Maybe this makes me creepy or snooty or borderline dead inside, but I'm not that freaked out by Crispin Glover and his taboo-smashing ways. Things like cracked snails and swastikas and Down syndrome and the idea of Shirley Temple—these are things that exist in the world. Sometimes grown men with cerebral palsy happen to be naked. Some people are the Manson Family. Seeing these facts stitched together on film is not alarming to me, any more than seeing a squished snail or a person with Down syndrome on the street is alarming.
That doesn't mean that the full eight hours (do you realize how much America's Next Top Model I could have watched?) I devoted to Glover at Broadway Performance Hall this weekend weren't totally captivating. Pigeon-toed, fidgety, smart, and magnetic, this man and his shiny curtain of hair could scoot self-consciously around the stage forever. I wouldn't mind.
The credits of What Is It? on Saturday revealed: "Organ music performed by Anton Szandor LaVey." (LaVey founded the Church of Satan, and, I should mention, named his youngest child Satan Xerxes Carnacki LaVey—ON PURPOSE.) A wide-eyed goth asked, "Did you get a chance to work with Anton LaVey on the organ music?" Glover hadn't, but he thought LaVey's music "was very tuneful!"
Out in the lobby, a young woman announced, "I describe my reaction as... bad" (maybe she was expecting Danny Glover?). Nearby, a dude said, "I thought about challenging him, but I thought to myself, 'What kind of a place is this for an AR conversation?'" AR stood for "animal rights," and "animal," in this case, stood for "snail." That's big of you, dude.
On Sunday, Glover lost it in the middle of the opening slide show—some time after "The snowshoe hare is a cross between a rabbit and a snowdrift," but before "Bawana boy simply stared at me as if he had seen my penis fall off. Which he had. Still, it was rude." Someone in the back was videotaping. "STOP FILMING! STOP FILMING! YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!" screamed Glover, with jarring desperation.
All the ruckus woke the two snoring, drunk assholes next to me (earlier, the girl asshole had fallen in my lap). They stayed awake for the rest of the show, giggling uncontrollably every time Steven C. Stewart (the writer, star, and severe-cerebral-palsy-haver of It Is Fine! EVERYTHING IS FINE.) groaned wordlessly or fell out of his wheelchair. Hilarious.
They sneaked out early, leaving a giant shitpile of empty Sparks cans and beer bottles. Hey assholes, fuck you. Your inconsiderate garbage is so much more disturbing to me than Down syndrome.
That "one-man welcoming committee" behind the bar is my son Gill, and you hit it dead-on with the reference to "the Dude." Your article caught the true essence of the Alki. My husband, Gill Sr., especially liked your remark that the Alki "doesn't give a damn and never will." After 31 years, why start now?
Just for the record, it's Taco Thursday. On Tuesday we have Wimpy burgers, same deal—$1 build-your-own with the same guy in the kitchen and Gill behind the bar. So come on down Tuesday. Thanks again for keeping the Alki alive and well.
I'm sorry for the confusion, Butch. Onward and upward! I wish you and the Alki Tavern family a very happy New Year.
Alki Tavern, 1321 Harbor Ave SW, 932-9970