Andy Seven, former rock star/male model/bon vivant, the man with the action-packed expense account, the fabulous free-lance creator of stories and images is available for your entertainment NOW! on Blogger.
The first taste of alcohol begins in church/temple. Yeah, it starts with God. Like it or not. When you go to the house of the holy they pour that wine in your mouth and you're hooked. At the age of ten. Little boys get their first taste of sweet fluids, followed by a divine buzz. Let's thank the Lord and give grace. It starts there and builds into something unholy, of course.
My first booze buzzes began with childish, doggy highs: Southern Comfort (syrupy barf bait), awful Gilbey's Gin, and punk rock heaven circa 1978: MD 20/20, sometimes called Mad Dog 20/20, but really called Mogen David 20/20. I'm sure good King David is turning over in his grave. Another punk (nee puke) rock high: Mickey's Big Mouth (aka "The Green Death").
And those boozy upchucks like the time you mixed Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum with Mickey's Big Mouth (yeah!) and you ended up vomiting in that lucky girl's purse. Hey, don't laugh, I'm sure Tommy Lee's done that dozens of times...and then scored.
Stuff I like (in no particular order):
1. Goldschlager (gold fairy tale flakes drifting in your shot glass for a rockin' cinnamon buzz).
2. Maker's Mark = smoother than Jim Beam, love to break the fake wax seal.
3. Jack Daniels, making me pass out on my anniversary, talk about a Kentucky blackout, wake up and vomit, while the room is spinning watch Tom Servo and Crow rip on Arch Hall, Jr. on Mystery Science Theatre 3000.
4. Domaine de Canton - ginger liqueur mixed with Ginger Ale for a double whammy of ginger.
5. Hennessy cognac, excellent for a cold when you have a chest full of flug and have to cough the green devils out. Once when I was tubercular I lived on cognac and donuts. Rock 'n roll, baby.
6. Greyhounds - Grey Goose vodka with grapefruit juice because orange juice is for babies.
7. Rye - booze of choice in billions of old noir movies and novels and kicks ass harder than bourbon. Tastes best in old Hollywood dives like The Formosa Cafe, aye laddie.
8. Manhattans - classier than martinis and tastier, too. Honest. My drink of choice at Jones Hollywood.
So whatever God hath wrought booze is thy destiny. Blame it on my Jewish upbringing; we have not one, but two holidays that encourage hard drinking: Purim and Simchat Torah. On one Simchat Torah I mixed so many different drinks that I perforated the lining of my stomach! Praise the Lord and pass that bottle, brother.
Palm Springs Walk of the Stars (Palm Canyon Drive)=I love the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but the Palm Springs Walk of the Stars might be just as cool. A lot of c-listers get their just due on this walk, and it’s more than fair. When you have your coffee and scone at Starbucks you might walk by a star with Nancy Sinatra, Phyllis Diller or Catherine Deneuve inscribed on it. What great choices. I so approve. Continuing on Museum Drive on the way to the Desert Museum I might pass by Jerry Vale, Kaye Ballard (one of Paul Lynde’s best friends), or Trini Lopez. When I left the Peppertree Book Store after getting “The Man Who Invented Rock Hudson” (THE Palm Springs book!) I looked down and saw Guy Madison, Liberace, and Connie Stevens. And let’s hear it for the Mamie Van Doren star…after all, she was Ms. Palm Springs when I was still learning how to walk.
Wherehouse Music (555 S. Palm Canyon Drive)= Now it’s called FYE (For Your Entertainment) but who cares. I like this store, it’s like a rock & roll Pic N Save, you can get a leather CD wallet for $2 DOLLARS! You can get a junky mp3 speaker system for $10 DOLLARS!!! Who cares if it sounds like a tinny drive-in movie speaker? What do you want, Bose Acoustics, it’s 10 dollars and does the job! I got a crappy Pirates of the Caribbean watch chain for $4 (such the deal!). This place is a paradise of rocker junk in the desert. I got a used copy of “The Downward Spiral” by NIN for $7. I had a ball listening to Trent scream in my face all through my weekend in Palm Springs. I must be sick.
Ichiban Japanese Steak House & Sushi Bar (1201 E. Palm Canyon Drive)= The first time I heard the word “ichiban” was in the movie “The Naked Kiss” when Griff tells Kelly she’s going to be his ichiban (#1 hooker). I don’t know much about hookers any more than I know about Japanese restaurants, but this place put a smile on my face. Ichiban is a very reasonably priced restaurant – I was surprised with the bill when I got it. We ate well and the wallet didn’t take a spanking in the process. The décor was kind of cheap: wood paneling, tiled mirrors, chrome furniture, kind of like Dad’s rec room. All that was missing was the Playboy mags buried under the couches. The food was good, though. An order of Teriyaki Filet Mignon came with tempura vegetables and steamed rice. The Wasabi Caesar Salad had no wasabi in it, I guess they threw the wasabi part in the title to make you feel like you were getting something Japanese. You’re not. I washed it all down with plum wine, a “blush” according to the menu. It was sweet, light, and lovely, like my date. I’ll be coming back. Ichiban scored an ichi with me. Burp!
Desert Springs Spa Hotel (10805 Palm Drive)= The place rocks. Seriously. Not one, not two, but about eight different pools of varying sizes and temperatures. If you like it cool, they have one. If you like the warm old fogey Jacuzzi pool, they have one. Lots o’ lockers you can store your schitt away at while you’re hanging in your bikini. And best of all, nobody’s leering at you in your bathing suit because everybody’s busy having fun in the water. A locker key and admission is dirt cheap: $5 last time I checked. They also have a hotel that wraps around the pool, but if you stayed here you would probably have a nervous breakdown from all the noise. The pool opens early: get there around 10, have dinner at 6, be back in Hollywood by 10 pm. That’s swanky.
True Value Hardware (233 S. Farrell Drive #8)= Hardware stores rarely score a 10 in the coolness factor, but TV is the exception to the rule. Before you get to the hammers and weather stripping there’s the swanky display of lounge furniture. TV also has a great selection of tiki gear, any tiki fanatic would go crazy here, not just tiki torches but tiki kitchenware, tiki furniture, etc. You’ll also find a huge selection of pool paraphernalia, so stylish that even if you don’t own a pool you’ll want to buy all their stuff. I don’t know who their buyer is, but he has a great artistic eye. Amazing taste. The staff is very friendly, helpful and know their hardware. Very cool people to deal with, like most hardware sales people they have a pretty dry sense of humor. Must be from hanging around all the lumber. TV is connected to the Palm Springs Mall, the loneliest indoor mall in the world. It always looks empty and abandoned, like a George Romero movie. It might be the creepiest mall ever, and deserves at least one visit for the eerie factor alone. Bloody hell, I just double-dipped a review again.
The following morning Crash Walker got into makeup and wardrobe and read his overly simple sides, grappling with lines like, “Injuns, down Little Big Horn River way, take cover neighbors”.
A cowboy’s work is never done sang Sonny and Cher, and what a long day it was on set of “Wrangler’s Canyon”. Some cast and crew were warm and welcoming to him like an old family member but there were equally as many that seemed stand-offish and genuinely nervous in his presence. Well, fuck them, it used to be his show, co-starring Crash Walker, TV star and poster boy of toy commercials, cereal boxes and anything that fueled a young boy’s dreams. Riding like the wind astride his horse. It’s funny, he owned a lousy car but on set he got to ride the prettiest horses, white Arabians, Apaloosas, even a Palomino now and again. It was sweet, but the dream had thorns in them because he was alleged to have killed America’s hero, Bill Flagg.
A key grip called Bear walked up to him and hugged him until his back bones cracked. “GREAT TA SEE YUH, HOSS!” “Mmfff!” Walker groaned from the pressure. “YAH!” he barked. Bear acted like a tough Texan but he was actually from Stockholm, Sweden. “A HEE HEE HEE! ROPE EM, DUDE!” He released Walker from his bear grip, trundled away and Walker dizzily slid against a trailer wall. He smoothed his rumpled hair with fake cowlick. “Wish there were real bullets in these six guns”, Walker mused. “Shoot that fuckin’ squarehead. That really hurt. Motherfucker”.
Bullhorns blurted out, “Actors take your places. Scene where Crash has a showdown with the Injun chief”. Crash’s name on the show was oddly enough Crash. It’s been said in TV circles if an actor’s really dumb they use their own name on a show so when they’re spoken to they’ll respond, like James Dean in “Rebel Without A Cause”. So Crash Walker’s character on the show was named “Crash”.
Walker squared his shoulders and walked over to the center of set and stood in front of a line of Injuns, pulling out a skinny cigar. Lighting it he noticed that the customary fake cigar he smoked on set was replaced with a real one. He took a few drags and started getting dizzy. “Funny joke, huh?” Walker thought. “This is the strongest shit I’ve smoked on set. I’ll just puff a little to keep the fucker lit”.
One of the warpainted Injuns turned to the other one. “Es que le?” “Que es el asesino, Manuel”, the other Injun whispered. The Injuns began whispering to one another. “Who are these guys?” Walker thought. “Where are the usual guys who play the Injuns? This is a little bit weird”. “Que no parece muy peligroso para mí, Santo”, another Injun sneered at him and spread his legs defiantly, arms folded in front of him. He then spat on the ground. A large guy with the biggest headdress took his place in front of Walker fixing him with the dirtiest look he’s ever been given. “Big TV star, huh?” he hissed. “Pendejo, we’ll see about your shit, junior”.
“Quiet on the set, aannnndd…action!” “Chief Running Wolf, I’ve tried to talk reason with you but you’re just another stoic redskin and we don’t take kindly to your type around here”, Walker acted. “White man go back to Big City, leave my people alone”, Running Wolf acted with a distinctly Mexican accent. They both went into a fake Indian wrestling routine. Mid way through their stiff grappling Chief Running Wolf let Walker have it between the legs, a real field goal kick. Walker keeled over. The Injuns all laughed. “CUT! What the hell’s going on here? Nut busting isn’t in the script!” the Director yelled. “Fucking taco benders”, Walker cussed, “Where are the regular guys?” “Hey, fuck you, puto”, Running Wolf cussed back, “We’ll fuck up your Hollywood ass, boy”. “Both of you knock it off or I’ll kick you off the set, both of you!” The rest of the Injuns gave Crash Walker stink eye for the rest of the day.
Three hours later Walker sat in his trailer drinking a beer trying to calm his nerves down, when he overheard some of the Injuns in costume by his door. “Sure, man, we have all kinds of stuff, weed, pills, we even dosed some maricon in Brentwood”. “I don’t want to know about that-“ “-it was tragic, ese, he was never the same after that-“ “-Yeah, yeah, here’s my bread, hand it over, quickly, security’s coming”.
The voices disappeared and Walker slowly opened his trailer door and peered out, watching the guy called Santo splitting from the PA. So that’s how they got on the show, they’re dealing to the crew in exchange for being on the show. What did that guy say? “We dosed some maricon in Brentwood, he was never the same”. Bill Flagg got mysteriously dosed with drugs and OD’ed. During the taping they called me “Es Asesino – The Killer". This is just a little too weird. He got his street clothes on and walked to his car with “HERB MILLER” scrawled in front just as he caught the “Injuns” riding off on their motorcycles.
Crash Walker followed them, dropping back a little. The Injuns, Manuel, Santo, and Chief Running Wolf all wore leather jackets and had their jet black hair neatly combed and bryllcreamed. They were heading for Silver Lake, combination Latino and Bohemian neighborhood in Downtown Los Angeles.
The motorcycles all headed down East Sunset Blvd., far away from the neatly trimmed lawns and tony lounges until they reached a bar painted black with “The Hacienda” in Army-stenciled letters. Walker pulled to the curb a block away and put on his darkest shades. He walked into the bar that had a little stage by the front door. “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Jimmy was playing on the jukebox. The boys sat in a booth by the back and Walker leaned up to the bar and ordered a beer. He turned around to glance at them.
“Querita, pepita”, Santo crooned as he clutched Manuel and kissed him passionately. Their arms were wrapped around each other making passionate love in the club. They popped pills in their mouths and locked tongues together. Walker chuckled and looked around seeing nothing but Mexican men. He was in a gay bar for low riders – all the boys had butch waxed hair, Vitalis, etc. wearing gang flannel shirts buttoned up, some with hair nets, a few drinking and others totally making out.
“What are you doing with my girl, bitch?” Chief Running Wolf yelled at Manuel with his hand on his hips, indignant. “Holy shit”, Walker giggled quietly. “Sir?” the bartender asked, “Another drink?” “Later, gracias baby”. All three were yelling at each other and occasionally kicking it up into girlish shrieks alternating in English and Spanish. “Bitch, leave my girl alone!” “Up your culo, whore!” Slapping and shoving, Chief Running Wolf tearfully ran into the Men’s Room.
The bartender picked up a cheap microphone and announced, “And now, Hombres, Lolitas, and Cholitas, The Hacienda queerfully presents the winner of 1966 Miss Hully Gully Thing, Miss Carmen!” A record started playing by Thee Midniters, “Let’s take a trip down Whittier Boulevard, ariba ariba!” Wolf whistles cars honking, and the lights turned up for Chief Running Wolf in full drag go-go dancing to the record, fringed mini-skirt flying in all directions. She was smiling, licking her lips and feeling up her falsies, rocking out to the low rider anthem. The boys in the club cheered her on, whistling and shrieking. “GO GIRL!” “CHICA CHICA CHICA!!!”
Finally the big finish: Miss Carmen ripped off her mini-skirt, her tiny, thick penis bobbing up and down to the rhythm, her high heels flashing against the lights, big bouffant black hair swinging, shrieking like a wild Mexican spitfire. At this point Crash Walker took off his sunglasses, messed his hair up, and walked towards the front of the stage, flipping her the Fuck You finger. “Up yours, Chief Running Wolf!” Miss Carmen’s face fell into a mask of feminine anger. She stared across the room to Santo and Manuel, pointing angrily at Walker, but to no avail. They were necking furiously making sweet boy-on-boy Latin love.
Finally having enough of this shit, Miss Carmen stomped bottomless on high heels towards Santo and Manuel and pulled a switchblade out of his bra and slashed Santo across the face. “Culo! Fucking bitch!!!” Everyone ran out of the club, but Manuel stood his ground and kissed Carmen right before he twisted the blade into her back all the way to the handle. Carmen convulsed to the floor, bleeding to death as Santo grabbed his face and pulled his shirt up to stop the bleeding.
The bartender began crying and picked up the phone. “Send an ambulance to The Hacienda, 2476 West Sunset Boulevard, "he sobbed hysterically, "Quickly, someone is dying”. “Well”, Walker mumbled, “that’s my cue. I’m out of here!” He quickly departed realizing that if the boys were guilty of Flagg’s murder no one will live long enough to talk. If they were guilty he’d have to find another way of proving his innocence.
Crash Walker woke up to the ugly music of a young girl mirthfully shrieking interspersed with poolside splishing and splashing. There was a load of happy horseplay going on outside his apartment window. He twitched and convulsed with shaking leg until he was awake, feeling his head throb painfully against the sofa arm rest, his neck twisted at a dead man’s angle. Since both head and neck were competing to see which hurt him more, he cursed and slid off the sofa, his clothes disheveled and stinking of rye whiskey.
He hobbled over to the kitchenette and loaded the percolator with too much ground coffee. He rubbed his hung over skull and looked around his apartment, wondering how he got there. The last thing he remembered was passing out in a GTO with heiress April Van Winter. She was long gone, obviously.
Walker flipped on his portable black & white television. “McIver Ford and Mercury, two blocks west of the Firestone exit in South Gate! Spot and I’ll see you here!” “And now back to the Los Angeles Arrows game, brought to you by Mister Franks all-beef wieners!” The baseball game on the television was loud and made Walker’s head ring, so he flipped the dial, but all he got was snow on the other channels. “Shit, fucking lousy TV”, he muttered, lighting a cigarette bent in half. The ciggie gave him grief staying lit since it was almost torn in two pieces. He gave up and turned off the set.
He pulled out the reel-to-reel tape recorder in his closet and set it on the cluttered coffee table, shoving coffee cups, script sides, potato chip bags and hair cream off in the process. A few boxes with tape spools sat in his dusty book case, and he pored through them, squinting his eyes at the various titles.
He grabbed the spool of Shakespeare soliloquies read by him and he threaded it into the machine, snapped up the record lever, and began his story.
“These are the facts as known to me in the spring of 1966, Los Angeles, California. I am one Crash Walker, 25 years old, only child to a separated, fragmented, nay, scrambled couple. I’m the co-star of a Western television series called ‘Wranglers’ Canyon’ – actually I’m the only reason why you’d want to watch that historically inaccurate piece of shit. Since I’ve done this show I’ll probably never set foot in Montana, Oklahoma, and the majority of the United States. I’ve been fired from my Western series about ten to fifteen times over various infractions real and imagined. Some director thought I punched him in the nose, breaking it in five places, I mean shit….he was probably on a bender and fell down a flight of stairs at The Cock ‘N Bull, but they blame it on me. A producer once accused me of pushing him out of his Cadillac while he was driving it, they blame me for everything, Jesus….”
Walker sidled up to the bathroom and applied some darkening pancake makeup on his face, studying the results in the mirror. He then penciled in a moustache, frowned at the results and wiped it off.
“What I did do was punch out a washed up, has-been film director with a Napoleon complex – that got me sacked for a little while, I don’t remember how long. He couldn’t stay sober long enough to finish an episode of the show. Most directors can wrap within a week with their eyes closed and both arms broken. I know this for a fact because I’ve broken a few of those arms, ha ha”.
He brushed his hair back, tied it with a girl’s hair band, and took a blonde wig off the head mannequin off the counter top. He combed the wig down like Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones and made an angry face. A pair of Ray-Bans completed the badass look.
“I got back on the show because I’m the star, the Big Kahuna tuna, without me the ratings sag like an old lady’s mattress. I was cool but then this right-wing fascist dickhead Bill Flagg shows up at a party giving me shit when everybody else was booing his lame-ass show. I wasn’t even watching it, I was trying to get a little fun and games with my suntan queen. Flagg picks a fight with me and I managed to boot him a good one up his shit box. In the meantime the suntan slut bailed on me so fast it made my head spin like Knucklehead Smiff, and then the next day I hear Super Asshole’s dead. And the cops think I did it. One of them even clawed my Johnson, twisted fucker”.
Walker took off the blonde wig and sunglasses, hand brushing his hair all messy the way he liked it. He grabbed a tissue and began wiping off the dark makeup from his face.
“What else? I gotta get this all down before the tape runs out. My Hamlet was never any good, anyway….I’m a better Banquo, a better Othello, I can do Marc Anthony, I should tape those readings instead, yeah…where was I? Okay, okay…the cops pulled me in and tried to frame on this jerk-off’s murder, he was found dead the morning after the party with a broken neck and just scarred all over with needle marks, Junk City. I can swing a brutal right hook but I sure as hell can’t break anybody’s neck. I was crashed out in a puddle of pukey in the Hollywood Hills anyway. They kicked me off the show, AGAIN. Claimed the ‘scandal’ would hurt the show, which sucked a rusty garbage can in the ratings anyway”.
He walked back into the living room and plopped on the sofa, lighting a cigarette. The swimming pool outside his window was lit up with tiki lamps of various colors, making the patio look more like a circus than a luau. An old man in a bathing suit still lay by the pool, a cocktail in his hand.
“There was still work, though. Toy commercials, the last one I ran out on when I saw a bunch of creeps follow me around set with real guns, not toy guns. This weird heiress from Italy drove me to the sanitarium my Dad was staying at and he had a major freak-out in front of me. That was a bad scene so I had to drink it off, dang, I still need to drink it off. That girl sure was fine, though, I wonder how much she’s worth? I gotta connect with her again. Well, it’s just a matter of time before they call me back on that show again. Let’s see what their excuse is this time”.
The tape to the right was almost running out. It was only a half-hour reel.
“This is CW signing off, guilty of everything but the crime that’s been stamped on his head”.
He switched off the tape player, rewound the tape, and placed the spool back in its box. He wrote in fountain pen on the box, “Hollywood Tragedy”.
Waiting for the coffee to percolate, he picked up the unplugged mouthpiece to the phone and plugged it into the base. When he did he heard the phone click several times as if someone else was jogging the connection. “Hey, hey, hey, somebody there? Testing one two three dickhead”, he said in a fake Italian accent, and instantly heard a dial tone.
“Hey, Helen”, he forced three drags out of his dying cigarette, “Did I get any calls since Monday? Jerry Carlton from the advertising agency says I’m fired, huh? What else? Some guy said I’ll fry in Hell for killing an American hero, what? You got three of those just yesterday? Ha, sorry. Sounds like the Police Department, huh? Great, I owe you one – candy for Christmas, yeah, the biggest Whitman assortment your tummy can hold...yeah, this time you’re getting it, no welshing this time, I really mean it. Yeah, kisses, babe”. He hung up.
The phone rang again right away. “Walker?” “Yeah?” “It’s Tony, baby. What’s shakin’, Brother Rat?” “Better my dick than my ass”, Walker noted the percolator leaking all over the stove. Can’t anything work right for a change? “You lucky dog, they’re putting you back on ‘Wrangler’s Canyon’, and as a guest star. That means more money! How did you swing that, you son-of-a-bitch?” “What are you talkin’ about?” “Didn’t you read the trades today? Your agent didn’t call you?” “No, man, I’ve been out all day, and I think my phone’s on the fritz”. “Call your agent, paisan. Money’s calling! Do me a big one and get me some lines on the show. Don’t forget your frien-“ “Yeah, of course”, Crash hung up on him, and then walked over to his bathroom window and found his car mysteriously parked across the street. How the hell did it get there? He didn’t remember driving it home. And what happened to April Van Winter?
The following morning Crash Walker got into makeup and wardrobe and read his overly simple sides, grappling with lines like, “Injuns, down Little Big Horn River way, take cover neighbors”.