Yeah, I know the reputation of the place. I was there, more than I am comfortable admitting.
Click here, copy and paste, then open the link up in a new browser. Listen as you read on. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFooZJEmh
Ok Yes, nice Sunday morning mood music, right? That is Abba you're hearing. Erie as shit, yes?
Which made the song completely perfect for the Monastery, what with its Boeing runway lights that left you blind for weeks after a wrong glance, and don't forget the sound. Perfect enough to blast past distortion, perfect enough to blast your heart rate into some sort of orbit. Perfect enough to make you forget, at least during those all too brief pre-dawn hours, that you'd now been up at least a day, and how much it totally sucked to be gay in most of America.
I not only thrived there, but I survived there and I know, especially during my more reflective moments that a shit load of people from back then didn't. Including some of the most talented DJ's to ever spin a turntable. But, my god, what a-one-of-a-kind place!
It even came complete with George's dance floor sermons, he being the so called spiritual advisor of that diverse flock. My the man could go on and on, talking about the evils of Meth, even as half the place was strung out on MDA, sneaking out from the stranglehold of their sugar daddies, spiritual oppression and God knows what else.
George Freeman, bless his heart somehow knew I was coming on my first foray into original sin, and he greeted me by name on that initial virginal visit. The good man met me at the door, announcing for everyone to hear, "ah, so the Christian is here".
I don't know how he knew, but my name was put in that damn book of his and from then on I was a regular My being in said damn book eventually landed my ass right on social probation at the Lutheran Bible Institute of Seattle (Now Trinity College) and I was threatened with any number of treats, not the least of which was mandatory appearances at Homosexual's Anonymous meetings.
Until, that is, these appearances suddenly ended. The dude in charge, Mr. Wonder Ex-gay Himself, a special project of Seattle Pacific University-Doug Houck, got busted in one too many adult bookstores, wearing out one too many pairs of knee pads.
Times were messy. Life was complicated.
OMG! Just like it is today! What with Sarah finding values and Levi finding Playgirl, and we can't forget aobut Ted Haggard and oh, I don't know, massage. The Mormon's and their defense of marriages as they are doing the polygamy happy dance.
IT is just like it was back in that day. The Republicans, bless their hearts, were still all gaga over Ronnie and Nancy. That was before the astrology mess broke, and AIDS? Well duh, no one was even talking about that yet because at least back then, AIDS was like so, well, gay.
And speaking of gay, after the crash and burn of Homo's Anon, well other rules came down from the dean on high, marking in snail time my heavenly experience at Bible College. No dancing. No leaving campus without an approved companions, one of whom would, as it happens, turn out to be the among the most steadfast lesbo's to ever grace the Pine Lake Plateau. Its because of her I became an Indigo Girls and Melissa Etheridge addict. She, Lesbo chaperone, also taught me the joys of a stick shift, the beauty of a 4x4 and how to best climb a water tower in an electrical storm.
I owe at least one head injury to her, an unfortunate dance with an elk on old I-90 resulting in totaled brand new Toyota 4x4, a call to the coroner from the first witness on the scene, and a nice conversation with a State Patrol Officer, who may have become a bit badge happy after he allegedly heard said Lesbo mentioning Penis Extentions done in her honor, while maybe I'd been behind the wheel of said now totaled ride.
Remember, mom and dad, allegedly. Like I even had the coordination.
So yes that place, the Monastery, which now has a face book page devoted to it, and all sorts of other things dedicated to it, was infamous. It was like no other place I've been.
I lived for those nights under all that neon, ruining my hearing to the likes of Tom Tom Club and Genious of Love, Madonna's Holiday, and any number of other mind numbing, reckless explorations of the beauty of a beat, extracted by the minute, spun by dj's forever under the influence of poppers. And of course, don't even think of forgetting about ABBA.
Before I got busted hanging at the Monastery, I thumbed rides into Seattle. I rode Metro buses until they quit running. I'd leave the club at 4 am and crash out on the cement platform hosting Seattle's Volunteer Park's infamous doughnut statue. The concrete still warm from the sun the day before, I lived for nights at that place. I met some damn nice boys from the navy there, who were also, lets just say flirting with disciplinary action.
Do a google search. Read the down low on the low down and high road moments of the place. Its messy and naked, which is how I've learned life is best served. Grace with a side of mud. Hope with a second helping of reality. Faith with a few refresher course on faith based faith.
And Abba, well their song, the visitor, remains ever timeless. And a perfect end note to that amazing, technicolor dream ride.
Unfortunately though,becasue all truly good stories have a postscript, I need to inform everyone, that the Monastery is no more. The City of Seattle, and a few parents who'd lost total control of their kids shuttered the place, and then to ensure it never came back, they bulldozed it. All that sordid history forever gone.
I'd moved on to worse venues by the time the city closed the place down...the Habana in OKC comes to mind, and Heaven in Houston. The Albequrque Mining Company and Denver's Triangle. The Eagle, in nearly every major city anywhere truck parking was to be had.
To this day, I remain addicted to Trance, Dance and anything with a wicked beat. I still mix, and even had an early effort at mashups land me in trouble at SPU back in the mid 80's, long after I no longer danced at the Monestary.
Back then the school said no to all dancing on campus, and as an undergrad, it was also best to not get caught off campus doing any hokey pokey, and I, well I of course, just had to test that theory and maybe, allegedly got a job as a DJ in Belltown, and possibly might have made some bootleg mix tapes with a sample or two of Dr Ruth talking about Peanut Butter on a guys' privates while George Michael wailed in the background something about being your man and another group, File Thirteen, who might have been singing about the joys of phone sex and Book of Love who might have been stuttering Boy Boy Boy Boy Boy as Nancy Reagon so kept repeating Just Say No over and over and over again.
Which for the record, said mix tape was done like long before George Michael came out, and the Wham Rap suddenly made sense, and so before he got busted in a men's room, like for the 3rd time, and way, way, way before Senator Larry Craig so copied him.
I survived that time. Mostly by getting lost in the trucking industry and by getting addicted to dance floors everywhere. I've danced my way across America and Western Canada, courtesy of a few Peterbilts and Kenworths. God, and the posse of guardian angels never let go of me, and I remain a child claimed by Christ. Seriously, if that ain't some dedicated grace, I don't know what the hell is.
And this song, among Abba's last, was the soundtrack throughout all that first decadantly wonderful, totally horrible summer. Indeed the song remains on heavy rotation in clubs throughout the land.
Which is something I can only hope to copy.
And that dear readers is just one little sample of the gruesome soundtrack of Timbo's Life.
It only gets worse. Bet you so weren't expecting that revelation to start your Sunday off? Put on some Jazz or Norah Jones. Relax. I promise, it'll make everything better.
Links are here: http://www.discomusic.com/clubs-more/3845_0_6_0_C/
