5-14-17 Sunday; Mothers Day
I went to the pre-opening of
DJ House last evening, located on a former traffic circle close to the ill-thought cobble stoned section of Xi-tun Road between the botanic
garden and natural science museum. It is a
perfect spot for an ex-pat Liverpudlian scouser DJ putting down roots.
Darren Grant came to Taiwan in
2013. His first local job was teaching children at the
bushiban that I fell into upon my arrival in retirement the year before. We
became good friends owing to his literary interest in science fiction writing
and board games, though I shared no interest with the latter, he was
intelligent and considerate enough for me to call my friend, and I dare say I
was that to him, too.
Darren shared a discovery of
Taichung with me, and we both realized being a refugee attached to a tiny guru
wasn’t where it was at and Taichung needed a neutral scene for spiritual
thinking. Darren put down his sci-fi manuscript for a while to concentrate on
his first love, DJ-ing techno dance events, and got hooked up with the eclectic
youthful Taichung movement while keeping his feet on the ground in love with a local
lass. It took an adventure through Washington Academy to realize that being
overworked with privileged bilingual wannabes wasn’t where it was at, either.
When the smart phone dinged with a
message from my old friend, I answered immediately because, unlike other “millennials”
I have met, Darren knows how to keep a conversation going like a ping-pong
match; not like a transmission meandering back from the dark side of the moon. “I’m
starting a club with open mike; would you like to come read your poems?” I was thrilled that Taichung would finally have a venue for bohemian sensitiveness,
not to mention a hang-out for locals and ex-pats to mingle in meaningful
conversation. Over the months, Darren kept in touch dinging me for my opinions
about rental costs and hanging decorative soundproofing from cement ceilings until
I saw, in a Facebook meme, that DJ House was soon to open its door. With Darren's choice of pets, I'm glad he didn't call his place Lizard Lounge.
The Belgium beer was crafty, the chicken sandwich was tasty, and the
atmosphere was perky and soft. The toddler on the floor and some apparent pregnancy
revealed the family nature of DJ’s; this was not going to be a place to get
stoned drunk at and wander into the streets to hit or be hit by scooters.
Instead, through example, some decorum would prevail through the breakfast,
lunch, tea-time and dinner hours; not stuffy sophistication, mind you, but a
spirit of togetherness.
The man on the ukulele with kazoo and cigar box guitar strummed just
enough chords and hit all the right notes. I myself was not offensive, I hope,
with harmonica-vocal renditions of “Roadhouse Blues,” “Love Me Do,” “Apple Scruffs”
and readings of two recent nature-themed poems and two tone-poems from years
gone by which I recited and sang stream-of-conscience to Tangerine Dream
soundtrack, not that anyone was listening to the words, but that is the point
of tone-poems; isn’t it?
The
carrot cake, the guest baked goods, and the warmth all rode home with me on the
bicycle, all but the bike to share with my wife on Mother’s Day. Next time I go
I will bring an excerpt from my prose to read, perhaps a popper friend to dance
angularity, and even my wife to meet a Thanksgiving dinner guest that brought
hope to a proper Taichung ex-pat scene intermingled with, not excluded of,
Taiwanese friends. May DJ House flourish with music, poetry, yoga, pizza,
family ties, and good cheerio!
