"...daddy's telling lies
baby's eating flies
mommy's on pills
baby's got the chills
we're a happy family
i'm friends with the president
i'm friends with the pope
we're all making a fortune
selling daddy's dope
we're a happy family..."
-the ramones, rocket to russia, 1977
kathleen is in the front yard, chasing her daughter quetzalith around the small garden of sunflowers, tomatoes and herbs. joey kiss is smoking a cigarette by the pool with kathleen’s infamously loudmouthed brother, sodapop cola, chatting about being in the studio. caretaker ludo ludovic is rolling up a doobie while quetzy's godfather headlock gives joey's motorcycle a tune-up by the garage nearby. in the foreground them, a massive mansion stands : foreboding and inviting all at the same time. it is nonetheless luxurious, a portent of her 'it girl' lifestyle.
in essence, kathleen's cocoanut gables chateau is about as doll as it gets; what with joey kiss and baby quetzalith in tow as well, it is surely the home of one happy family.
for the last few months, kathleen, her daughter quetzalith lux and her longtime boyfriend - as well as on-again, off-again fiancé - joey kiss; her camp - makeup artist, PR agent, manager, wrangler, the list goes on... - have been residing at 261 cocoanut gables lane on the isle of grimaldi, in a super duper exclusive neighborhood, in a gallant, barbie-dream-house-but-in-reality-style home, ironically nicknamed 'the coco cave', thought, to say in the absolute least, a cave is it not.
the coatroom, which ingresses past the front doors of the house, is wallpapered in an antiqued eggshell blue, with a chair rail molding throughout. vintage embroidered pieces (with quotes like 'easy come, easy go' and 'it's been swell, but the swelling's gone down') dot the walls; a very costly and very delicate set of chandeliers command the ceiling. in between the two coat-racks, beside a comfy leather sitting chair and adjacent table, is a towering gilded mirror. it's very reminiscent of the sculptural work, the gates of hell, by rodin. the columns supporting the floor-to-ceiling piece are decorated with different plaster casts and reek of what many call 'doll symbolism' : angels, babies, sacred hearts, birds, flowers, blood, seashells, snakes, hindu, egyptian and greek goddesses, and so forth.
at the top, and the largest, perches a fair-haired naked woman with a piercing gaze. her expression, perhaps caught painfully in deep thought, perhaps caught in a moment of much-needed repose; is adorned with haunting eyes that follow those in the room, no matter which whey they step.
the mirror, and the room itself, has been nicknamed 'the gateway,' by guests - perchance because it's the first room one sees after entering, or possibly due to the cabalistic connections those before have made. despite the knowledge that the coco cave's revolving door hasn't even been operating for an entire year yet, the house already has a reputation. the tabloids run a weekly party report and the jist is : anybody who figures themselves a somebody hasn't lived life without doing drugs at the doll's and staring in her giant mirror to see their future. this idle talk is notwithstanding the many years kathleen has been said to be a witch. however, before exiting the room and dimming the light, she leans in and whispers that the mirror was bought - thanks to her negotiating skills - off the wall of a famous french museum. "there's no spell on the mirror, darling," she says in her soft, breathy voice, "that's just what i tell drunk people to have a laugh!" if that's a fact, then it most likely occured during an esoteric doctrine lesson taught by kathleen herself, no less...
in the hallway, leading to the living room, are several large porcelain vases - with motifs beckoning to the art deco era - billowing with fresh roses. in the papers, this room is described as 'the rose room,' although that too would be another misprint, as it is more of a solarium than a room and does not just contain roses.
kathleen paws at a tender-looking purple orchid as she makes her way through the space and remarks that joey was recently given a recording advance, of which he used some of it to buy her a flower field in the netherlands. "every day, a dozen flowers are delivered. every day, i find another alcove to stash them in." later she tells me that on sundays, she collects several bunches and in a basket that says nothing other than : STOP! PLEASE SMELL ME + GIVE 2 YOUR LOVED ONES, kathleen leaves them outside her gates for the public. although it is doubtful that a belle à la beauty and the beast is one of the average types to stumble upon said basket, it's more likely a crazed fan or one of grimaldi's local homeless benefits from the doll's charity. still, the gesture stands.
in the next room - the living room and the adjacent grand parlor - high ceilings - painted to high heaven with a renaissance-inspired fresco - give way to large bay windows that overlook the ocean below.
there's a music studio for joey to record, a suite dedicated to the couple's priceless guitar collection - one left-handed stratocaster, belonging to kurt cobain, was given to kathleen as bithday gift years ago - there is a wing for quetzy - including a full-scale replica teepee - and, of course, a sweeping library for kathleen's books. the library itself is over three floors, with working elevator, and is completely enclosed in glass within the mansion, to further protect the rare titles that have been accumulated.
there's also a plush indoor movie theatre, a mini ballroom for hosting parties - which screams gone with the wind, as the lead architect suggested a second kitchen around the corner from the ballroom, to make service for guests more timely; not to mention, the aptly named coco cave is so all-encompassing that a full tour is over three miles.
the cherry on top for a first-time experience comes at the end and is a climax well worth the wait. after a series of twists and turns in the east wing, a cellar door hides behind a walk-in closet and leads to an underground tunnel. rather than a panic room, kathleen has a foolproof escape route. once in the tunnel, after navigating through a dummy maze, there are one of two paths that can be utilized. the first leads to a trapdoor in the floor of kathleen's four-car garage, on the edge of the property; the second leads to a nearby undisclosed location, obviously undisclosed to keep kathleen safe in the event of an actual emergency. naturally, as it has the doll's stamp on it, the estate is more than a just fortress; it's more than a mansion. "it is where quetzy will be raised and it will one day be her inheritance," joey kiss mused. "it is everything kathleen has ever worked for. she never has to leave."
once she stops 'casing the joint,' as joey noted, a typical nervous behavior of kathleen's, her first question, though in a mockingly growling voice, is, "whaddya want to know?"
at first, she appears to be on drugs, but that might be her reputation proceeding her. she is dressed in an ill-fitting babydoll top that hangs off of her like a sack. she has on tattered rags that barely fit and also barely pass as denim jeans. they are held together with a tangled web of buttons and patches - not for fashion, but out of necessity. well punk. her wild blonde tendrils are pulled back haphazardly with a 90s-looking clip and, due to the cut and sheerness of the blouse, exposes what look like minor scrapes and bruises - potentially from a all-night pub-crawl on grimaldi's high street. and with her correct depiction duly inscribed here, there is one shining aspect that is absolutely necessary to mention : despite her off-putting ambiance, she is a very sunshiney character and talkative girl, just brimming with the next story for her audience.
she plops down on a large sofa, across from joey, who is on the floor, amid a pile of scattered records and old rock magazines, playing his guitar. he is dressed in ratty denim jeans that cling to his body and an equally as ratty white tee-shirt that also seems to cling to him. his once famous bleached-blonde quaff is now a dirty blonde pile of hair that hangs over his face as he leans over his archive of inspiration. he looks weak; almost defeated. of course, in comparison between an ethereal, encouraging sprite and someone who truly could pass for a kurt cobain understudy, the differences are palpable.
"we love it here," kathleen says, outstretching her arms, like a lackadaisical kitten after an afternoon nap in a sun-lit windowsill. "don't we, baby?" she nudges joey who, up until this point, seemed to be nodding off.
he rouses, "yup, perfect for me, you and joey jr." he is, of course, referring to their offspring, quetzalith lux (büüski honeyblossum zarathustra) grace-kiss. known for her puzzling name, joey remarked that he calls her 'joey jr.' instead of, "rattling off an entire phone book every time i need to get my kid's attention."
she looks at him, rolls her eyes and pokes jestingly, "oh, i'm sorry - all apologies." without missing a beat, he picks up his guitar and begins strumming the aforementioned song flawlessly.
kathleen doesn't sit still for long and leaves the room to track down her harem of servants to prepare a pot of tea; then loses interest and returns to fawn over joey, who seems to be more interested in writing music. he doesn't stir upon her entry, but he does dazedly finger-pick his guitar a few more times, playing the role of the strung-out rockstar a little too convincingly. before falling completely head-over-feet into his mystique, he straightens up and begins asking kathleen a barrage of detailed questions from a production standpoint, concerning mostly the logistics of an upcoming acoustic show. and, like that, it's as if the shaky substitute for a man was never in the room.
"i don't want the lost boys involved one iota - you got that? they can't make a decision to save their lives..." kathleen instructs joey in a firm voice. he then shows her several magazine clippings - all of funerals - completely not disconcerted by her incessant demands not mere moments prior.
joey points to a small column on victorian funerals, "i really like the lilies they used here - very drape-y, almost melancholy." he pauses, as if he's said something stupid and knows he's going to be shamed. "i mean, not to use such a bleak, colloquial....archaic....drag of a word." he laughs at his vocabulary, shakes his head and keeps thumbing through the pages.
"you are sure putting a lot of thought into this, baby," she says, and comes within millimeters of brushing him off; and then changes her tune, "i think if you go with lilies, you should have taper candles coming out of wine bottles too. all waxy and drippy-trippy-like. it'll really help create the mood."
"what mood?" joey looks to her with a blank, clueless expression..
she furrows her brow, looking down at the pile of - in all, mostly funeral - photographs and magazine clippings. "you're joking, right?" and then raises her eyebrow with a conviction that could boil water. she doesn't need to say the joke is over - her proper tone is plenty enough. at this point, she is standing over him, somewhat massaging his shoulders, but more so asserting her dominance and affirms : "these are not photos of sunflowers and a spring meadow, baby. this is very deep, like one-pill-a-way-from-ending-it-all deep. come on, use your brain, sweet pea. be serious for once in your life. your fans aren't mall-going, teeny-boppers - your fans have a little more...grit to their personality." as the story would go, joey knows all too well about grit - he has attempted suicide multiple times and recently just did a stint in rehab for heroin use.
the words, still afresh from the doll's cherubic lips, sting and float in the air, almost unnoticed. until joey says, "i like it. that's almost the exact psychological aspect on the popularity of the band."
kathleen breaks her blue-eyed lock on him for a moment to stare longingly out the window. possibly to gain composure and keep herself from committing bodily harm to her other half; possibly to slowly and quietly contemplate her next choice words. she then retorts slickly, "so what if it is? we're all contributing to this sick, mediocre and totally materialistic society - so, who cares? look - i'm not mother mary, i'm not the buddha....i'm not even sure if i'll get into rock 'n' roll heave. it's just, well, i've always been from the school of thought that you should do what you want. you're only going to live until you're 80, if you're lucky! start a band, rally congress; peddle the ass that god gave you and sell drugs - try nitrous. listen to punk rock. whatever." she flicks the ash of her cigarette. "start by calling in sick tomorrow and saying, 'damn the man.'"
once the sun sets, like clockwork, joey awakens. not the joey kiss described prior, but the joey kiss that is written about in tabloids cross-country. the dopey, long-limmed greaser goofball with one-liners for days and some kind of upper stashed in his motorcycle jacket. he grins and nudges her, "oh, doll, don't you know that you'll always be the fanzine girl, writing stories about her favorite bands and articles about your revered single adventures? you know, when you carried around all your knick-knacks and dollies and didn't know up from down? you're always gonna be that girl." for a second, her face goes blank and she isn't the nearly 30 (no numbers here, people) woman, mother of one; but the 20-something young riot grrrl, adorned in a babydoll dress and some knee-high stockings, preaching about this notion of a social revolution via her homemade fan art.
"i used to xerox feminist statements and put them all over cars and in libraries and grocery stores. just things like : LET NO MAN HOLD YOU UNDER, SISTER! or WHAT'S MORE CUTERUS THAN A UTERUS? NOT U! or, you know, a picture of gloria steinem to keep the kids in tune with their own history - i remember also copying textbook images of a woman's reproductive system and pasting them onto a globe. like, dig it, the human body is like middle earth and you need a guide, especially if you're a woman! so all over that globe, i wrote DON'T TREAD ON ME! that one got me the cover of the local newspaper." kathleen says this, of course, as nonchalantly as someone her age would discuss their past as captain of the cheerleading squad.
"my favorite," joey, joining in on the reminiscing trip to the corner of doll avenue and memory lane, says, "i remember a sign from a sit-in that i came to see you at. it was on a pastel pink construction paper with glitter, and you had spray-painted : EVE DIDN'T COME FROM ADAM'S RIB. i remember you burned your bra and a copy of the bible. then, when all the protests were over, you went on tour with several bands and, over the phone, transcribed her diary to the hep parade offices once a week. it was the first piece i can think of in a rock magazine from a woman's perspective. everyone ate it up. they loved her - still do." he continues, "we first met on a music video shoot for an artist i used to produce and i fell in love with her. she was the coolest girl i had ever met. i was...maybe 17? 18? that was a long time ago. i just remember, after class, she would ditch jimmy and his buddies to make my coffee at the local coffee shop and then come to the studio to write and create fanzines by night. i knew she had a crush on me too - i just knew it - but we were so young and dumb."
kathleen stops him with a loud laugh and exclaims, "now we're just dumb!" she gets up to kiss him on the forehead, comfortingly, and then goes on, "like i cared about making your coffee, pal! it was just a job - coffee's got a job, kat's got a job, joey's got a job..." she trails off.
and with the mention of jobs, the pink elephant in the room grew from a calf to a cow. a long, silent, almost worrysome pause led to the change in topic : the lost boys' latest single - with joey kiss as producer and sometimes guitarist - is titled "touch me, i'm prick"; and has been the most controversial unreleased single to be released within the tri-cities (arcadia, the isle of grimaldi and cielo) as of yet. never was there a song so bad before, and never will there be again. joey, who has refused to speak formally with reporters, has understandably remained tight-lipped on the subject. until now.
"let's be clear : it's an anti - i'll say that again - anti-rape song, okay?"
he sighs, then continues, "i'm so tired of having to explain my lyrics to every tom, dick and harry rock journalist who darkens my doorstep." at this point, you can see the frustrated, misrepresented celebrity he has risen to. a father, a heroin addict, a punk, a businessman, a spokesman for his generation; but a man nonetheless. the pedestal on which he has been placed upon is crumbling, with a foundation built on the entire apathy of a generation, that aren't standing on the most solid of footing themselves.
"this is fame, baby," she says to him, jokingly, "i mean, get it? that's why i had jimmy kiss in my music video...my next single will be called 'god is god - i am me.' me, get it? the doll - everyone's favorite. not the girl that's in the magazines and in the paper - that's not me. that's my shadow."
she pulls out her guitar at this point and begins to strum the vaseline's 'molly's lips.' she stops and says, "you know, the other night at the riot house, i began to play this and people were going absolutely insane. like i was fucking stevie ray vaughn or something." she plays the chords over again and says, "this song has two notes!"
kathleen sets the guitar down and slyly glances over at joey, then the clock on the mantlepiece nearby, and then back at joey. for even added affect, she frowns and looks at her wristwatch. "oh, my!" she exclaims unconvincingly, "joey kiss! it's almost 6:30 in the morning!!" without mustering even the slightest of fake yawns, she seems moreso upset that joey let it get so late without making her aware.
"yeah, so what?" he says, not picking up that it's time for everyone who's name is not joey kiss to clear out, which also includes (but is not limited to) sodapop, ludo, headlock, whatever various lost boys are still breathing and drunkenly draped over large pieces of art, et al.
"that's it," she says, throwing up her hands. she looks around the room, foreshadowing a nefarious act of doll disobedience and general brattiness, and removes her top - exposing, to no one's surprise, nothing underneath. without hesitance, she proceeds to slowly creep in the direction of her bedroom, but, the whole time, she's making sure joey is watching her and moaning and groaning; saying things like, "wow, i wish i had a boyfriend to cuddle me...i guess it's just me and twilight zone re-runs like always," or, "boy, it would be really nice if someone strong and possibly named joey could carry me to my bedroom and then smother me with kisses." basically, what the rest of the english-speaking world would like to hear kathleen say to them is the anti-be all and end all for joey. this is the moment when kathleen, the doll, the million dollar brat, baby babble, the sunshine kid....hearkens back to her arcadian upbringing. topless, tired, clearly horny and ready to be joined in her boudoir, she then c-l-e-a-r-l-y states that she then wants joey to call it a wrap.
joey merely nods in her direction, with a foot up on the stone fireplace, hand on the clock. he takes a sip of coffee, made by his own hand - as fresh as the morning dew atop the grass on their front lawn - and says, no, tells kathleen, "you go ahead, baby. go warm up a spot for me. i'm gonna stay up a little while longer and make sure the sun rises, okay?"
instead of reeling back and decking him, she bobs her head up and down, causing her ratty blonde curls to bounce, then gives him a sweet kiss before strolling away, in her sordid denim jeans, held together with a strategic and creative approach to the many rips, tears and holes of yesteryear. and, lest we forget, her being topless for the better half of the kerfuffle. not that it wasn't a given, but those in view are gently reminded that under all her layers of psyche is a minx waiting to pounce. she struts away, nose gingerly pointed upwards in the air, purring in a singsong voice a tune none of us know, yet is so familiarly catchy at the same time. this is why she's the doll - no matter what the choice or consequence, we're all glued on her channel to see what happens next with our longtime 'it girl.'
kathleen kiss, though, is a different woman. contrived but yet to be actualized and activated, she is one third of a home, the queen of the coco cave; and wouldn't give anything - not a kurt cobain-owned rare left-handed strat, a map of her secret underground tunnels or even an old copy of her original feminist artwork - to change her happy family.