Here are some quotes and short excerpts from my Eighties novel The Clubber, available on Amazon.com

   “Gimme a dollar!” grinned Jason.
   “Um, no.”
   “Then gimme a kiss.”
   “Sorry. A kiss costs a dollar.”
   “I know. That’s why I want the dollar.”

   He remembered being particularly impressed with one of the man’s works entitled Robot Ham. It featured a large and fresh-looking ham that had various electronic components and technical-looking gadgets and wires sticking out of it at seemingly random places. The ham appeared to be walking down a surrealistic path. The background was an undulating scenery that alternated between countryside and urban settings, with buildings and telephone wires blending into trees and hills and back again. Even though the background and border details were so intricate that he could have studied them for hours, the cybernetic ham was the most striking thing about the piece. He could barely begin to explain its intricacies.

   “Don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t do,” called out Cora as they were leaving.
   “What don’t you do?” asked Vivian.
   “Dunno. Gimme’ awhile to think about it.”

   Almost the entire crowd was dressed in black. Black overcoats, black leather jackets, black pants, black skirts, black dresses, black vinyl boots, black leather shoes, black vinyl pants, black robes, black capes, and an endless sea of black, black hair. There was the random flight jacket and pair of black sneakers floating around, but most of the crowd was above that sort of dress. Throughout the sea of swirling black a few spots of bright blue, green, or red could be seen, wandering plankton-like through the dark fashion mass.

   Noticing the doorman only increased his uneasiness. Why did the line never seem to move?
   “Moo.” He turned around. It was Serge.
   “Moo,” muttered Serge again in a low and drawn-out tone.
   “Moo,” said someone else from another part of the line.
   Low-toned moos started emanating from different parts of the line.

   “Serge who?” asked the silver queen.
   “You know, short, skinny Serge.” replied a young Souisxie Souix look-a-like who was sitting on the floor.
   “Who?”
   “You know, that skinny fag with the blond hair,” said the Divine Man,
   “Which skinny blond fag?” snapped the silver queen. “There’s about five thousand people out there like that!”

   “What’s her problem, anyways?”
   “We had a fight and she went off to get plowed. I lost her for about an hour until I found her like this.”
   “Wow, she got that tanked in an hour?”

   “It is gross and disgusting, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want any.”

   “Hey, don’t put yourself down just because you don’t look like you just crawled out of a dumpster,” she said, flopping down on a couch. “It’s kinda’ nice to hang out with someone who’s obviously taken a bath sometime during the last week.”

   “I guess you just have to live that punky lifestyle,” she would always say.

   “Ladies first.”
   “What’d you call me?” she snapped.
   “I mean sketched-out punk chicks first.”
   “That’s better.”

   “Draw me a picture,” demanded Annie.
   “What for?”
   “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
   “No, not really.”
   “Yeah you are. You said so. Zeke said so.”
   “So what?”
   She shook the paper at him. “So I told you about Annie Rage an’ my band, an’ you wont tell me about your artwork, so you gotta draw me a picture.”
   He took the paper and pen. “What do you want me to draw?”
   “Can you draw me a picture of someone drowning in a tub of vomit?”
   He thought about it for a moment. “Does it have to be their own vomit?”
   “Nah.”
   “Okay.”

   “I mean, what’s at the heart of thinking you’re better than everyone?”
   “Probably thinking that you are better than everyone.”

   “C’mon, get into it. Kill those drums! Think about your ex-girlfriend with your best friend.”
   He stood up. “Could you not talk about those people please? I’m having too good of a time.”
   “Yeah, yeah. I promise not to mention your ex-pal, ex-girlfriend, and ex-best friend who’s goin’ out with your ex-pal ex-girlfriend, again.”

   “Omigod, I think this guy is straight!”
   “A breeder? Who let him in here?”

   “Okay, let’s start a band,” she said.
   “What?”
   “What should we call it?”
   “Actually I have no good sense of timing. I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
   “Bad timing doesn’t stop most people. Why should it stop you?”
   “How can I be in a band if my timing sucks?”
   She put down the guitar. “Hell Andre, you worry too much about what you’re doin’. Just get out there and do it. Why worry about this little detail and that little detail? You do it or ya’ don’t.”
   “Little details? Like bad timing?”
   “Yeah.”
   “But isn’t music mostly timing?”
   “See? There you go again. Worrying about little things that don’t matter.”

   They made their way back up the stairs, quickly wedging their way through the still crowded dressing room and then down the black stairs again. Backstage, the waiting group of actors had changed. There was a badly-made-up drag queen, a man in a hockey mask wearing a rumpled suit, and another actor wearing an rubber alien mask with one large eye and a couple of antennae. Over by the snack table, a very fat man in a toga was carrying a cardboard bow and arrow and drinking a Guinness.

https://www.amazon.com/Clubber-Tale-Eighties-Jeffrey-Matucha-ebook/dp/B0719M67LX/