Angels Flight (red COFFEE Chapter 10)

I was back in downtown Los Angeles, far away from the laughably safer environs of Hollywood. After all the garbage I’d endured it was just as well that I returned to my real home instead of Mr. Bradley’s over-furnished apartment. Hmph to him and his stupid parties, anyway. Most of the guests looked like Bela Lugosi in a bright red dress.

But a girl’s gotta eat so I was back at work posing for Mr. Wechter. This time I was posing as Cleopatra. Claudette Colbert, eat your heart out.

“You know, Ms. Angelus, there are many people that said Cleopatra was a blonde and that’s why she was considered more beautiful than any woman in Egypt. She was special! But before we begin, put the record on”.

Mr. Wechter usually has me put on an old, creaky record so he can get in the mood to create art, but this time he surprised me.
“Hey, Herr Wechter, you did it. You bought a new record”.
“Yes, a surprise for you. Scheherazade, to put you in the mood”, he beamed proudly.
I dropped the needle on the Rimsky-Korsakov and the quiet melody seeped out of the small horn of the victrola. I adjusted my desert robe and went into my reclining pose while Wechter paced around the room studying each angle. Oh, brother it’s going to be a long night.

“Tell me, Miss Angelus, what have these fancy fashion photographers got that I haven’t got?”
“Dough”.
“There are some things more important than money, my girl, like aesthetics”.
I broke out of my pose and gave him a double take. “Ass-what?”
He just shook his head sadly and tsk-tsk’ed.

Wechter quietly sketched on the marble and then hammered out the outlines on the rock, sweating and grunting like a constipated bear. It got to be so annoying that during a break I grabbed some powder room paper and stuffed it in my eardrums, blocking the grunts along with Scheherazade. That’s show business.

Two hours past midnight and the great master finally gave up. It went from being a cold, hard block of marble to a lumpy, half-formed armless block of marble. Progress, but not enough to be museum-bound just yet.

“I’m a little short on funds, my dear, so here’s half of your usual payment, with the rest coming to you after the piece is finished”, Mr. Wechter said nervously.
“That could take weeks”.
“I’ll be very quick but don’t you worry, keep coming for sessions and the rest will come. It’s only fair”. I gave him a skeptical look. “If you don’t trust me, Madame, you may hold my gold plated letter opener given to me by the Baroness De Rothschild as a retainer until you get the rest of your money”. This was one classy letter opener, and sharp as hell.

“Okay, professor, it’s a deal. See you at the same day, same time”.
“Same day, same time, and stay out of trouble. I can’t use a bruised model!”

I didn’t know he noticed. Hell.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Walking down the staircase from Mr. Wechter’s studio was suicide in my higher than high hi-heels so I knew that walking down the sidewalk from Bunker Hill was a neck-breaking in the making. Which only meant one thing: Riding down on Angels Flight. Angels Flight is more of a convenience for women than it is for men because most lugs don’t mind a hardy stroll down a steep staircase, but no gal worth her salt in pumps is going to risk wrenching her ankle negotiating all those steep steps. So thank the Lord for Angels Flight, truly a godsend from the angels for us dames.

Unfortunately it was just my dumb luck that some of the street lights were out, so every few feet there was light and then there would be a large inkblot of darkness. It gave me the willies.
“All these dark corners. Shucks. My congressman’s gonna hear about this”, I muttered moodily to myself. Whenever I get a case of the willies I start mumbling to myself just to keep my nerves company.

Because of the time of night the streets were well empty but up ahead I saw the friendly lights of the Angels Flight train, waiting to take me down. Just one more block and I’ll be fine.
“Just one more patch of darkness and we’ll be over like a three-leaf clover”, I giggled. I slowed down my walk when I felt a few figures scurrying around in the pitch black darkness.

“Well, well, look who’s back…I think she missed us. What do you think, Shep?”
“Yeah, I reckon so. We went hunting for a high-stepping piggy-man and we get her again”.
“Hey, angel, don’t you ever get tired of walking in the dark?”
“Don’t you have a bo waiting for you at home?”
“Maybe she’s one of them professional ladies”.

The two men came closer and their faces became clearer in the darkness. It was the scarecrows again, only this time they had monster movie fangs painted on their masks. I started breaking into a run, and one of the scarecrows grabbed me by the waist and spun me around, covering my mouth with his dirty glove.

“Now, don’t go running away now. We know each other nuff to be friends now”.
“Don’t let her go, Buff, she’s seen too much”.I tried twisting my way free from Buff but his grip was strong.

“We sure didn’t appreciate what you did to Fergus, why he never did look the same after you cut his face open”.
“Watch her, bo, she’s a fighter!”
“Wha?”
I kicked backwards into Buff’s crotch area and he doubled over. He loosened his grip and I ran like hell.
“That gawdamn bitch, I’ll fix her! Let’s get her ass!”

I ran towards the Angels Flight train, kicked my shoes off, jumped the gate and ran into the train. The operator, a withered old guy, looked at me with a confused look on his face.

“Where’s your ticket? You need to pay the fare”, he barked.
“Take the car down…NOW!” I yelled. He started the train.
"Okay, but once the train lands you’re paying the fare. Nobody gets to ride without paying the –“
Before he could finish the two scarecrows ran into the car screaming and yelling.
“WAHOOOOOO!”
“LOOK OUT, HOSS!”

The mug called Shep began choking the conductor and the train slowly glided down the track towards Hill Street. The other mug called Buff began backing me towards the end of the train.

“You dang heifer, didn’t I tell you to in the elevator stay out of our business? I guess that wasn’t enough learning for you”, he said and then slapped me.
“Nuts to you, ya Halloween bastard”, I cussed as I backed all the way to the end of the car that hang over the tracks.
"C’mere, bitch”, he yelled as he leaped at me. I reached for the nearest thing in my handbag and pulled out Mr. Wechter’s letter opener. Buff landed right on the point of the still-sharp opener. His arms jerked around like a puppet with the strings cut off and he coughed blood all over himself and slid down to his knees and froze.

I looked behind him to see the conductor lying dead and Shep coming right at me with his grotesque scarecrow mask with jagged teeth.
“That was my best friend, you no-good city whore. I’m going to tear you apart like I should’ve in the first place”.

I edged towards the tiny railing ready to jump off the train but we were still too high up the hill. This stupid train moved too damn slow to let me get off, damn it.
I reached in my bag one more time and grabbed something long. Shep jumped over me, smacked the handbag out of my hands as it fell over the elevated track and pressed against me on the railing. He put his hands over my throat and began strangling me as I felt myself leaning over the railing, half my body ready to fall off thirty feet below.
“I’m going to wrassle your gawdamn neck and make your pretty head pop off, ya dirty bitch”. I started getting dizzy. I took the seam ripper in my hand and cut his wrist in an “S” shape, but it wasn’t enough. He bled all over his glove, but he choked even harder.

“Dirty city bitch”, he cussed and I thought, this is it. The last thing I thought before I was about to die was what Augustus Scrimm warned me…”The stairway to the stars is fraught with dark clouds…”

Before I choked to my death a large rock flew over my head and hit Shep in the mask, knocking him out cold. He fell backwards and knocked his big, stupid masked head against the back door of the train. As I struggled to regain my breath and stand up the train finally landed on the sidewalk. I looked up to see who threw the rock and the black waitress from the diner stood in front of me with a smile on her face.

“How you doing, High Style? Are you gonna be alright?” She frowned at the scarecrow conked out behind me.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here before that freak wakes up”.

“Forget the cops, they’re gonna take forever to get here. Let’s move!”

“I owe you my life. My name’s Lois, what’s yours?” I limped barefoot, forgetting my shoes were still up the hill.

“I’m Ida, and I guess now we’re even for that big tip you left way back when”.

“Thanks, Ida. Where’d you learn to throw like that?”

“I was the star pitcher for the Kansas City Negro Womens Baseball League. I decided to quit throwing balls and sling hash in Hollywood instead”.

“You saved my life, kid”, I gasped, still chugging for air. I began passing out.

“Whoah, High Style”, Ida grabbed me, propping me up, “Let’s get some coffee in you. Do you live around these parts?”

“I live a mile away”.

“Solid, let’s go. I knew that cup of red coffee was a premonition”, Ida whispered and tightened her coat. The lights of the the city awaited us.



The American Nightmare of Frank Perry

There may never be a film director more incisive at filming the American Nightmare than Frank Perry. For over thirty years he has made films that deftly articulated the despair of American life.  Although he was fortunate enough to garner big stars and major studios to fund his projects his films never failed to disturb people for their ability to hit nerves that didn't want to be tampered with.  In light of so-called "genius" auteurs like Tim Burton with his tired goth fantasies and David Lynch with his dancing midgets Mr.Perry remains more relevant than ever.

Most of his best films were written by his screenwriter wife Eleanor and her contributions were no less brilliant.  Most of their films were adaptive works and her ability to remain true and in certain cases even exceed the impact of the written works is an amazing feat in itself.  The six most intense films by him are as follows:

David and Lisa (1962): His first film was a revelation, the story of two highly dysfunctional teenagers learning about trust and dependency in a society that doesn't want them (watch the field trip scene to see tolerance denied). Janet Margolin ("Take The Money and Run"), Keir Dullea from "2001: A Space Odyssey", and HUAC black-listed actor Howard Da Silva star give amazing performances.

The Swimmer (1968): Burt Lancaster has played many cerebral roles in the past but this may be his magnum opus, playing an aging family man from the suburbs who plans on swimming his way back home via his neighbor's swimming pools. Considering Lancaster's past as a physically fit trapeze artist reaching the autumn of his years the role seems tailor-made for him. As the film progresses we realize he is a philandering, morally decrepit business executive newly released from a mental institution. Just like the cycle in a life he's treated with love and respect (infancy) and by the end he's hated and reviled by all (old age).  From the short story by John Cheever who even makes an appearance in the party scene, Eleanor Perry's adaptation fleshes out the story brilliantly, even reportedly incurring jealousy from Cheever himself.

Last Summer (1969):  Basically the YA (Young Adult) movie from hell, two teenage boys (Richard "John Boy" Thomas and Bruce "Willard" Davison) befriend a cock-teasing teenage girl (Barbara Hershey) on the beach. Just when their hormone-overdriven hijinks begin to bore an overweight, homely girl invades the triangle and the trio play cruel, sadistic games on her including setting her up on a fake date. The girl is spared none of the mercy shown a crippled sea gull at the beginning of the movie.

Diary of A Mad Housewife (1970): Richard Benjamin plays the most obnoxious, annoying husband in the history of the cinema, nagging his suffering wife played by Carrie Snodgress to death. His snobbery is so over-the top it puts Patrick Bateman to shame. She meets a very mod Frank Langella at a groovy Manhattan party featuring a very young Alice Cooper ("Easy Action" era). Scads of wild sex ensue, bringing out the sexual vixen held back by her suffocating Manhattan brownstone bourgeois family.

Play It As It Lays (1972): Based on the Joan Didion novel, Tuesday Weld plays the manic depressive ex-actress wife to a temperamental film director. Her idea of fun is doing large quantities of speed and driving like a demon on the freeway for hours with no destination. She's reunited with her "Pretty Poison" co-star Anthony Perkins, who plays a gay film producer and her conscience. Frank and Eleanor divorced before the film was made so the film's pacing lags terribly since her contribution was absent.

Mommie Dearest (1981): Similar in tone to "Diary of A Mad Housewife", only this time the sadistic wretch is Joan Crawford and the sufferer is her daughter Christina. I have to confess I never believed for a minute this was a true portrayal of Joan, but that didn't tamper with my enjoyment of this ridiculously insane film. Faye Dunaway is perfect in the role and rumor has it that she didn't have to do much acting to play the psycho actress. Notice the padded walls in her bedroom, a great touch kicking off the creepiest opening credit sequence in movie history.

Frank Perry passed away eight days after his 65th birthday from prostate cancer. The last thing he filmed was a documentary of his battle with the disease and it was no less intense than his fictional movies. Needless to say he appears angry all through the film.  Like the rest of his movies this most definitely doesn't end happily, but happy endings are a con, anyway. His films, although European in tone like the finest Bergman, remain idiosyncratically American and shine a light on the darkness which we call the American Nightmare.

Clandestiny (red COFFEE Chapter 9)

After my attack in the elevator at Bullock’s a week ago I laid low by cancelling all of my modeling jobs. I didn’t leave the loft much either for personal business, and if I did it was wearing a black wig, helmet and thick sunglasses. It still didn’t stop the odd fellow from leering and whistling at me. I’ll have to pad my body to make myself look fat. The disguise hasn’t been complete. As I was safety pinning pillow foam to sections of my dress, I saw my door knob turn. The knob turned quicker and I raced over to grab a table lamp. I pulled it out of the socket ready to attack. The door swung open.

“Dear girl! I have returned!” Mister Bradley dropped his valise and stretched out his arms for a hug. “What on earth are you doing? Are you planning to dance with a lamp shade on your head?”
“Mister Bradley, you’re back. Why didn’t you tell me you were returning?”
I sheepishly put the lamp down and hugged Mr. Bradley. “What’s been going on here, what are those finger marks on your neck?”
“It’s a long story. I thought you were staying in Spain for another month”.
“Well, you know how it is, Francisco and I had a most horrendous spat. Told me I was too old to be seen in public with him, but you can’t throw the virgin wool over this boy’s eyes. I followed him from his hovel one dark, sultry evening and caught him in a lover’s embrace with of all things, a woman. And not just any woman, but one of those tawdry cantina wenches. Can you imagine?”
“I don’t know what to say”.
“Well, I do. It appears we both need some cheering up, so I’m going to get on the blower and call my most cherished friends and we’re gong to have the most marvelous party tonight. Of course, by tomorrow morning you’ll need to return to your apartment, and dearest, thanks for watering the plants!”

*****************

I spent my last night in Mister Bradley’s swanky Hollywood loft apartment as a guest in his welcome home party. Although there wasn’t much in the way of food there was lots of alcohol and a very busy radio playing hot jazz. Someone would occasionally switch over to a classical station and everyone would yell to turn back the station.

I got to meet Mister Bradley’s cherished friends and then some: there were smartly dressed gigolos who preened at the sight of me, only to break character when a jealous boyfriend would shoot daggers at them, at which point they would attentively return to their sugar daddy’s attentions.

I poured some fancy champagne into a hurricane glass and walked around in my silver beaded dress. I took a sip and found myself quickly accosted by Jean Harlow with a man’s voice. “You’re Lois Angelus, aren’t you? I worship you, you are the most glamorous woman I have ever seen, you were in Vanity Fair, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I-“
“-when I lose more weight and grow my hair longer I want to be just like you. My boyfriend laughs at me when I said I’m going to be the next Lois Angelus but that bitch is just jealous. You don’t hate me for wanting to look like you, do you? Please say you’re not!”
“Okay, I don’t hate you”, I smiled.
“Well, well, the blonde who doesn’t return my phone calls anymore”, a gangly man shoved his way between us. It was Mort Marinaro, a photographer I had the displeasure of working with in the past. He looked weasly and whined all the time. “Lois Angeles, the big star. What will it take to get you to do another photo shoot with me?”
“How about stop bad mouthing me to everyone?”
“What are you talking about? I never said a bad word about you”.
“You’re a lying little weasel. You had the whole camera crew hating me because you told them in advance I was a bitch. Go crawl into your dark room and drown in a bottle of fixer, you rat”.
“You’re just a mean person, you hear me? Mean!” He whined. Mister Bradley ran over to him.
“There will be no yelling in my studio, Mr. Marinaro. Except by me, of course. Now! Run along. Pour yourself a drink and try not to break anything in the process, young man”. He shooed away Marinaro and I sauntered away and stood in a corner.

A brunette in a tailored jacket sidled over to me, smiling with a highball in her hand. “Men, they want all your attention but they don’t know how to earn it”, she purred, grabbing my hand and clutching it. “It’s not too hard, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. Listen, why don’t you get me a drink, sweets?”
“I’ll be right back”, she whispered. As soon as she disappeared into the crowd I ran towards the closed bedroom door.

******************

There were a dozen party goers sitting on the bed all quietly listening to a man speak. The man was short and very dark wearing a purple suit. The man had a very distinct Indian accent.

“A man doesn’t need to have his eyes open to see what is going on around him”.

“The noise of the city is the outer wall. Your soul is the inner wall, our bodies the shells that protect us from the madness outside”.

“Inner peace is the antidote from the poisoned sickness that’s around us”.

As the dark man spoke there was a hush in the room and I quietly sat with everyone else. In the beginning I thought he was just spouting a bunch of carnival hokum but this was different. He spoke for an hour delivering words of peace and tranquility that consoled me after the recent attacks I experienced.
“This concludes my lecture tonight. If you’d like to hear more I will be speaking on the radio Friday night. Please listen to the Rama Vishnu program, your support will be most appreciated. I also wish to extend an invitation to those who wish to attend to my radio program in person. It will be at the Sunset and Gower Studios”, he announced glancing at me briefly.

Everyone quietly filed out and I noticed that the party was winding down. Mister Bradley leaned over to me and whispered, “Isn’t Rama Vishnu the most wonderful man you’ve ever heard? He’s always a big hit at my parties”.
“Is there a predatory brunette lesbian around here? I’m trying to avoid her”.
“Predatory? Lesbian? You must be joking, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one, dear girl. Now, excuse me, I must romp!” He romped away.

I grabbed my coat and putting it on caught a girl across the room dressed just like me with my hair style and just as tall as me. She stared at me and I stared at her, daggers in our eyes. It was my cue to leave. The party’s over.

Rock & Roll Confidential Part 7

The three most popular bands of the 1977 Hollywood punk scene were The Weirdos, The Dickies, and the band pictured above, The Screamers. They made their debut at the Slash Magazine store front on Pico Boulevard. I remember seeing two sets of keyboards and a drum kit on stage and wondering when the guitarists were going to show up.
The Screamers used to condemn "the tyranny of the guitar" which I always found amusing. The Screamers were led by two scenesters transplanted from Seattle, Tomata Du Plenty and Tommy Gear. Everyone in Hollywood thought The Weirdos were the wildest guys in town until Tomata and Gear showed up and blew everyone away. They had wild songs like "Going Steady With Twiggy" and "Punish Or Be Damned".
I played saxophone with them at The Whisky A Go-Go (1978) when they covered The Germs' "Sex Boy" which they re-titled "Sax Boy" to commemorate my appearance. Darby Crash was honored by their cover and I had a lot of fun performing with them.

Coast Magazine cover featuring Captain Beefheart. The article covered his historic 1971 national tour, the first full-length one he and The Magic Band embarked on in support of "Lick My Decals Off, Baby". The name scrawled inside his hat says "Tozzi", the Vice Prinicipal he and Frank Zappa had in high school. One suspects the hat was most likely stolen.

Captain Beefheart on stage wearing the Trout Mask Replica hat. He's in whiteface, a sort of reverse minstrel makeup that recalls the bizarre drag he sported in the gatefold sleeve of "Strictly Personal".

Dr. Feelgood on stage at The Starwood during their "Malpractice" tour (1976). A very exciting stage show and the pub band most likely to succeed for their cinematic hit man looks and Wilko Johnson's exciting jagged guitar playing. They're probably playing "Going Back Home" or "Roxette" in this picture.

Pictured below is a flyer for The Mentors, a terrible band but very funny. I like the line in the flyer that prohibits crybabies and bellyachers from attending their show (good advice). The proviso "no faggots allowed" should be taken with a grain of salt given that Mentors band leader El Duce aka Eldon (RIP) got his start playing drums in Seattle with The Tupperwares, a band led by, yup, Tomata and Gear before they became The Screamers. It's a small, gay world after all.