The Clicking of 1000 Typewriters (red COFFEE Chapter 12)

Have you ever felt like a birthday party was thrown for you and everyone went but you weren’t invited? That’s the way I felt when Detective Braintree told me I was dead and everyone else knew about it but me. After I heard the tragic news I made a beeline to the Hollywood Precinct of the Los Angeles Police Department.

I practically barged into Lt. Lou Sparta’s office, whizzing past the secretary. When I burst into his office the first thing I asked was, “What’s all this baloney about me being dead?” Detective Teddy Braintree was slouching by Lt. Sparta’s desk and I thought the cigar was going to fall out of his mouth. Lt. Sparta froze in mid-sentence leering at me, and responded by pulling out a bottle of rye and two glasses from his desk.

“Well, I’ll be damned”, Braintree mumbled.
“Here, swallow some firewater. Maybe she’ll disappear”, Lt. Sparta grunted as he poured two fingers for them both.
“Don’t wrinkle the bottle, it won’t help. I’m still alive, so what’s the big idea telling me I’m dead?”
“Sit down, Lois”.

Lt. Sparta tossed a folder of photographs on the desk towards me. “We thought this was your last modeling job”, he quipped before he quaffed his rye shot. I went through the photos and they were from a crime scene. Someone looking very much like me was lying in a pool of blood on an oriental rug, her throat slashed from ear to ear.

“You, or rather, she was found dead two nights ago, murdered in Hollywood. You have to admit the resemblance is amazing”, Sparta admitted.
“I moved out of Hollywood three days ago. I’m back in Bunker Hill”.
“Who the hell do you suppose it is, chief?” Braintree put out his cigar for my sake.
"Maybe another model, who knows? Say, Lois, who’s your agent?”
“Miss Lillywhite, Southern California Cameo Agency”.
Sparta picked up the phone and called his beleaguered secretary. “Libby, contact a Miss Lillywhite from the California Cameo Agency, have her come down here”.
As soon as he racked the phone there was dead silence with me just staring at the murder photos.

“This girl was killed two nights ago? That’s almost the same time I was attacked by those scarecrows again”.
“What? Why didn’t you call us sooner?”
“It’s a long story, but it happened on Angel’s Flight”, I answered.
“Now we’re getting somewhere! We got a call about a dead train operator and one of those creepy scarecrows with a punctured windpipe”.
“The one and the same. I was attacked by two of them, one escaped, but not until he caught a rock in the face. He’s the one who strangled the operator”.

“What else do you remember about that night?”
“The mug that ran off was called Shep, Shep Rogers”.
“The hillbilly singer?” Braintree asked with surprise. “What makes you so sure?”
“Well, that’s what I was calling you about just a little while ago. You see, I carved a weird S-shape on his wrist while I was fighting him off on the train that night and I just came from the CBS radio station and there he was playing guitar with that same bloody scar as bright as a Christmas tree”.
“Do you suppose he’s still there?”
“I doubt it, he froze as soon as he saw me, so I’ll bet dollars to donuts he’s taken off as quickly as he can”.
Sparta scoffed. “Let’s not be too sure about that. I’ll send a car over there right now”. Again he picked up the phone and called dispatch.

“I never trusted that whole Shep Rogers business, no sirree”, Sparta tapped his pen against his desk. “That guy’s been nothing but trouble since he drifted into town. Oklahoma transplant with a criminal record a yard long, yup”.
“What’s his real name, Chief?”
“Shep Robertson, wanted back in Oke for robbery, assault, theft, vandalism, arson, murder, kidnapping, theft, if they wrote a law against it he did it. Promised his parole officer and any trusting stooge that he was going honest for the sheer love of singing”.
“We’ve been watching him but not close enough”.
“We heard rumors of him coming to town with some decent, down on their luck workers from Oklahoma and trying to extort them of their wares if they don’t come in with him on his business venture”.
“Some business venture. Killing rich businessmen and taking their money and anything else they can get out of it”.
“Well, why can’t you arrest him just for that?” I asked.
“These witnesses are scared, tired people who don’t want trouble. Anyway, there hasn’t been enough evidence to put him away”, Sparta sighed. “Evidence is everything”.

After a long pause Miss Lillywhite entered the room and nearly fainted at the sight of me. “You’d better help her up”, Sparta told Braintree as he poured a new drink just for her.
“We think your pal Seaman Wells was one of those guys that travelled out west with a camp and decided to be a right guy and enlist in the Navy instead of working on a farm”, Det. Braintree said as he grabbed a chair and put Miss Lillywhite in it.
“But Rogers, or Robertson wouldn’t take no for an answer. Give the lady a pick me up, Braintree”, he handed Teddy the drink.
Miss Lillywhite dunked the drink like a Foreign Legionnaire dying of thirst in the Sahara.

“Oh, Lois, dear, what a shock. We all thought you were dead”.
“Miss Lillywhite, think very carefully. Was there a model employed by your agency that closely resembles Lois Angelus?” Sparta slowly asked.
“Hmmm”, she stared at me.
“Will this refresh your memory?” he picked up a particularly grisly death photo and showed it to her.
“Get that awful picture away from me!” She yelled, smacking the picture away from her face. After a second spent thinking, she announced, “Nobody looks like Lois!”

“Let me see that picture again”, I asked, studying it closely. Miss Lillywhite covered her eyes. I didn’t realize she was that squeamish. Sparta’s phone rang.
“Sparta here. What? Yeah, no surprise. Did you talk to the station manager? He must know something about Robertson. Yeah, call back if you got some new dope for me”.

“Wait a minute”, I slowly realized where I’d seen that girl. “I know her, I know this girl, of course, of course. There was a girl at Mister Bradley’s party a few nights ago, and she was completely fixed up to look like me, it was like a bad dream, if I moved to the right, she moved to the left, she was like a bad mirror image or something like that, it was like bad magic, she was tall, she was thin, she had the same hair, the same makeup, after I saw her I had to leave the party, it was too eerie. The party was in Hollywood, right by Wilcox”.
“That’s not too far from the murder scene”.
“It’s got to be her. I wonder if Mister Bradley knew her”.
Sparta picked up the phone. “What’s his number?”
“Crestview 8-7699, but he’s not in this time of day. He’s probably getting his spa treatment at the Hollywood Athletic Club”.
“Libby, get me the Hollywood Athletic Club!”

I got up and walked around the room impatiently. Miss Lillywhite stood up and followed me, cornering me alone by the windows.
“Lois, you know you’re of my favorite girls and I love you like a daughter, but seriously, I’m going to have to ask you to take a break from all this modeling. All this bad publicity is adversely affecting my agency”.
“I’m sorry”.
“When this dies down I’ll be happy to send you out again. I just can’t have this going on with my name connected to it. God bless, my dear”.
Miss Lillywhite turned to Lt. Sparta and Detective Braintree. “May I go back to work, gentlemen?”
“Sure”, Braintree waved her off.

I paced around while Sparta was waiting for his call from the Hollywood Athletic Club. I stopped in my tracks and announced, “I got it!”
“What?”
“I’ve got a great idea!” I smiled at my ingenuity, and ran over to the phone. I picked up the receiver and started dialing. Sparta and Braintree looked at each other as if I’d lost my mind.
“Hey!” Sparta yelled. “Do you mind, young lady? I’m expecting an important call!”
Ignoring him, I dialed away. She answered on the other end.
“Hello, Ida? Can you do me a favor? Not just any favor, but a really big favor?”

The Big Broadcast of 1935 (red COFFEE Chapter 11)

A funny thing happened on the way to the studio, or more correctly, radio station. I was on my way to see philosopher Rama Vishnu at the Sunset and Gower Studios when I saw a small crowd circled around a store front window. They were all staring at something on the ground and I couldn’t help noticing.

“Do you think he’s going to come to?”
“I don’t know, but whatever you do, don’t touch him”.
“Yeah, those things are full of rabies”.
“Sixteen needles to the stomach”.

I pushed my way over and saw a medium sized bat lying unconscious, looking like he flew into the window and got knocked out cold by the impact. He was out but still breathing, his outstretched wings twitching every now and then and his furry tummy heaving up and down. Crazy!

“Who do you call about things like this?”
“You get one of those dog catchers”.
“Dog catchers? Nah, you’re crazy. You call the zoo”.
“The zoo doesn’t catch bats”.
“I don’t know, but I’m leaving before that flying rat wakes up!”
“I’m with you. Don’t want no rabies.”

I continued my walk to the CBS radio studios, slowing down to look at a dance marathon poster. “DANCE FOR DOLLARS! SWING TO THE BIG BANDS, DUSK TIL DAWN, WIN A FORTUNE! LONG BEACH CHRISTIAN VETERANS MEMORIAL BALLROOM!” Are they still having those?

It reminded me of my friend Ida Parker telling me coming out here to dance in the marathons. Since she was passing she danced with a Latino guy and was all set to close out – she was in the final five couples – and then her bad Achilles tendon, which got her put out to pasture in the Negro Womens Baseball League, gave her grief again. She pretty much fell apart. After that she gave up any semblance of strenuous physical activity, whether it was racing to home plate or dancing for dollars.

Rama’s show wasn’t in one of the larger studios usually reserved for the big serials. He broadcasted his lecture from a much smaller room, one as large as a family den. I quietly found a seat in the back as he was already into his lecture. Rama delivered his lecture with a small sheaf of papers and a pitcher of water with drinking glass nearby. He wore a white linen suit, which accented his very dark features. The small audience was hanging on to his every word.

“Progress is estimated by speed, but are people happier if they do things faster or are they just running towards a happiness they never really attain?”
“Darkness bears no relation to evil, it is merely a means of making you see reality without the interference of light”.
“Beauty is sold every day by the millions but the ones who truly possess it paid nothing for it”.

The room was so calm and still as he spoke, his voice so measured and soothing I actually felt myself nodding out from time to time. God, I hope he doesn’t catch me falling asleep, but….his voice echoed in my ears as I felt myself slipping away.

“You may think the life you’re living is your own, but…”
I dreamt I was back on Sunset Boulevard staring at that crazy dance marathon poster, the sky was red and cloudy with the sun fighting its way through them. Standing next to the poster was Ida Parker holding hands with my sailor friend Darby Wells. She was talking to him but I couldn’t hear her, all I could hear was Rama’s lecture. She was smiling and pointing at the marathon poster to Darby. He leaned over to kiss her, and then somebody got up from their seat, waking me up.

I got up myself, embarrassed at the thought of someone catching me dozing off during a cerebral talk about mysticism and existential philosophy. I even think Rama glanced at me for an instant as I walked out of the studio. Perhaps it was best if I walked around the station to get my second wind.

There was a smaller studio around the corner from the hallway. I stopped by the front door. It was The Crooning Cowboy show. The Crooning Cowboy as you could guess was a singing cowpoke picking tunes off the shiniest guitar I’ve ever seen. Since the studio was so small he couldn’t really afford a fancy backdrop, just a mike and his guitar.

“And now, friends, I’d like to invite a friend up here, a hard workin’ man just like you folks, comin’ to you from the Deep South, give a powerful hospitable welcome to ol’ Shep Rogers!”

Shep Rogers stepped up to the mike with a pretty cheap, beat looking guitar that might have been missing a string or two.
“Thank you very kindly, folks, for lettin’ me into your livin’ rooms tonight, I come from the great dusty state of Oklahoma. I’d like to sing  y'all a tune about how folks from my parts toil and sweat all day long just to line the pockets of a privileged few. It’s not fair, and I tell you, somethin’ ought to be done about these big city fat cats. Eventually, someone will. In the meantime, I reckon I’ll just have to sing about it”.

“We worked through Spring and Winter, through Summer and through Fall
But the mortgage worked the hardest and the steadiest of us all
It worked on nights and Sundays, it worked each holiday
Settled down among us and it never went away.

The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He buys on his credit until Fall
Then they take him by the hand and they lead him from his land
And the merchant is the man who gets it all.”
His singing gained in bitterness and aggression as he continued the song. Unfortunately, I couldn’t really focus on his singing anymore because as he strummed away I couldn't help staring at his wrist. It had an “S”-shaped scar on it, exactly the one I carved the other night on my attacker up on Angels Flight. Shep Rogers. Shep. My blood ran cold and I had the shivers, just staring at my attacker.

“Well, the banker says he's broke and the merchant stops and smoke
But they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all
It would put them to the test if the farmer took a rest
And they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all…”
I guess I stared so hard that he looked right at me and literally lost his place in the song. He stopped and stared at me, turning white with a glassy-eyed look as if he’d just seen the living dead. After a quick fidget he buried his head into his chest and finished the song.

“The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
Lives on his credit until Fall
Well, his pants are wearing thin - his condition, it's a sin
'Cause the taxes on the farmer feeds us all”.

I ran out of the studio and out of the building. I entered a Rexall pharmacy nervously looking behind me and snuck into a phone booth.
“Hello, get me the Hollywood precinct…Hello, this is Lois Angelus, I need to speak to Detective Braintree…Hello, Teddy, this is Lois. I found my Scarecrow…Teddy, are you there?”
“What is this, some sort of a gag, sister?”
“Teddy, it’s me, Lois”.
“The hell it is. Everybody knows Lois Angelus is dead. She was murdered last night”.

The Other Broadway

My lunch break from work was always some ungodly great escape, but no great escape could ever top my weekly forays down Broadway in DTLA (Downtown LA). No lover of Mexican culture, I was nevertheless in awe of all the cool shops down this heavily Latinized section of town. I'd walk down the hill from 1st Street and cut over past all the bridal dress shops - teenage brides served daily! - and head over to The Bradbury Building. It's weird stepping in there and seeing those legendary staircases and balconies where Darryl Hannah attacked Harrison Ford in "Blade Runner" and the immortal Edmond O'Brien facing down his killer in "D.O.A." Brilliant. It's also home to the classiest-looking Subway I've ever eaten at. Next door is the world's oldest men's barber supply store. You can actually pick your favorite straight razors and shaving cream brushes; the selection is incredible.

Next door to the Million Dollar Theatre is a wild place called the Farmacia Y Botanica Million Dollar, which has in addition to Jesus and Virgin Mary statues figurines of El Diablo (Satan) and The Grim Reaper. In addition to the incense and votive candles are green penis candles and red vagina candles. This is religion a la Burger King - "Have It Your Way", divinity and sex objects galore, a real action kind of place, y'know. A few steps away is the legendary Grand Central Market where you can buy any kind of food you like and then some. I saw a lot of cabezas (cow and sheep heads). I think I saw a few pig skulls, too, which reminded me of Rory Calhoun in "Motel Hell".

Meanwhile a lot of bad cha cha music booms out of tinny speakers just like the beginning of "Touch of Evil". You'll be looking over your shoulder making sure Uncle Joe Grande isn't trying to throw a bottle of acid at you. Take another block down and after you pass Falles Paredes (sounds like Phallus Paradise!) you'll chow down at Hoagies And Wings, one of the few places in L.A. where the hoagies actually have some soul and personality. More importantly, though, is the International House of Music, an enormous music store with PA equipment, turntables for the DJ's and even tympani and cellos for all the cats fromneighboring concert halls like The Music Center, The Walt Disney Concert Hall and The Colburn School for The Performing Arts, in case they're short a few strings or reeds. I also liked the "Nipper" statue in front greeting you as you entered the store. Awesome!

Broadway was such a fucking Shangri-La from all the starchy, uptight, post 9/11 paranoia motherfuckers I had to suffer all day at the Board of Supervisors. While the job I deserted hangs a pall over me like a bad nightmare I have to confess to missing my little escapes, like the majesty that is Broadway and all its beautifully eccentric quirks. Any place that can pull off a cool Subway deserves your respect.

Outer Spaceways Incorporated

In the late Eighties I was fortunate to catch Sun Ra & His Astro-Infinity Arkestra at a country & western club (!) in the San Fernando Valley called The Palomino. (Years later my band Trash Can School played there opening for The Laughing Hyenas, but that's another story). You'd never know it but Sun Ra, like any punk band, had a marvelous little merch stand going on. To this day I still have a cool t-shirt of The Great Master that I almost wore out.  I also scored a sweet concert program that was printed chapbook size and contained rare band photos, Ra's unique poetry, and excerpts of interviews where he espoused his philosophy on society, blacknuss, and the solar system. Here are a few excerpts I'm happy to share with you:

The very first Sun Ra album I ever owned was in 1972 and was a live album called "Nothing Is" on a record label every bit as mysterious as Mr. Ra, ESP-Disk. The cover showed Ra in his space outfit with a large flame covering most of his face and had the inscription, "At first nothing is..." and the back cover had a poem by him, "The Garden of Eatened". For a religious kid all these biblical undercurrents made a large impression on me and yet it all culminated in space travel.

The music inside was nothing short of a revelation: Ra playing his wild synthesizer and organ, and the three most intense saxophone players I ever heard this side of Kirk and Dolphy: Marshall Allen on alto, John Gilmore on tenor and Pat Patrick on baritone. I also liked the fact that the band loved to sing: "Sun Ra and his band from outer space will entertain you now"..."If you find life boring just the same old, same thing, come on sign up with outer spaceways incorporated"..."The next stop's Mars"..."This is the theme of tomorrow's land, a cosmic paradise"...I was hooked, and spent the next sumpteen years hunting down every Ra album I could find.



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The show at The Palomino was one of the most generous I've ever seen: Ra and his band played an eclectic mix of free jazz, space electronics, Tiki lounge music, vintage twenties big band jazz, wild hard-bop, and because they had recently contributed to an album of Disney movie tunes, even a few Disney movie covers. I think they did a song from "Peter Pan", and it was actually quite touching. Before you could shed a poignant tear they were off playing "Rocket Number Nine Take Off ToThe Planet Venus".

When the band played this ultra-eclectic mix I never thought that this was a show-off "we can play anything" orgy like so many other artists do. It merely highlighted the fact that Ra loved all kinds of music and even stated in his movie "Space Is The Place" that the greatest medicine for the ills of the galaxy was music.

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Accessories Bought and Made

Last week I completed the design and sewing of a steak bag, which was a conglomeration of different oxblood leather hides. I wanted the bag to be a nice circular shape with a slight oval curve. The banding around the bag was a textured harder leather to keep the bag framed when placed on a tabled surface. The inside of the bag is lined with a cell phone pocket, a wallet and/or small purse pocket and another pocket (maybe for the mp3 player of your choice). I wanted the handles of the bag to be special so we decided on two cartoony frankfurters to be hot linked to your arm. I think the end result was pretty special and I'm making another one that I plan on selling.

Pictured below are three accessories for your review, two made and one bought. The two made is the: 1) bad penny belt with a nice gray leather hide used. Although you can't see it in the photo I punched a lot of cool moon craters of varying sizes. What you can see, however is: 2) My moon crater leather bracelet, a small black leather band with moon craters of various sizes. I made it small and tight for best effect; a large and loose bracelet would simply look damaged. The bought piece is the other bracelet with metal coils with leather links aligning them quite nicely. This great bracelet is available from Topman (http://www.topmanusa.com/) . They have a very eclectic selection of men's bracelets which can't be, pun alert, topped anywhere else.

Items that I bought recently include Oliver Peoples sunglasses - the Sheldrake series is a favorite, but they're all cool and stylish. The accessories you wear can be every bit as crucial as the major articles of clothing you wear every day. An outift can look incomplete until a necklace or bracelet is added into the equation, so don't scrimp on getting the little touches that complete your look. It's the little things that count.

I'll leave you with this awesome cooking apron made with red leather and festooned with black stitches embroidered all over. If meat is murder than let's put all our cards on the table, I say.