Stuffed Animals, part 2

We'd blown it. It was that simple. There would be no show for us tonight. The Cougars
had distracted me. I'd been concentrating on the vodka they'd been ordering. "Vodka cran. Just a little cran. And some soda. Grey Goose if you have it, or Belvedere." They were on the prowl.

"Those Cougars sure are on the prowl tonight," said my short, fat, gay, Indian companion after I'd come back from the line up the stairway. "Forget them, kid." I said. "What they're on the prowl for has almost nothing to do with you, or what you're prowling for." We discussed bocce ball. There are two such courts inside Union Hall. The line, though, was insanely long, and unless we instigated some sort of Hall-wide brawl, there was no way we'd get in there. And I no longer had the heart for instigation.

Back in our niche by the fire underneath the books I almost paid for the whiskey. But I decided that I was by God going to see some dead, stuffed animals that very night. And instead of paying, I ordered more. And our minds turned, as they will, to music. We were starting a band named Angel Glands. Esoteric music using esoteric instruments. Eso-Core. Polyphonic rhythms on such diverse tools as: a theremin, a washboard, a Jew's Harp, found percussives, a comb with wax paper wrapped around it. Every song title would be about Leonard Cohen. "Leonard Cohen Bites My Rhymes." "Leonard Cohen Made Out With My Girlfriend (and Gave Her Herpes)." "Leonard Cohen is a Buster." Every title taking Cohen down a peg, because, really, he's had it coming. For a long time. There would be one song, though, just called Angel Glands. It would be on our album, Angel Glands, by us, Angel Glands. We'd eschew Eso-Core for one song and be a traditional three-piece with and infectiously poppy song that would put us on the map. This would also complete the triangle, the first two sides of which were built by Bad Company and Big Country*. We were destined for greatness.

The talk of Leonard Cohen, naturally, led to Nazis. I pulled a book at random out of the nearest shelf and opened it. It was the beginning of a chapter and its first line was "I lost my virginity to a Nazi." A very useful line, we agreed. In any sort of situation. "Would you like cream or sugar in your coffee?" my companion asked. "I lost my virginity to a Nazi," I said. "Does it look like I want cream or sugar?" And more in this vein.

I blinked my eyes and suddenly the Hall was filled with Scientists. Unmistakable corduroy and facial hair. I knew the show had let out.

My companion and I beat a path to the stairway. He hesitated at the top. "I don't know if I want to go down there. I can't really deal with death." I reminded him of the Great Spirit and counseled him washteh. He finally agreed and we descended into the dark, humid, cramped cellar.


It was still packed with people, Scientists and lay people alike. I had to shoulder my way to the exhibits. I heard talk of a two-headed ostrich. I didn't see it. "I still don't get it," my companion said. "Is it just funny? These are a bunch of dead things." He was peering at some of the taxidermy boxes. "No," I said. "They're reminders of things that once were living. Taxidermy doesn't glorify death. The reason this trend is sweeping the city is just this reminder. Nature. Natural habitats. These kids long for something: the famous pioneering spirit, the myth of the Old West. They don't have the balls to actually move to the country or lead a for-real hard scrabble life, but they connect with the idea. Or maybe they do have the balls and have only recently come to this city. Taxidermy in a tiny apartment represents this Urban Naturalism. It's not ironic. It's serious and fun and not somber. It's a philosophy. Look at all the people here. They love this. So do I." All of this uncharacteristic tangent was lost on my companion who was staring at a standing badger dressed like the Pope.

(*Editor's Note: Big Country never released a Trifecta. The band had a single called "In a Big Country," but the album was named The Crossing.)