event happened later that evening.

There was a back bar with black doors. That temptation was intense.

But to escape to that original, heart-pounding music, dancing? I wouldn't want to leave. Ever.

My love for the bars had expanded. My newly customized artwork - created for Warbuck's - was accepted at The GAF, The Silver Fox, and C.C. Construction. I was also popular on a 976 chat line. This, now, my senior year of high school.

Chat lines were like an anonymous telephone version of AOL. My customers had a dedicated phone line to my bedroom. One of my favourites was a guy from Kentucky who claimed to know Andy Bell: he knew things no one else would at the time. Another guy would constantly ask if I regularly rode a bike.

I had, yet, another regular client, Cloaca, from my local area. Cloaca and I would converse; we also indulged in fapping. Our calls were consistent.

"'Beginner' can't be your real name. What is your name?"

"Mine?"

"Yes."

"Mine??"

"Yes."

"It's Michael."

"Nice to meet you, Michael," he said over the phone.

Cloaca would be the first of three to break my heart. While incredibly intelligent - yet foolish - he chose to leave his job to relocate to the Coachella Valley for me. My grandmother (and inspiration) was devastated to learn I would leave the house. Cloaca and I lived together for seven months. My inconvenient student status, along with the financial burden, were too much for our new wicker furniture, newborn Shelties, and 3-bedroom condominium in Palm Desert.

From being a Freshman in college and not bringing enough income, Cloaca left me. He moved back home with his parents and I moved back home with my grandmother.

My musician friends helped me transport my belongings back home - Priscilla, Freddie, Pete, Ricky. We returned my items to my old room.

"Why was your phone ringing so much? Your Pacific Bell bill came in the mail. Why do you owe so much?" my grandmother asked.

I was silent.

"Miguel?" grandmother asked.

I remained silent.

"Miguel?"

I remained silent, growing irritated.

"Miguel Angel?" she asked again.

There was a pause.

"It's Michael," I yelled, "It's Michael. Michael!"

She slapped my face.

It is fair to say I was getting a big head from the attention of strangers then. I would go out on Friday nights and sometimes not come home until late Sunday afternoons. But I was young and stupid - a slut, frankly - ingesting Blue Hawaiians and Grasshoppers I would never pay for. The dancing and music saturated my body, my being. I would sometimes end-up at The Palms, observing orgies on mattresses riddled in the palm trees of the bungalo-like hotel.

This exhilarating but exhausting routine went on for weeks. I was also attending college and working part-time at my now former high school as an assistant to the band director. My skirt was beginning to show as I would arrive late to both. This was not my punctual style.

It was here when a bartender from Warbuck's introduced me to Cocaine Shane.

I was dancing with every Tom, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, and Hairy, minding my own one weekend, when the bartender approached me on the floor. He asked me to meet him outside by the firepit. The music was blaring and intoxicating.

"One thirty!"

"What?"

"One thirty! Outside! Firepit!"

Drenched in sweat, I later excused myself to go outside to the pit.


"You're looking tired out there," he said standing by the fire.

"I'm fine," I answered, huffing. "What's going on?"

"You need to meet my friend, Shane."

"Who's Shane?"

"Here."

I was confused but interested. I tried to say hello but there was no response.

"Shane? This is Michael. Michael, this is Shane," the bartender spoke.

I said Hello.

I said Hell-o again.

"Nevermind this. Shane can be a self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch."

To that I offered a snort of derision.

The bartender left the two of us to get better acquainted.


I didn't get home until 6 days later.

*knock, knock*

Snoring.

*knock, knock*

Snoring.

"Open the door, Miguel."

I was finally awakened by the sounds. Leaning out of bed, my pasty mouth greeted a sweaty pillow as my cold feet touched the grainy carpet in my bedroom at home.

*knock, knock, knock, knock*

"Coming." I opened the door.

"Miguel Angel," grandmother spoke, "I have something to tell you, mijito. Sit down."

"Gramma, can't this wait until tomorrow?" I asked with shaky knees and corrosive breath.

"No. Sit down."

Grandmother shared that she had hoped Cloaca and I would have stayed together; she appreciated the dinners we had at our condo and she had prayed for the best. But I was gone for seven months and during that time, no one was with her at her home. She felt alone and scared. So, unbeknownst to me, she had reached out to her husband, my grandfather, Gilbert, in Santa Barbara.

The two of them had reached an understanding: my grandmother would leave our house to her niece. At the same time, grandmother would relocate to Santa Barbara to live with her husband, Grandpa Gilbert. She had served her duty from me being a ward of the state.

But I had moved home and I had tainted their long-term plans.

"I don't know what to do, Miguel Angel."

My mother wanted to escape her life as she knew it. With two older sisters and an abusive mother, to say mom's young life at home was tumultuous and gaslit would be an understatement. My mother - light complected - had stolen the limelight from a sister.

Both of mom's older brothers were dark complected honorable military men.

Mom would become pregnant at 15 by my dad, Miguel, a dark-complected 20-year old in Santa Barbara.

Wedlock.

My mother, Diana, was abused by my dad. Within the first year of my birth, he was known to lock her inside the house with nowhere to go. When I had my baptism, he repeatedly sped a car across during the ceremony. At home, she had a favourite goldfish but he killed it by placing it in direct sunlight.

Mom reached out to the families on both sides for help with leaving my dad. And she was rescued, by both sides.

Fast forward to my age 5. I am my mother's world.

We lived in Fillmore and mom was bartending, truck driving, and waitressing. She had met another dark-complected man, Sonny, and they both fell in love. But there was something sinister about this love. Sonny didn't like me or the attention mom was giving me. But mom married him, only to divorce him a year later.

Mom called the police on Sonny many times, officially filing a restraining order.

I am leaving much out, noting that my mother was not a perfect person either.

But when mom left him that time, she and I grew closer than ever. She could talk to me now but, for obvious reasons, I had begun wetting the bed. Sonny, her now ex-husband, had an explosive temperament and I had become regularly frightened at nighttime. I was 6 years old.

Once again, I am noting that my loving mother, Diana - during their relationship - was not a perfect person either.

However, just a few months after their divorce, mom and Sonny reunited. There was a marriage proposal but Sonny could not re-marry mom in the state of California. So they called on mom's oldest brother in Las Vegas to witness their 2nd marriage in one of that city's last-minute chapels, which I observed.

Everything happened so fast. It was as if the two had reached some sort of agreement. Sonny became a remarkable provider and mom an incredible housekeeper. We had everything we needed in a newly rented 3-bedroom house in Fillmore. Why three bedrooms, though?

Then the levy broke. The yelling and fighting resumed.

Sonny wanted a baby but mom did not. She had apparently found her longed-for freedom but it was going to be taken away, again. Nevertheless, Baby G (named after my grandfather), was born when I was 8.

Immediately after Baby G's birth, Sonny bought mom a home, cars, and all the furniture we needed.

Their marriage was rocky and, though loved, my little brother would serve as a pawn between the two.

And I would witness it all in the forthcoming three years. I would witness it right until my mother, Diana, could not take anymore of Sonny's abuse. She left him one final time - this time with Baby G and myself in tow - to move into Sonny's brother's rental.

But Sonny found the 3 of us just two days after we moved out.


Mom was at a job interview that night. Sonny came into the rental on September 19th, 1981, at 8:20pm.

"Where is your mother?"

Sonny crashed our pots and pans from that night's dinner. Baby G, picked up and carried in Sonny's left arm, was crying, "Whyyyy, dad?"

Mom came bolting through the screen door minutes later. Sonny was bashing and smashing things in another room as Baby G continued crying "Whyyyyyy dad? Whyyyyyyyy?"

My little brother was just 3 years old. This, his birthday.

Mom and I met up in the hallway.

"Is Sonny here?"

"Yes."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know."

Mom went into her bedroom to (according to police records) retrieve a gun underneath her pillow. She pointed it at Sonny in the living room.

"Leave, Sonny. Just leave."

Sonny propped Baby G up to his own chest. This way if mom were to shoot Sonny, she would also kill my brother.

"Don't, Sonny, don't."

I saw all of this at 11 years old.

There was a struggle. Sonny eventually backed mom into a corner and shot her. She fell limp.

I screamed and left the house, hearing Baby G cry in the distance.

And I just ran away. I ran far, far away.



Baby G would go with Sonny's sister and I would go with our maternal grandmother.