Kristin Currier

It’s been a abysmal weekend. Matt and I had to put down our critically ill kitty, Clive. He had something within him that just would not quit, a horrid gnawing illness we could not detect nor cure in time. He was just barely over a year old. And the sweetest thing imaginable. And he’s gone, just like that. Got sick Thursday night, and was in kitty heaven Friday afternoon. My darlin’ little Alarm Kitty -named for his habit of waking me up at 4 a.m. for his early morning love session, before I got up at 5 to work out. We buried him in our jungle backyard next to Howie and Captain Morgan, my loving Halloween black kitty of 14 years, and the loving dog companion of our home’s previous owner. Our yard is a pet cemetery, and believe me, there is no better place to be.

After laying him to rest Friday, and with a depressing Saturday moping about, we decided we had to get the hell out of the house. So we decided on a little rockabilly honky-tonk right next to the Gold Coast Derby Girl roller rink, where we could catch some hillbilly punk rock. I love all kinds of music. I was reared on punk and new wave, and recently have been loving old time jazz, blues and country, so this was a real treat.

So I put on my Frye’s and thrift store cowboy top, and Matt one of his many Hawaiian shirts, and we tried to put our best social face on. We caught dinner at Shenanigans West (Nice to see ya again, Matt the bartender, don’t worry, the jock-tard extolling the virtues of roofies only embarrassed himself, not you, sweetie), watched LeBron sink more impossible 3-pointers, and off to the hot rods, hot babes and hot cycles of The Monterey Club.

A little snapshot: A tattoo shop right next door called Kreepy Tiki with a straightedge gal with Marilyn hair listening to The Smiths. Johnny Cash and Tiger Army on the house stereo near the bar. Combat boots and blond dreadlocks smiling and sipping beers, chatting with robust Louise Brooks red-head girl with daisies in her hair. Illustrated boys playing pool -badly- and asking us if we wanted some new ink at the shop next door. We do, but we see Pooch and Scott up north. Maybe later?

The Monterey Club is like your cousin Ronnie’s basement. Cousin Ronnie works on old cars and motorcycles, has sideburns, tattoos, a pool table, comfy couches, a wide screen TV, listens to lots of Motorhead and Social D, and drinks plenty of Pabst Blue Ribbon. At the Monterey, you’ll see hot rods and walkin’, talkin’ pin-up girls. You’ll see girls in cowboy hats and mini skirts playing washboards with spoons. A crazy hippie on an old guitar playing gonzo punked-up blues from hell. Engines roaring outside from souped-up choppers. Big manly men with tattooed knuckles and big, black boots. The glittery SoFlo metro-sexual douches with faux-hawks, manicures and tight glittery shirts heading for the party at Las Olas would get pretty damned nervous in here.

Playing this night was Smokestack and the Foothill Fury, that dirty hippie stoner bastard (who kicks so much ass), and Boise Bob and his Backyard Band. Hillbilly punks from hell, all of them.

Visiting The Monterey is like inhabiting a Cramps song for a honey-slicked moment of time. And it was just where we needed to be. And bloody hell, it’s literally just a couple of miles down the street. A little slice of heaven in Fort Lauderdale. A comfier, cozier version of Miami’s church of the Churchill’s Pub. A place where R. Crumb could pick and choose his buxom models to ink into eternity. Which is what I pretty much did. Finally, some new art to put up on this blog ‘o’ mine. I hope you enjoy.