45 Summer Of Katheena Part 3

Before you continue on here, you may have just come from the punk story, chapter 33, and by pressing the "next" button, all of a sudden you are looking at chapter 45. Go now to the column on the side over there -------->

and press chapter 34 at the bottom of it. There you can continue on, if you like.



There will be plenty of links throughout the following tale to help you take your mind off of your work week, so that your mind can lie fallow for a little while.

Farmers allow their fields to lie fallow so that they can become fertile once again.


This here part of the Katheena tale is about two things, which are these:

Style. Yup, There will be gross and sickening descriptions of clothing. Don't bother to read; instead, just find the links. Those are orange.

Identity. If you care about the de-evolution of a young guy from Maine who encounters an awesome chick who plants a seed of self-discovery, then here is how that begins. In this long-ass tale of Punkology, this Katheena part is integral. Thank you for your faith, and your time and attention.

This modern song describes the manner in which Kaneetha began to deconstruct such a young guy, and then reveal a sort of path. You will see. Press play and get your favorite libation handy.



All set? Let’s go back to Fuckno, Californication, to the mid-eighties, shall we?



Summer of Katheena, Part 3.




Inside the Fashion Fair mall up on Shaw Avenue in the high desert valley where Fuckno sat and shit itself, I found Katheena and Joey in some sort of odd shop that most other shoppers passed by.

Langua Hut. What an odd and somehow primitively pretentious name for a clothing store. Joey saw me enter and held up a pair of deep blue shark-skin dress slacks. No jacket. Odd.

I smiled and walked up to him. “Those are shiny, Joe.”

Joe nodded, and with his black hair gelled and swept up and back, he looked like the sort of Hispanic boy who would wear them proudly to a young lady’s kinsenyeta, to dance the mambo with her. All he needed was a ruffled Toriador shirt and a red sash cummerbun to go with it.

(Forgive me here as I chew some Tums. All this is beginning to sound like an article from some girly fashion magazine or someshit, and I may become ill. But it is important to describe this sort of stuff in order to demonstrate my own de-evolution from such bullcrap and why I would later dive into Punkology.) Can I get an Amen, brutha?

Joey smiled his devilish grin and said, “A pair of black dance shoes would really make ‘em shine, with me inside.”

Yes, he was very cocky, and this was the eighties, understand.

I nodded and went to look for Katheena.

Here is something about a certain type of female that will always amaze me. Some seem to have an innate ability to carry on a probing conversation while searching through items for sale, which involves identification, evaluation, and final judgement, in both labors, at the same time.

Knowledge is essential, and money is vital, and while some say that one equals the other, well, working both considerations at one time must be a benefit of having ovaries.

This is something I cannot do, and to see it occur is like being hearing impaired and watching other folks dance to music, I figure. It is just odd.

“Hi Will. I think I might have something for you.” She held up a red shirt with black buttons and two grey stripes down the front. “You need to step out of your boundaries; you need to broaden your horizon.”

I was not looking at the red shirt. You probably knew that.

Katheena’s tanned arms revealed that she worked out. No, not veiny and muscly like a man’s, hell no. Her white T-shirt with some Asian language printed down the front was sleeveless, and she had tied up the hem to show off her taut, brown belly. Back then, no one had belly piercings, but I would think that she does now. Something silver and dangly.

She thrust the red shirt at me, perhaps to stop me from ogling her, but most likely, not. “I want to see you in this, now.”

She grabbed my arm and led me to the changing rooms, which were hidden by the racks of clothing affixed to their doors. Most clothing was flourescent those days, but in this little shop where not many visited, the accent was on style, and not trend. It was all about the cut, less so the color.

When I opened the door, she giggled. “Why do you frown?”

I looked down at the shirt I wore. “It’s just not… me."

It wasn't.

At all.

She held out her hand. “Let’s talk about that.” She led me over to a rack of men’s pants and started to rifle through. “So, who are you, Will? Really.”

I stood there, understanding what she was asking. “I’m a new guy a million light years away from my home planet.”

She found a pair of black, pleated slacks. They were quite fuzzy. She obviously wanted me to try them on, but all I could think of were two important things.

1. I would sweat my ass off under the hot desert sun in them.
2. The legs would get caught up in my bike chain and I’d take a roll on some hot asphalt. The pants would get shredded. Problem solved.

She led me back to the changing room, saying, “How will you make this your new home if you don’t take a taste of everything at the buffet table?”

She trotted off again, leaving me to follow her curvy, jiggly rear with my sad eyes. I did not want to try on these pants. I wanted to wear some “safe” 501 button-fly jeans and go find a buffet table. One that had nachos.

When I stepped back out, she had three more outfits in her hands. Three more costumes.

She squealed when she saw me. “Joey! Come look at Will.”

I was beginning to feel like a lap dog wearing a tutu. Indeed, I would happily be her lap dog. But not in a tutu.

Joey came around an aisle with an armload of garments and then he whistled when he saw me. “Dude, that’s pretty sharp.”

He nodded at Katheena and went off into another dressing room.

Katheena was happy with herself. She led me over to a full-length mirror so I could see myself from a distance.

I looked at the mirror and said, “This is not me.”



Now, before I tell you what she said next, here is something you must understand about me, back then. As well you know, by that time I had been ridiculed for my poor attempt to “fit in” when first attending Roosevelt High.

You recall that my mom made my clothes on a sewing machine from clothing patterns, and she had inadvertently “misspelled” the O.P. of Ocean Pacific to become o.d.

As in Over Dose, or, even, a misspelling of ODD.

I did not want to be odd. I did not want to stick out. I wanted to conform. Robot. Or drone. Ya know.

This is what she said. “You aren’t you anymore. You are not in Maine, and here you have the ability to re-invent yourself. Nobody knows you, and nobody can call you anything at all now.”

I scratched my head. I really could have used some nachos at that point. “Well, I know what I’m not. And it is not this. I’m sorry, Katheena, I don’t think I can do this.”

What I saw in her eyes I mistakenly regarded as hurt feelings, for negating her proud attempt to change me by making me wear clothing of a different sort.

I was wrong. You know that I called her a force of nature, and here’s why:

Katheena would not be thwarted. She only saw this as affirmation that her work would need more effort.

What her eyes truly showed was pity.

She would change my world view. I would wear clothing that she chose for me, in her “experiment.” When this occurred, it did indeed change my concept of my own identity.

Or at least “self regard.”

You will see next time.

Thank you for reading this far. I need more Tums now, and then some nachos? How odd...

..or not?


God Help You.

God Help us All.

---willies out.





Antidote for you, a Rob Thomas-style group sends you soft vibes. Hey, don't look at me that way. I try to help you.