Out Demons Out!

Hipsters Anonymous (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 2)

2012-01-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

Garbage Truck were playing in Hollywood at a rapidly decaying joint called The Lounge, which was anything but. The band was unpacking their equipment on stage as the sound man was setting up microphones, and moving in between the musicians setting up mike stands. He glared at Griff, the leader of the band.

“What’s the name of your band?” he grumbled.
“Garbage Truck”.
“That’s stupid enough to be a band name”.
Fuck you, asshole, thought Griff. If the engineer has a shitty attitude then how good are we gonna sound on stage? We’re fucked already. The musicians finished setting up their gear on stage and stepped out to the bar, hanging out and having a pre-gig drink. Griff got ready to do the same until a huge black guy with a bright yellow jacket marked “SECURITY” waddled up to him.

“You the singer of the band?” the security guard asked.
“Yeah, that’s right”.
“Come down from the stage a second”. Griff did so obligingly, facing the yellow jacket on the dance floor.
“This is the Lounge: You have only thirty minutes on stage, DO NOT play over the time limit, if you do you will be cut off, DO NOT mess my stage up, I want a clean stage after you’re done, DON’T FUCK WITH ME!!!!” He jabbed a finger at Griff’s face. Griff stared at him blankly.
“ARE WE COOL???” the man barked.
“Yup”, Griff mumbled. The security man spun around and stormed off.

Twenty minutes later Garbage Truck played a scorching set and Griff blasted his trumpet a lot closer to the microphone than usual. The faux-groupie looking waitresses winced and yelled at their customers from the shrill horn action, and even the sound man mumbled a few words over the PA at the band, Griff in particular, but he turned a deaf ear to what the man was mumbling about.

Garbage Truck ended their set with “Sweet Sixteen Lucky Thirteen” and Griff finished his solo in the extreme upper register, making sure everyone’s ears bled. Even the monitors registered the torture as the guitarists looked around in pain.

“Well, that’s another benefit performance for us”, Griff told Trev, his bassist, as they both packed up, overlooking the full house in front of them. A benefit performance meant the band would probably not see a nickel for their trouble. The sound man will get paid, the security guy will get paid, the faux-groupie waitresses will get paid, even the janitors will draw a pay check but the band will go home with less money than they walked in with.

“I need a drink”, Griff said to himself as he went up to the dressing room. He was tired and sweaty after playing his ass off for half an hour, and instead of relaxing watched his two guitarists, Bert and Bobby having a heated argument.

“Dude, you don’t own her”, Bobby yelled.
“I met her first”, Bert yelled back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“She already gave me her number. It’s practically a done deal”.
“What kind of a friend are you? I’m going out with her tomorrow!”
“Well, then she can decide who she likes more”. Oh boy, there they go again. Every time somebody meets a girl they all zoom in on her like a pack of vultures. Ridiculous!

There were a few fans and friends back stage, and some drummer in another band made the mistake of trying to talk shop with Ricardo, the drummer. He shut down the conversation quickly.
“I’m an artist”, Ricardo asserted, “I’m not really a drummer”.
Ricardo was getting increasingly more and more disgusted with Garbage Truck and what they were doing because it was “too rock”, in his estimation. He thought they were becoming “rock stars”, which was almost as absurd as him thinking he was an artist.

Griff turned around from the noisy dressing room into the graffiti-littered hallway to see a short guy with a stubble-topped head run up to him. He had a goatee and wore a big black coat. He double-fisted beers and handed one to him. “I can only handle one beer at a time, how about you?”
“One beer at a time sounds mighty fine. Thanks, stranger!” Griff smiled back.
“My name’s Bradley, by the way. Great set! Your band’s pretty awesome, only there’s one thing wrong with it”.
“What?”
“I’m not in it! What do you think of three guitarists? It would totally fill out your sound. Just think of it!”Griff scratched his head. “I’ll start thinking about it – hey, aren’t you friends with Bert and Bobby? I knew you looked familiar. How about going in there and breaking up that fight?”
“They’re fighting over that girl Jesti. I think they’re wasting their time”.
“You’re probably right”.
“Yeah, I dated her last month. They’re definitely wasting their time. So, how about that job in your band, man? I just floated you a beer!”
Griff handed the beer back to Bradley.
“There’s more where that came from, brother”.
Griff took back the beer, and killed the bottle. “I’ll think it over carefully”.

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

Griff walked down to the bar and noticed a scruffy-looking guy dressed in a bath robe and slippers hunched over the bar with his back turned from everybody, nursing some crappy regional brew. Everybody was staring at him, and a few brave souls sauntered over to talk to him, only to be turned away.

Trev was in the program so he had a ginger beer in his hand. “Hey, Griff, I have a few friends that are starting out a coffee house and they want to know if we want to play there”.
“Sure, any place is fine. Coffee houses, hospitals, circus tents…who the fuck is that bum tensing up his ass cheeks at the bar?”
“You don’t recognize him? That’s Chuck from ShangriLa”. ShangriLa were some band from Seattle who sounded like a bad Blue Cheer cover band with pretentious lyrics and insisted they were punk even though they looked like a bunch of ugly hippies.
“Why isn’t he talking to anybody?”
“He doesn’t want anybody to bother him, I guess”.
“Then why is he in a night club, a crowded one, even?”
“Ask him”, Trev laughed, knowing what would happen.
“Ah, fuck that hippie”.

Griff looked around the club and saw the fanzine writers, the fans, the girlfriends, the other rival bands on the club circuit, some kissing ass for a show and others trying to pick his brain so they can steal his connections, the horny photographers that’ll shoot any girl that played guitar, the fake record company moguls with their crappy seven-inch vinyl single empires, kids scamming for free records, free t-shirts, guest list comps. Standing in the shadows by the corner was Mykela and Pierre, bickering about who knows what.

Mykela stormed off and Pierre yelled, “Mykela!” Griff walked over to him. “Lucky Pierre”, he smiled.
“Not so lucky right now”. Pierre was a chicano punk rock guitar player and his parents gave him a French name because they thought it was classy. “Mykela’s so awesome but she’s always dragging me down, man”.
Griff didn’t see what other guys saw in her, but it wasn’t his problem. Maybe it was the way she held a guitar, but it didn’t matter to him.
“Still looking for a roommate? I think I’m moving out of my brother’s place, he’s getting crazy on me”.
“No shit? What’s up?”
“I don’t know. Every time I come home he finds something new to yell about to me. Everything’s my fault. I’m sick of his shit”.
Pierre put his arm around Griff. “Dude, my door’s always open. We can split the rent $200 apiece. I’m a messy guy but I’m cleaner than my cat”.
“Okay, I’ll call you in a couple of days before I come by. I don’t have too much shit”.
“Excellent. Talk to Mykela for me, willya? I know you won’t put the moves on her. You’re not a buddy fucker. All these other guys I wouldn’t trust, but you’re different, Griff”.
"Where did she go?”
“Fuck if I know”.
“Later!” Griff waved and ran upstairs to grab his horn and leave. Bert, Trev, Mykela, Pierre, all these kids in The Program, some making it and some really struggling. “It’s not easy”, thought Griff. “I tried it just for the hell of it and I couldn’t make it work. I love booze too much”.

The VIP Room was on the balcony of the club not far from the dressing room. Griff passed it and Mykela stood by waving at him. “Hey!” she smiled. Griff stared at her for a second.“
Well, come in, quickly!” she rasped quietly over the music booming through the PA system.
“Just for a second”, he stepped in. The VIP Room was much nicer than the rest of the club, a swankier bar, more stylish booths, stylish as in not trampled on by fucked-up rock stars and expensive as hell, etc.
“Hey, Griff, did you see who’s here tonight? Chuck from ShangriLa, did you talk to him?”
“No, but I got a good view of his back”. She laughed. She had a pretty laugh.
“Listen”, he smiled at her, “what’s going on with you and Pierre?”
“What do you think? Nothing!” she rolled her sparkling grey eyes.
“Look, he’s having a hard time staying straight, you know that. He’s really hung up on you”.
“I know, first he’s hung up on junk and now he’s hung up on me”.
“Pierre’s a good guy, you know that, just go easy on him. He keeps telling me how much he’s into you”.
“Never mind him, Griff. I’m speaking at a meeting next week. Can you make it?”
Griff made a face as if to say, “Are you kidding me?”
“Alright, asshole, I thought I’d ask anyway”.
“You need a ride home?”
“No, Linda’s taking me home after she cuts out”. Linda was the bartender at the VIP Room and was also in The Program.
“Okay, later”.
“Later, rock star”, Mykela sniggered, booting him in the ass as he walked out.

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

When Griff got back to his brother Patrick’s apartment, the first thing he noticed was that the telephone, one of Patrick’s few Spartan pleasures, was gone.
“Hey, what happened to the phone?”
“Oh, that”, Patrick tried acting nonchalant, “there were too many calls for you and I didn’t feel like being your answering service, so I disconnected it”. Patrick stretched out on the floor where he slept in his sleeping bag and pillow.
“But it’s your phone line. What if somebody needs to get in touch with you?”
“It’s not your problem”, he replied, “listen Griff, I want you to start looking for a place cause I want you out of here by the end of next week. I’m tired of carrying you”. He ripped out a loud belch.

Griff quietly considered Pierre’s offer. He didn’t want to live with his brother anyway. He slept with a gun under his pillow since he left the Army and it made Griff nervous.
Patrick only made it up to Corporal in the Army but still had an attitude about it. He punched the floor hard with his fist and then twisted towards the wall with his back to Griff.
“And turn out the light before you go to sleep!” he barked to the wall.

Griff stripped down to his tank top and underwear and got under the blanket on the floor. He paused for a second and thought of the evening’s fun, the echoes of the loud music and the barroom smell of beer and cigarettes. He opened his trumpet case, pulled out his horn, turned out the light, and got under the sheets with the trumpet in his arms, holding it tight and dreaming of a better tomorrow.

Every Good Boy Dies First

2012-01-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

The buildings down Vine Street were short, leaving insufficient relief from the blinding Hollywood sunlight. Griff walked past the Musician’s Union building, The Drum Shop, and MK Stein’s Music Instrument & Supplies, burning from the heat and focusing on the dust and insects flying around all over. He walked past a beat donut shop, maybe a Winchell’s and saw a familiar figure wearing an overcoat and drinking a hot coffee. Griff turned away as quickly as possible from this sight.

Griff. He was known as Griff, short for Griffin. He didn’t want anyone to know his first name, setting all sorts of speculation from friends and enemies alike. Some said he had a geeky name like Humphrey or Bennett, while others rumored he had a girl’s name, like Vivian or Audrey, which embarrassed him greatly. One thing was certain: people always had something to say about him.

“He looks like he just got in a fight”…Griff had dark, disheveled hair, his clothes too big for him and torn boots…
“This band’s pretty cool, they’ve got a homeless bum singing for them”…He was homeless for a few months but someone asshole thought it was funny to parlay it into a gimmick to sell the band he created, called Garbage Truck.
“That guy’s a big drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing”…Griff wrote all the songs and picked all the musicians in his band. It was true he drank a lot before he performed. It was also true he didn’t do drugs, which everyone else on the punk rock music scene was hitting hard.
“Griff’s insane. You can’t believe anything he says and I can’t trust him, to be honest with you”…The truth was that Griff scared people and had virtually no friends. He probably wasn’t very likeable and everyone was jealous of him.

Griff put together Garbage Truck, wrote all the songs and sang them. He had a dark sense of humor in every thing he did, which didn’t sit well with people who preferred their world view simple and obvious. Garbage Truck had a big audition later that night at The Other Side, a punk club that booked all sorts of angry hardcore crew cut jockeys. Griff’s hair was a little too long for the club but he was going to try his hand at doing a few songs. They’ll probably hate his trumpet playing, but that’s too bad.

Garbage Truck was a punk band that featured Griff’s jazz-influenced trumpet playing, so the band had a tough front line of twin guitars roaring over a blistering back beat while Griff played horn like Lee Morgan or Miles or Don Cherry during Ornette’s most progressive period. The two guitarists, Bobby and Bert, were good, although Bert had a lot of concerns.

“How many songs are we playing tonight?” Bert asked him earlier on the phone.
“It’s an audition. We get about fifteen minutes so I guess we can do about four songs, maybe five if people scream loud enough. You know how that goes”.
“We’ll have to invite our biggest screamers tonight then”.
“Yeah, let’s do the shorter songs. We really nailed a few down last rehearsal, those’ll work out fine tonight”.
“What time are we going on?”
“10:30, give or take a half-hour”.
“I gotta speak at a meeting at 10 PM”, Bert attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings and sponsored a few former addicts, “but I’ll get there as soon as I’m done”.
“But, wait-“
“-Okay, later!” Click, he hung up.

An hour later Griff talked to Bobby. “Kitten Claws are coming tonight. Dude, that’s major, they have some serious connections. If they like us we can open for them at The Whisky”.
“Ah, cool”, Griff mused. Kitten Claws was an all-girl band that had a sizeable following in town. “We each have only one guest on the guest list, and I don’t have anyone lined up yet”.
“Miri’s coming, Shawna’s definitely going to be there, and they’re trying to get the other girls to show. If Buddy sees Kitten Claws there in full force, man, we’ll be getting booked every month”. Buddy was the club owner and booker of The Other Side and had a weakness for punk girls, especially ones that played guitar.

“What’s going on with The Devil’s Den? Did you speak to Betty Frost?”
“Did I ever! All I had to do was show her a picture of us pointed at you, and she said, ‘I’ll let you guys play here and even if he sucks I’ll let you play here again, anyway’. She likes you, dude”. Betty Frost, the booker for The Devil’s Den was a rough, homely dame with poorly dyed platinum blonde hair.
“Ouch! All the creepy girls want me. Oh well, it’s a living”, Griff groaned. Bobby laughed.

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

The Other Side was a tiny club, so packing the club wasn’t hard at all. Anybody could say they played to a full house. Garbage Truck was due to go on in half an hour and two members were still AWOL, making the band nervous as hell. They didn’t want to lose their spot, especially since 10:30 was a good time slot and there were six other bands in line that would only be too happy too shove their way into that time. Griff sat at the bar drinking his free comp beer wishing it was cognac, worrying about the rent, which he was three weeks behind on.

“Made it! I thought I was never going to get here on time!” Bert smiled with his guitar case in hand.
“Bert, damn it!” Bobby yelled, holding an ice-cold rum and coke.
“Kitten Claws are here”, Griff said, seeing Shawna.
“Not all of them. Miri couldn’t make it, but Fritzi and Shawna are here”, Bobby said.
“Cool, Shawna”, Griff liked her. She had pretty blonde hair and wore a dark purple leather jacket. “Is she seeing anybody, hint hint”.
“I know Shawna”, Bert piped up. “Bobby, is that a Coke?”
“No, it’s a rum and coke”.
“Can I get a straight coke?” Bert yelled at the bartender. “I’m in The Program!”
“One straight coke coming right up!”
“I know Shawna, she’s in The Program, she’s pretty nice, but her boyfriend’s kind of a dick. You oughta talk to her, Griff, she’s pretty awesome”.
Griff looked across the room at Shawna, catching her wiping her runny nose with her jacket sleeve. Pure class.
Bert nudged him. “Hey, where’s my drink tickets?”
Griff handed him only two drink tickets.
“I only rate two tickets?”
“You know the drill – one guest per member and two drink tickets”.
“This dump makes so much money and we get hosed. There oughta be a punk band union, I say”.
Griff scowled. “Cool, we’re all here, let’s tell Buddy we’re ready to play”.

Garbage Truck ripped into their four best songs, “Green Blood and Ham”, “Everybody Wants Somebody Else”, “Toss The Midget”, and “The Riff That Killed”. Guitars exploded while the bassist and drummer dropped rhythm bombs. Griff drunkenly shouted out his words of a burning planet and blurting out ear shattering trumpet bleats that would make Dizzy Gillespie turn green all over.

Fritzi and Shawna stood in front of the stage as they played, fake slammed and goosed the crowd into screaming for more. Buddy gave them the high sign from the back of the room, his signal to let the band play another tune. They did “Polka Dot Flag”, their tribute to Wire. After the band finished, Buddy led Griff to the bar and bought him a scotch and soda.

“So whadda ya think, Griff? I think I can squeeze you guys in for a Wednesday next month”, Buddy slapped his back. “You start at 9:30, and since you’re doing your first OS gig there’s no pay, but if you can get all of Kitten Claws to show I’ll front you all the booze you can drink. Are we cool?”

“Yeah, it’s done. Set us up”, Griff smiled. Shit, playing for free. What’s the point?

Griff looked around for Shawna in the crowded club and she was gone. He packed up his horn and thought it was a good time to get lost.

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

There was a stark contrast between the punkmetalpoprock noise of the crowded, dark club with its beer and cigarette stench and Griff’s apartment, so quiet with its soft lights and emptiness.

Griff was happy people enjoyed the short set his band played. He wished he could have played a full one and actually got paid for it, but the Hollywood scene was so crowded with groups that club owners easily got away without paying them. It was disgraceful.

He tried not to get too angry about it, so he decompressed by playing his Thelonious Monk album, scratched and scarred from being played so many times since he was a teenager. He stretched out on the battered sofa and listened to “Crepescule With Nellie”, and felt himself fading.

He sat by the piano with his music teacher, a funny little man. A man who looked a lot like someone who would wear an overcoat on a hot day.

They were both studying a piece of sheet music. He was pointing at the notes with a No.2 pencil. “These are the notes in a bass clef: E,G,B,D,F. They’re very important to the structure of every piece of music. Remember them, because they play a big part in theory and composition. Repeat after me, Audrey, Every-“
10-year old Audrey repeated, “-Every-“
“Good –“
“-Good”, Audrey looked at his teacher, and noticed he had no eyes in his head. He turned away to stare at the music.
“-Boy-“
“-Boy-“
“-Dies-”
Audrey quickly glanced at the teacher and noticed his ears were missing. “-Dies-“
“-First-“
“-First”, Audrey looked full at the man sitting next to him, his head empty of a pair of eyes, ears and no longer possessing a mouth with which to speak.

Griff kicked his legs up in the air and jumped off the sofa. Three notes played endlessly. The record player needle was stuck in the grooves of “Ruby My Dear”. The clock by the wall read 2 AM. The record had been stuck in the grooves for two hours, playing the same passage over and over and over again.

Artwork by Tara McPherson

Once Rock Stars Looked Like Models But Now Models Look Like Rock Stars

2012-01-12T05:00:00.001-08:00

Talk about turnabout, we’ve reached it in rock ‘n roll fashion. It’s been a long time since rock musicians influenced style. In the past, rock stars as diverse as The Beatles, The Sex Pistols, David Bowie, Debbie Harry, and even Kraftwerk resonated in the way kids dressed themselves. Kids always looked up to rock stars to check out The Cool New Look.

That’s all gone now: musicians fall into one of two categories these days: 1) American Idol-type puppets, trussed up and painted up by a team of style professionals that think tossing on a distressed New York Dolls bootleg t-shirt and forking their hair like a petrified parrot is rock style; or, 2) “Alternative” guys who dress like slobs and look more like roadies than the roadies themselves. Bands have ceased to invent cool new looks we can dig, and that’s depressing.

The great irony is that a small handful of models currently embody rock style better than anyone holding a guitar or microphone. True, they’re being dressed by high fashion designers and coiffed by fashion pros, but it’s what they’re doing with all those elements that look more rock ‘n roll than anything I’ve seen in the past twenty years.

Paul Boche is from Eisenach, Germany, and in the past five years has been one of the most sought-after models in the fashion industry. His resume reads like a Who’s Who of the most cutting edge designers in modern fashion: John Galliano, Ann Demeulemeester, John-Paul Gaultier, Roberto Cavalli, Simon Spurr, Rick Owens, and Alexander McQueen. He’s currently represented by eight different modeling agencies (Holy Shit!), and was chosen to be the Face of Lanvin en Bleu in 2010. He’s already been booked to catwalk for 10 different designers this year on New York, Paris and Milan Fashion Week.

Paul Boche is a model who effortlessly emulates rock & roll style. When his hair is short he recalls David Bowie, Alec Empire, or a new wave icon from the Eighties, and when he wears it long he resembles a glam rock star like Mick Ronson or Marc Bolan. His rock star looks make you want to wear everything he’s photographed in, and it’s a refreshing change from the predictable look of models with short, chopped hair, bland faces and G.I. Joe bodies. If there’s a model I can follow like a rock star it’s definitely Paul Boche.

_____________ ___________________ _____________

If there’s a female counterpart look no further than Charlotte Free. Looking more like a punk rock star than a fashion model, Free has also been burning up fashion editorials and shows in the past few years. Just like the best punk rock, however, her arrival on the fashion scene was controversial, the reasons being: 1) She stands at only 5’7”, a shrimp by modeling standards; and, 2) fashion snobs think her multi-colored hair looks limit her to a “Hot Topic Princess” look. Her detractors, mostly jealous females, are outnumbered by a larger group of young girls that identify with her, raising her to heroic status. Just like the best punk rock, the formalists are pissed but the kids get it.

Originally from Los Angeles, California, Free has modeled for Vivienne Westwood, Jeremy Scott, Marchesa, and Moncler Gamme Rouge, among others. Whether she becomes the model of the moment or not doesn't matter, she’s one of the most unique faces in fashion since the heyday of models like Twiggy and Peggy Moffit. And of course, you gotta love a model that gets so many snobs upset.

At this point in time the most inspired rock star looks are coming from models like Free and Boche, and like the best rock groups make me look forward to seeing what they’ll do next.

Suggested web sites: Paul Boche: paulboche.livejournal.com, or fuckyeahpaulboche.tumblr.com

Charlotte Free:fuckyeahcharlottefree.tumblr.com

365 Days In The Hole

2012-01-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

If there’s one thing every man, woman and child can agree on it’s that the year 2011 was a complete washout, a year in which everyone happily relinquished their privacy for the sake of social network superstardom, real or imagined, mostly imagined; a brutal internet undercutting millions of struggling businesses and big box ones, too, resulting in mass layoffs numbering in the millions, creating a new age Depression. Of course the rule is to never call it a Depression, but that’s what it is: when even rich fat cats are sweating bullets over their money it’s called a Depression, there’s no other word for it. Will there be a recovery? Well, as Jerry Butler once sang, “Only The Strong Survive”. Draw your own conclusions. This was the year that was:

January – Went to the NAMM (North American Music Manufacturers) show in Anaheim, a real feeding frenzy of rock lemmings practically walking over each other to get to the nearest BC Rich exhibit. I never heard so many slapback bass playing assholes in my life. The whole place sounded like the “Seinfeld” theme shoved in your face on an eternal loop. A sonic nightmare.

I shredded my thumb on the cheese grater. The cheddar cheese slipped and my thumb grated against the blades. Much bleeding and screaming followed. Reminded me of the joke about the blind man who bled to death reading a cheese grater. Don't groan, Wreckless Eric told me that joke.

Began my second serial “Red Coffee”, a dark horror version of the William Wellman Pre-Code films of the Thirties, and I enjoyed the direction that I took with it.

February – Valentines’ Day in Hollywood was pretty funny. I heard a lot of car brakes screeching, horns honking and drunks screaming at each other. It’s nice to know that people still know how to have a good time and keep it all romantic.

Helped Rebecca fabricate an exotic tablecloth for artist Gary Baseman. It looks really cool with images of Shiu-Shiu and other creepy crawly critters in the Baseman style.

Told the LA County Board of Supervisors to go shit in a hat and walked out on my nightmare job. Don’t be a bitch unless you want to learn how to be an ever bigger one from me. Fuck those bloodless assholes.

March – Rebecca’s on tour with KISS so I’m home alone and hanging out on the Sunset Strip (internet stalkers take note). Once she got back we went down to Sony Studios in San Diego to work on the “Twisted Metal” video shoot.

April – After having my personal effects Fed Ex’ed to me from the County, they sent two Sheriff’s Deputies over to my home to ask me to call my former supervisor at work (I didn’t, and since this event he has also left the Department).

Worked on an outfit for Nick Cannon on his TV show. Rebecca’s colleagues have been hustling her for work and they’re pissed that I’m in the picture. Too fucking bad.

May – Went to the American Cinematheque on Mother’s Day to see “Mommie Dearest”. If there’s anything better than Joan Crawford it’s Faye Dunaway playing Joan Crawford. Brilliant. I don’t even care if the whole thing is bullshit.

Saw Terri Wahl on TV talking about her organic restaurant, and read Steve Albini’s snobby foodie blog. Bloody hell, punk’s gone gourmet.

This month marked Vincent Price’s 100^th birthday and Bob Dylan’s 70^th birthday.

June – Worked on the wardrobe for two video games, “Batman: Arkham Asylum” and “Gotham City Impostors”. Grabbed material, fabricated wardrobe and fitted all the actors. Finally some work I can enjoy.

Helped Rebecca with a Cheese and Meat outfit for a Weird Al Yankovic video where he’s rippin’ on Lady Gaga, “Perform This Way”. The outfits turned out great and got tons of publicity.

Designed and sewed the Steak Bag I posted on my blog in June and then put up for sale on Etsy. It’s funny: everybody thought they had a shot at getting it for free, but once I put it up for sale they all shut up. Thanks for the support, bozos.

Watched a Logo TV Special on gay bars in Palm Springs and caught a former straight client of ours on the show frolicking in a lesbian bar. I guess she finally broke on through to the other side. We always suspected, heh.

Dressed a 10 foot tall statue for Comic Con; it needed a big black leather coat. Try making a 10 foot tall leather coat. It’s tougher than hell, but we pulled it off.

July – Ran into Marc Anthony Thompson at the opening of the Don Ville store. I haven’t seen him in over 20 years. He looked great, and I was happy to see him.

A friend from LA County told me that no one is allowed to mention my name at all in the office. It’s taboo, like invoking the spirit of Beelzebub, Beetlejuice or Mr. Mxyzptlk.

Reading a lot of rock biographies lately: Joe Boyd, Buffalo Springfield, Vivian Stanshall, and Patti Boyd. That’s what summers are for, reading about rock music while you’re listening to it.

August – Making all kinds of things this month: black leather aprons, tablecloths, silkscreened tank tops, and started work on some gold denim jeans.

September – Funny how I was sick all last year from work, and now that I’m away from the place I haven’t gotten sick at all.

Finally found a library that has the entire Mushroom Planet series books I enjoyed when I was a kid. Eleanor Cameron is the greatest, the O.G. science fiction writer for kids, not counting Victor Appleton, of course.

Worked on the David LaChapelle shoot for Smirnoff’s new Marshmallow Vodka. We created PVC marshmallows to cover classic statues. I think we made about 100 marshmallows altogether. Michelle Carr from Jabberjaw worked on the job, too, and it was great to see her again.

October – After writing a blog about the joys of smoking I had to quit because my body put up a weird protest (I’ll spare you the details). So I’m not puffing away anymore, but I’d be a liar if I told you I didn’t miss it.

“Lick My Decals Off, Baby” is finally available as a digital download, reasons for rejoicing given the way it’s been held up for over a decade making all Captain Beefheart fans miserable and anxious. What this world needs is a good 2 dollar room and a good 2 dollar broom.

Lacerated my thumb, bleeding profusely and requiring five stitches, prompting an emergency ride to Cedars-Sinai Emergency Center. This is the same one I shredded on the cheese grater. Fucking hell.

Pan Pacific Park held a Halloween carnival with rides and circus snacks. A lot of the guys working the rides acted like carnies: every time I took Rebecca’s pictures around the rides, they’d turn their backs or cover their faces, ho ho ho!

November – Started collecting my retirement pay, so this year ends with a happy ending.

Remixed the No Policy studio and live tapes, and they should be coming out at some point in 2012. Montreal hardcore at its finest.

December – Began laying down the groundwork for the new serial that’ll begin at the end of January, and it should be pretty intense stuff.

This year ends with some psycho pyromaniac setting fire to cars and carports all over Hollywood. Fire engines and helicopters echo around our house, setting the theme to an end of a very turbulent year.

Stuff I enjoyed this past year: I read a lot of Chester Himes, Patricia Highsmith, and the amazing Sebastien Japrisot.

Great music I heard this year: The Equals, Al “Jazzbo” Collins, and so many yodeling records my visiting father-in-law thought I’d gone insane. He’s probably right!

Rock & Roll Confidential Part 8

2011-12-30T05:00:00.000-08:00

In 1969, one of the biggest records to hit FM radio in Los Angeles wasn’t from a new singer-songwriter or Next Big Thing from England, but from a 42-year old jazz pianist named Dick Hyman. The track was called “The Minotaur” and it was one of the earliest records to use the Moog synthesizer in a swinging format. I stress the word “swinging” because up til then the Moog was only played in serious, academic recordings like Wendy Carlos’ groundbreaking “Switched on Bach” LP or in TV advertisements from guys like Van Dyke Parks. No, “The Minotaur” had a relentless groove working for it because a jazz dude got his hands on it and made it move in directions nobody ever heard before. Hearing it on the radio in 1969 may have been one of the most exciting sonic breakthroughs in music.

Hyman’s approach is playing the theme, going off into blues comping, and then stretching notes while bending the tones until he blasts into playing pure white noise, all over an electronic bass pulse with a hypnotic rhythm machine backbeat. If Jimi Hendrix was here to tell us we would never hear surf music again, then “The Minotaur” was here to tell us we may never want to hear long guitar solos again.

“The Minotaur” comes from an album titled “Moog: The Electric Eclectics of Dick Hyman”, and was released on ABC Records’ schlocky subsidiary label Command Records. It was the biggest selling album in Command Records history, and for good reason: each track is absolutely awesome. Hyman produced one more album of synthesizer sonics, but by that point many more artists were getting into the act, learning from Hyman’s example that the synth can swing as hard as any other cool instrument. The last I heard about Hyman he was scoring several Woody Allen movies, no synth but mostly jazz piano.

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When people think of John Sebastian of The Lovin’ Spoonful they usually think of sunny, happy, good time music. Songs like “Younger Girl”, “Daydream”, “Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind” and that TV show theme song immediately come to mind when his name comes up. The only real rocker I can think of is “Summer In The City”, but that’s another story. I remember when his first solo album came out and hearing a track on it that didn’t sound like anything he ever did before.

Last month I had a strange nightmare and all through the dream I heard that song from the Sebastian album playing through it. What made it so creepy was the fact that I completely forgot about the song until it haunted me in my dream. The song is called “The Room Nobody Lives In” and it’s pretty weird by anyone’s standards. It’s a very slow, quiet, and almost funereal drone with an unsettling harmonium track, recalling Nico, who had released “Desertshore” around this time.

The song is either about someone who is dead or long estranged from their family. The words go like this:

“The room nobody lives in is up the stairs and four doors down the hall

And no one ever goes there, except for linens when the family comes to call

The room nobody lives in is always empty, but immaculately clean

And all is softly silent, except for buzzings of the flies between the screens"

The next part reads like some kind of John Cheever nightmare straight out of “Bullet Park”:

“But there´s a feeling, even breathing in the air, like there´s someone, when there´s no one even there,

And I'm hearing the cheers for the heroes, of scenes going down in this room, for so many years

But now nobody goes there for forty years or so, this room has been alone,

And starving for a moment, completely human...and completely all her own."

Maybe after playing with The Doors on their “Morrison Hotel” album John Sebastian picked up on their brand of suburban dark nightmare. It’s the most atypical track he’s ever recorded and easily one of the creepiest things ever recorded. Once you hear it you can count on it haunting you in your dreams.

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Two giants in music passed away this past month; one was Hubert Sumlin, arguably one of the original guitarists whose work laid down the foundation of what would eventually become rock ‘n roll. Brandishing a Gibson Les Paul as early as 1955, he strangled some of the raunchiest electric guitar of that era, distorting it to sound like a skillet full of eggs frying in bacon grease. His work with Howlin’ Wolf is some of the most exciting blues guitar ever played, influencing rockers from Keith Richards to Jimmy Page to Jeff Beck.

The other passing is Sean Bonniwell of The Music Machine, one of the finest singer-songwriters in garage rock. Although he was known by many just by his single “Talk Talk”, the three albums he released, “Turn On”, “Beyond The Garage”, and “Ignition” are unparalleled garage rock records. Amusingly enough, his fashion gimmick in The Music Machine was wearing one leather glove, predating Michael Jackson by a good twenty years. His life was more private than Roky Erickson or Sky Saxon, making him the ultimate garage rock mystery man. They will both be missed, and I thank them for all the great music I’ve enjoyed from them through the years.

Dogville and "The Resurrection Shuffle"

2011-12-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

When former computer programmer Anders Breivik went berserk and killed 69 teenagers in a Norwegian Islamic camp, film director Lars Von Trier freaked out. Breivik, a religious fanatic, listed “Dogville” as one of his top three favorite films. Von Trier already had an angry mob of critics and theater goers who thought the movie was strongly anti-American with its images of impoverished Americans during the end credits. But what really freaked him out was not the fact that the film was deemed anti-American, but that Breivik caught on to Von Trier’s real message: in “Dogville” Jesus is back, and he’s pissed.

Staged not so much as a narrative film but more like a passion play, “Dogville” is the story of a woman named Grace and her escape from an overbearing, powerful father, known only as The Boss. She hides in a town called Dogville, where the residents are, by and large, terrified and hateful of strangers, even when they look like Nicole Kidman. Like any passion play, the next three hours chronicles Grace’s trial and suffering at the hands of the awful residents of Dogville (an anagram for Evil God).

Grace accepts her abuse and punishment from the residents of Dogville in a passive, virtually Christ-like manner. Towards the end of the film she's shackled to a wheel, recalling the cross Christ carried on his back. The similarities end there, of course, because she’s freed by Her Father's gangsters once they've caught up with her. Her Father, The Boss, demands an explanation in the privacy of his confessional booth-looking limousine and she makes a deal with him. She will take over The Rackets (religion) if she can waste all the townsfolk that degraded and defiled her. The film ends with her exacting her revenge by having the entire town killed. So, this time Jesus gets even, kicking ass and taking names. The ultimate revenge flick, and it's religious, too.

“Dogville” presents a vindictive Son of God, which someone sick, like Breivik, could misinterpret as a reaction to non-believers. Christ as Charles Bronson. That’s not to say Von Trier made a dangerous movie, but that a violent film that criticizes religion could send a fundamentalist nut on a killing rampage. Von Trier still makes movies that broach religious subtexts like “Antichrist” and his new release, “Melancholia”, but personally I’d rather watch “The Idiots”, his fusion of Ingmar Bergman and Johnny Knoxville.

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In the early Seventies hippies moved towards forsaking drugs for a more transcendental lifestyle, namely religion. The born-again Christian movement hit the scene influenced by rock musicals on the order of “Jesus Christ Superstar” and “Godspell”. Even the previously meditating Beatles got into the act with “Let It Be”, ad nauseum, so a backlash was imminently due. Around this time a band of seasoned and jaded rockers called Ashton, Gardner & Dyke released “Resurrection Shuffle”, an insane piss-take on the now trendy Jesus Freak craze. As pop songs go it’s actually pretty solid, sounding a lot like The Jim Jones Revue, who should cover this song ASAP if they had any brains.

Nobody predicted that the most unexpected rockers were so enamored with this wild rocker that covers of this nutty parody proliferated like crazy. Lulu even got into the act. Check her out:

Tom Jones had to wrestle his vocal cords in this one, too. I think he acquits himself nicely on this version. By the way, notice how everyone seems to sport a shit-eating grin on their face whenever they cover this crazy number. It thumbs its nose at the God Rock trend of the time.

In the long run nothing compares with the version rendered by those nice Mormon boys The Osmonds, adding this brilliant rocker to their “Crazy Horses”–era repertoire. Merry Christmas Everybody! Don’t let your back bone slip!

Freezy's Big Day

2011-12-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

In 2006 I posted a video on YouTube called "Freezy's Big Day". Rebecca took a series of photographs illustrating Freezy Sliddle delivering packages for Santa Claus to all the Liddle Kiddles. I wrote the text to this series of pictures and compiled it for a video on iMovies.

The music originally chosen for the video was The Beach Boy's "The Man With All The Toys", but unfortunately it was too short to pad out the duration of the film, so I had to choose another song. At the time Steve Jones of The Sex Pistols had a radio show called "Jonesey's Juke Box" and he was playing a lot of hoary old glitter chestnuts on his show like Showaddywaddy and Alvin Stardust, but the one that brought back the best memories of Rodney's English Disco was Mud's "Dynamite". Perverse soul that I am, I decided to use "Dynamite" as the music to accompany Freezy's Yuletide flight to help jolly St. Nick to deliver packages to all the kids of Christmas.

Christmas With The Hip Chicks

2011-12-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

Saddle up a satellite, baby, and I’ll spin you a wild yarn about two hip chicks, the Scooby Dooby Sisters, why they might be the craziest chicks you ever did seed, keed. It was Christmas Day and Ellie and Millie bugged out on making the scene at their Mom’s humble three-story pad. They stayed in and sipped their holiday espressos, digging their crazy Christmas branch, a thick branch from an elm tree with a red balloon on it with glitter. There were four presents under this Christmas branch. One for each of them from their mother and one they bought for each other.

Ellie, the blonde with the ironed hair, opened up her Christmas gift from Moms, and pulled out a beautiful black Christian Dior formal. “Dig this. What am I supposed to do with these crazy threads?”
Millie, her sister with the ratted out auburn locks, shook her shoulder. “Zilch! She laid a century on you, though”, and pointed towards the $100 bill that fell out of the package.
“Crazy! Benjamin Franklin, dig those crazy shades. Never did make the presidential scene”.
“What a drag”.
Millie opened up her package from Mom and another $100 bill tumbled out along with a necklace of double string pearls. “Pearls? Dresses? Man, somebody GOOFED!”

Ellie picked up something that looked like a pair of bongos poorly wrapped up in some newspaper scraps stuck together with scotch tape that had blonde hair strands stuck on the ends.
“Hey, sis, dig this crazy present”.
“Man, that’s one suave-looking gift, lay it on me, chick”, Millie grabbed it and tore off the wrapping. “New bongos! They’re the most!”
“Lay some sounds on me!” Millie drummed wildly on the bongos while Ellie did a wild interpretive dance. This went on for five minutes until they both got tired.
Millie picked up her package and thrust it at Ellie. “Dig my bodacious bundle. Merry Commercial Christmas!”
Ellie tore open her package and it was a stolen library book called, “Famous Presidents In American History”.
“Ooh, solid, baby! All my faves are here: William McKinley, James Buchanan, the only swinging single President ever, Millard Fillmore –“
“-and don’t forget Zachary Taylor, the coolest President alive. He split the scene seven weeks after he got elected!”
“Yeah, he cut out right after he copped the Big Chief gig!”
The chicks got so jazzed that Millie picked up her dirty bongos again and Ellie went into her abstract expressionist dance with her book in her hands, the very stern face of Abraham Lincoln peering out of the cover. Her wicked dance cast shadows set by the flickering candle in the room, the shadows playing against the cheap Picasso prints and bullfight poster on the wall of their humble beatnik apartment.

Well, the dolls got so tired from dancing and crashing from their caffeine jag that they both sacked out on the sofa, making the sandman scene, both snoring more atonally than Brubeck, Mulligan and Kenton all put together.

___________________ _______________________ ______________

Millie and Ellie stood around a dark ballroom with brightly colored gels projected on a stage. There were hipsters of all sizes wearing brightly colored clothes and the men had hair as long as the girls they were with.

“Dig this crazy fallout shelter!” Millie’s crazy orbs got big clocking the weirdo establishment they were standing around in.
Ellie nodded. “Like nervous, baby, nervous! These cats got some caveman action going on, hair down to their-“
“Say girls”, a hippie with a bushy beard and Ben Franklin shades walked up to them. “I’ve never seen you chicks make the scene at the Fillmore West before. What’s shaking?” He handed them both a dirty, wilted flower that smelled like sweaty dogs.
“I dig your glasses, Clyde, you got that presidential thing going on, bippity bop, boop bop”.
“Far out, sunshine! They call me Star Sailor. Hey, are you going to the Love-In at the park by Haight Street this Saturday? The Dead are gonna be jamming.”
“You wanna transpose that in another key, Long Hair Daddy. Why would you be loving a place called Hate Street? That’s abstract!”
“Dead people jamming, chicky”, Millie added, “that’s some freaky rebop!”
“Later, chicks, much, much, later”, the hippie walked away, disgusted.
“What’s his scene?” Ellie asked.
“Too many test patterns. Sold American”.

A voice came over the PA as a band got on stage. “Give a warm Fillmore West welcome to Big Brother and The Holding Company”.
The band tore into their opening number and Janis Joplin started squalling. “Why-ie-ie-ie I need a man to lo-ove…”
“Man, dig those crazy branches! I gotta have a major pow-wow with her”.
Janis shrieked for two more numbers. "Love's like uh bawwwllll-een-chayunnnn- waw-wowow..."
“She’s flipping out!”
“What a drag!”
“When does she make with the finger cymbals?”
A stoned girl in a huge mu-mu crashed into them and fell flat on her back, prompting our two hipsters to split towards the back of the club.
“Flip city!”
“Bugsville, like too bugged out!”

They looked around the club near the back and noticed one of their heroes double-fisting beers and chatting up an acid-bleached hippie hag.
“Neal Cassady? What’s he doing here?”
“Man, he looks beat, like more beat than he’s ever been beat”.
“What a drag. Mayhaps Sal Paradise or Ginsberg are making the scene, too”.
“Man, Cassady, he looks like fell off one of Kerouac’s crazy peaks and didn’t miss a boulder”.
“Neurotic”.

“You chicks made the scene! Far out!” a familiar voice piped up behind them. They spun around and smiled to see –
“SCRUFFY!” they both yelled. It was their beatnik crush, Scruffy aka Sterling Holloway Scarborough IV, hipper and even richer than them with a large trust fund. His hair was a little longer than they remembered, but his cooler looks were still as solid as ever.
“Man, what is this tee-pee we’re at? Clue us in”, Ellie asked.
“It’s 1967, you’re in San Francisco, it’s the Summer of Love, dig? This is the Fillmore West, where it’s all happening. Those crazy test patterns are called a light show and these kids are grooving to Janis on some prime psychedelic Owsley, baby”.
“Ows-what?”
“Acid, baby, acid!”
“No coffee? Bongos? Poetry readings?”
“Negative, but all the interpretive dancing you ever did see”, he pointed at a 300-pound girl nine months pregnant doing an Arabic snake dance with herself. “Dig that crazy way-out doll, she strips at a groovy club to all the square johns down on North Beach".
“You must be putting us on!”
Millie looked perplexed. “But why is it 1967? We're from 1955”.
“Just let your mind flow, dig the ride while it lasts”, Scruffy smiled. “Have some love beads”, and he placed love beads on both their necks. “Gotta split, like dig ya later. OOOOOM".

____________ ____________________ _______________

Janis finished her set and the girls moved up towards the front. The stench of pot was overwhelming, hemp stank of marijuana so thick you could cut it with a saber.

A short, thick Japanese girl with fried black hair down to her ankles got on stage with a guitarist playing noisy feedback. “Don’t worry, Don’t worry, Don’t worry, Don’t worry, KYOKOKYOKOKYOKO, AIEEEEEEE!” She shrieked and wailed like a cat caught in a threshing machine. The Hip Chicks clutched their ears and winced with pain.
“Bad scene!”
“Whaaaat?”
“BAD SCENE!”
“We gotta split from this oxygen tent, like, NOW!”

“AAAIIIIIIEEEEE, PEACE PEACE PEACE PEACE PEACE PEACE, GET IN THE BAG, KYOKO!” She growled and screamed, her demented Japanese witch face all screwed up. The high-pitched frequencies of her shrieking coupled with her grotesque features made our girls cry.
“Cut the rebop, Kabuki Witch!” Ellie cried, tears streaming down her face.
“Make with that square Hollywood jazz, sister, say it!”
“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home”, Ellie chanted, clicking her scuffed moccasins over and over again. “There’s no place like home!”

_______________ _____________ _____________

Millie and Ellie both woke up from the sofa to the piercing whine of the test pattern with the Injun head on their tiny television set.

“I just had the craziest dream, sister”.
“I dig, like ditto. It was wilder than that test pattern on the boob tube”.
“Scruffy was in mine, and–“
“Me too, and Neal Cassady was in it making like a dirty old man, dig!”
“Yeah, and this beat geisha witch was screaming about bags and peace–“
“Ditto, chicky baby, ditto! That voice of hers jammed my wavelength.”

“Let’s cross our paws and wish it stays 1955 forever”.
“I dig, 1967 sounds like a stone cold drag”.
“All I gotta say is, we wish you a real gone gasser this Yuletide”, they both smiled and said. “And a groovier New Year”.

Every Picture Tells A Story

2011-12-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

Rex Reed once remarked in his review of the film “Out of Africa” that the cinematography was so beautiful that every frame was a picture suitable for framing. The same thing, in my opinion, could be said of Kenneth Anger’s films. Unfortunately, at his show “Icons” currently exhibiting at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) you don’t get huge printed stills from his films, but rather a few screens erected in a dark room playing his films on a loop.

Kenneth Anger's films have influenced a wide range of directors from Terry Gilliam to David Lynch to Tim Burton, and artists that have appeared in his films include Anais Nin, Donald Cammell, Marianne Faithfull, Anton LaVey, and Manson Family killer Bobby Beausoleil. Titles to some of his films are "Kustom Kar Kommandos", "Invocation of My Demon Brother", "Rabbit Moon" and "Scorpio Rising".

I thought the installation somewhat deadened the impact of a great artist who pioneered images that amalgamated fetishism with male sexuality and threw in the dark arts (read “occult”) for good measure. Let me just repeat, a bunch of cool blown-up stills from his movies would have made a much better show.

Anger made a very rare public appearance on November 19th playing theremin in a two-man performance group called Technicolor Skull. I missed it, as usual, but I heard it was very visual and very DTLA. The room adjoining it was dedicated to his legendary book “Hollywood Babylon”, displaying movie stills, newspaper clippings and other memorabilia showcasing early Hollywood movie stars and their various vices and deaths.

I hope the next time Kenneth Anger exhibits his work it’s done in a more satisfying format. If you really want to experience Anger at his fullest, invest in the two DVD compilations, “The Films of Kenneth Anger, vols. 1 and 2”. Both volumes have great commentary from the master himself and provide a much more exciting audio than the dreary doo-wop and syrupy orchestral tracks dedicated to those films.

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Far more satisfying down the hall was Weegee’s “Naked Hollywood” show. This exhibit was significant in being the very first exhibition of Weegee’s photography in a major museum. Weegee, if you don’t know by now, was a crime photographer named Arthur Fellig who could usually be counted on to be the first guy on the crime scene to take snapshots.

Crime reporting lost its glamour for him so he turned to Hollywood, shooting intense pictures of stars and their manic fans. He even pioneered the tabloid photographer strategy of shooting movie stars blowing their cool in public, i.e., Dean Martin jamming food in his face, Jackie Gleason writing down horse track faves on a pad, and Shelley Winters putting the “fug” in fugly.

Weegee had quite an ego for a reporter, titling himself “Weegee The Famous”, even rubber-stamping this weird handle on the back of his photos. He was a bit of a Rodney Bingenheimer-type, too, posing for photos with a newly married Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh, a ravishing Leslie Caron, and many more.

The best part of the exhibit, however, was an ultra-cool documentary of Weegee pounding the pavement, Hollywood Boulevard, to be exact, looking for “interesting” people to shoot. He seemed to great delight in hounding some old coot with long, white hair and an even longer beard - a “hermit” by his description. The thing that killed me was his way of prepping a shot. He spit on the lens and then shook his camera like an unruly child, which may ne the first time in photography that abusing your gear guarantees a great shot. And yes, he still used flash in broad daylight which is also pretty weird. So that was the show: Kenneth Anger and Weegee, a billing that could have been curated by James Ellroy.

Holiday Leftovers

2011-12-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

When it comes to posting blogs a small surplus of pictures and other supplemental material begins collecting like a crowded garage. Sometimes you toss out the extra material and other times you let it sit around on the oft-chance it might get used again in some capacity. For your entertainment I offer you assorted leftovers from blogs I've posted in the past six months.

In my blog "Rock & Roll Confidential Part 7" I posted a mail-out flyer from The Screamers celebrating the Christmas season, but that wasn't the only artifact I had in my vast punk rock collection. In addition to other Screamers goodies I owned was this terrific Screamers Fan Club entry blank. To the best of my knowledge nothing ever got sent out to their fans, but what an easy way to get $2 out of people.

While we're on the subject of Christmas, I always found it ironic that the band the symbolized fun in the summertime, The Beach Boys, had such a great Christmas-y sound during the later days of their Capitol Records career. "Pet Sounds" up until "20/20" had so many pretty choral arrangements that verged on the spiritual it's uncanny: "You Still Believe In Me", "Cabinessence", "I Know There's An Answer", and many more tracks sound so seasonal. In fact, I strongly urge you to listen to any Beach Boys circa 1966-1969, five albums in all, while sipping spiked egg nog and signing your holiday cards and dressing up your Xmas tree or any other weird religious arboretum.

When I was a teenager I used to get the Los Angeles Free Press regularly, and one of the highlights was reading "Notes of A Dirty Old Man", Charles Bukowski's weekly column. It wasn't really thought of as high art back then; to be perfectly honest Buk was considered a bit of a crank back in the day, which probably suited him well. Nevertheless, I still followed him avidly, even catching him at a reading at The Troubadour in 1976. Memories are made of this. (Click on image to enlarge)

Another weekly column I followed loyally in the Los Angeles Free Press was The Glass Teat written by the irrespressible Harlan Ellison. I had the pleasure to expereience the sci-fi legend in the flesh at The Silent Theatre (aka The Cinefamily). The Silent Theatre was a very tiny and intimate place to see this dynamo of speculative fiction. Mister Ellison spent the beginning of the show hanging out with the fans waiting in line to see him, channeling Don Rickles and Shelley Winters with his extremely extrovert exhortations to one and all. Just writing about him makes you write like him. Crazy, baby!

Harlan talked about his career writing for television, with brief video clips showing past works, including a great "Burke's Law" segment written for Buster Keaton that completely honored and respected Mr. Keaton's comedy schtick, even for a silly cop show. Ellison related a tale of scamming Gloria Swanson out of retirement to do a "Burke's Law" segment, no small feat as she had no intention of returning to movies or TV at all. He was also humiliated by a "Flying Nun" credit which he couldn't run away from, and finally confessed he only wrote it in the hopes of getting into Sally Field's pants. Who could blame him?

A great time was had by everyone, even Harlan. The only criticism I had of the show was that questions about the current explosion in sci-fi/fantasy/horror in popular culture was never breached, because everyone thought it was more ntertaining listening to Harlan talk about his past crazy antics. A little more writer and a lot less personality wouldn't have hurt.

In my blog post on "Christopher Milk" I mentioned John Mendelsohn's band The Pits playing The Starwood and actually doing the freakbeat/heavy metal hybrid before Cheap Trick. Well, here's the handout set list (programme?) handed out at the show. It was a night to remember.

Before I go I'll leave you with yet another great yodelling performance from the fabulous DeZurik Sisters from my "American Yodeling" blog. Here they are singing "Hillbilly Bill". Enjoy!

The DeZurik Sisters performing "Hillbilly Bill".

Tramping The Galleries

2011-11-24T05:00:00.000-08:00

Saying that the Autumn 2011 season on the gallery scene is the hottest in years would be an outrageous understatement. There’s something for everybody: “Pacific Standard Time”, the most sprawling retrospective of Modern Art In Los Angeles, dozens of photography shows featuring the most outrageous American shutterbugs, and even some wild lowbrow favorites. If it wasn’t happening at the movies or in the nightclubs it was definitely popping in the galleries!

Late October set the stage for the opening of the Ellen Von Unwerth show at the Fahey/Klein Gallery on trendy La Brea Avenue. Her new show coincided with the release of her new Taschen book, “Fraulein” ($500 – cheap?). The pieces featured were black and white - no color shots this time, and looked like some kind of Louise Brooks porn shoot complete with “Story of O” masks, making the models look like off-duty steampunk superheroines getting into sexual mischief. In the smaller room was the incredibly awesome fashion surrealism of Melvin Skolsky, showcasing his “Paris 1963” work. Skolsky is the photog who shot those insane “Model In A Bubble” in the streets of Paris series. The limited edition book was on sale there, also. One of the best Fahey/Klein shows I’ve been to.

Mid-November got even crazier starting with Travis Louie’s “Curious Pets” show at the Merry Karnowsky Gallery. The pieces were black and gray acrylic portraits with static white backgrounds fabricating the illusion of old turn of the century engraved photographs, but naturally with a wicked twist. Pieces included “Martin and His Bat”, a young man with a vampire bat sitting on top of his head. Then there’s “Agatha and Her Beetle”, a frail, anemic lass with a big, gnarly beetle resting in her wiry hair. Each piece was accompanied with a short fable telling a tale of these folks and their strange pets.

Pictured above is "Uncle Six Eyes", a great resin bust created in two versions: a white version and a black version. It's a great parody of the Ludwig Van Beethoven bust that was de rigeur in every home during the 1950s and 1960s. Overall the style of the pieces in the show was like an ungodly union between Mark Ryden and Basil Wolverton. By the way, a quick scan of the upcoming show schedule at Karnowsky’s gallery shows every indication that she will be the mid-city lowbrow capitol of Los Angeles.

Getting back to photography I saw the Hedi Slimane show, “California Song” at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) at the Pacific Design Center. Slimane’s right up there with Von Unwerth, Richardson and LaChapelle in the new breed of crazy fashion shooters that’s burning up the editorial fashion magazines internationally. The show appealed to my deadpan sense of humor: on the ground floor his photographs (all black & white) were on display, all unlabelled and mounted on drab wooden crates, as one-dimensional as you can possibly get.

Upstairs was another matter entirely: slides of the very same shots and more were projected on a three-sided wall over 10 feet tall, creating a much more satisfying and, dare I say it, moving experience. It sort of makes you question the whole gallery system in one fell swoop. There were enough showbiz photos to keep you happy (John Lydon smoking, a rotting Brian Wilson, and LOTS of Michael Pitt, maybe too much), but the best shots of all, ironically, were his surfing photos.

That’s ultimately a true testament to the brilliance of Slimane’s artistic eye. Taking exciting surfing pictures makes you a good photographer, but shooting awesome ones in BLACK & WHITE makes you a GENIUS.

Smell Check 2011

2011-11-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

Xmas is just around the corner and Jesus may be the reason for the season, but so are massive purchases made on alcohol and men’s colognes. Next to Father’s Day no other time of the year inspires more panicky runs to the men’s cologne counter at the department store. As a result, this time of year there are more cologne testers in magazines and department store mailers than ever, so it’s time to review the prime candidates vying for your attention. In other words, welcome to the 4th Annual Edition of Smell Check. Let’s get started:

Guess Seductive: Touting itself as “an alluring oriental woody fougere”, the first thing I want to ask is what’s a “fougere”? And can a fougere have the capacity to be alluring? At any rate, it didn’t smell very woody to me, but rather talcum-like and too faint to leave a lingering, let alone alluring memory. So, fougere to all that!

I Am King (Sean John): I’m confused, does this cologne aspire to make me worship Puffy Combs and say, “Yes, your Highness, yea verily, you are King” for making this cologne, or is the cologne supposed to make me say, “Yes, I AM KING!” for wearing this swill that smells like dried grape soda. Quelle ghetto.

Eau De Lacoste (Lacoste): Yes, the polo shirt kings have entered the fragrance fray with three different tones: Pure, Powerful and Relaxed (sounds like me). Pure was okay but had a generic drug store scent to it, Powerful smelled a little sportier, and Relaxed smelled kind of woodsy. At least none of them smelled like an old alligator.

1 Million (Paco Rabanne): Designed like a bar of gold, this came with high hopes because Paco always makes great colognes. This tester made me go back over and over again with its insane conglomeration of bubblegum meets musky sex odors. Whoah! I’m losing my mind, we have a winner here.

John Varvatos USA: Nice bottle, shaped like a chemistry test tube for all you “Breaking Bad” fans out there. Usually Varvatos doesn’t disappoint but this one just smelled very citrus-like with no real standout olfactory pleasures. Back to the old chemistry set for you.

Armani Code Sport (Giorgio Armani): The ad for this cologne shows a naked guy in a swimming pool standing before a rich woman wearing a backless formal. That might be the only interesting thing about this scent. On a separate note, I used to enjoy wearing Armani Code until I found out the surly janitor in my building wore Code, too. Thanks for nothing.

Ambre Sultan (Serge Lutens): You’ll never catch Lutens hawking testers in Esquire Magazine, and it’s just as well. He’s way too cool. Ambre Sultan is an explosive symphony of coriander, amber, oregano, bay leaf, myrtle, angelica root, sandalwood, patchouli, benzoin, and the ubiquitous stench of vanilla.Lutens’ publicity team describe it as “a trip to a Bedouin tent in a desert far away, thick incense burning on coal with spices filling the air, mysterious eyes flashing and pierced female slaves succumbing to your BLAH BLAH BLAH”. For once the scent is actually better than the Yul Brynner hype. Etcetera, etcetera.

One thing to bear in mind when you buy a cologne is what makes one special and what doesn't? A men's cologne is a lot like a night club. One year it's pretty cool, but once the d-bags know about it and use it the coolness factor's long gone. A scent like Acqua Di Gio or YSL Homme had a coolness factor when it first hit the scene, but now it's the kind of slobber your aunt buys you for Xmas or the swill you smell on some oily hip-hop bastard. That's when you go for the more private clubs in town, like Serge Lutens or the more exotic Rabanne stuff. Happy buying!

Happy Birthday Louise Brooks and Veronica Lake

2011-11-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Somehow the idea of wishing someone a happy birthday who’s deceased is kind of like showing up to a party thirty minutes after its ended, but there has never been two actresses more unorthodox than Louise Brooks and Veronica Lake, this year’s Scorpio birthdays. On first glance they don’t seem to have much in common, but upon closer inspection are very similar.

Both Ms. Brooks and Lake share the same birthday, November 14 – different years, of course, but their lives were very closely alike. Professionally both actresses were as adept at doing comedy as they were in drama, work was hard to come by, and their careers were heavily battered by studio systems that were too simple-minded to utilize them properly. The negligence that damaged their careers culminated in serious bouts of alcoholism and misanthropy that would make a riot grrl run home to Momma.

Still and all, the fact that Brooks and Lake are now regarded as major glamour icons of the cinema is highly ironic, an irony definitely not lost on them. As Veronica Lake once said, “I’m not a sex symbol, I’m a sex zombie”.

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Although Brooks was recognized by French cinephiles in the 1950’s for her amazing screen presence she was widely forgotten worldwide until she published her memoirs, “Lulu In Hollywood”, in 1981. Her candid account of Hollywood’s golden age and working relationships with legends like Fatty Arbuckle, W.C. Fields and John Wayne were off-beat, revealing and occasionally shocking.

Her early career includes some cool comedy turns from her with W.C. Fields in “The Old Army Game” and “Love ‘Em and Leave ‘Em” (both 1926) where she plays the roommate from hell, stealing her friend’s boyfriends and snaking all their dresses. It’s kind of a slapstick “Single White Female”. In 1928 she made a fine drama for neorealist director William Wellman called “Beggars of Life”, which also starred Noah Beery and Richard Arlen. A year later she went to Germany and starred in her two greatest films, “Pandora’s Box” and “Diary Of A Lost Girl”, both available on DVD.

A typical Louise Brooks performance showed a woman who effortlessly vascillated between acting like a frenetic little girl, sexy vamp, and illuminated angel all in a matter of seconds, like some enchanted flicker ring. This could either be attributed to great acting or as the product of a personality scarred by a childhood episode of being molested by a neighbor and receiving no sympathy from her mother.

After turning down the James Cagney classic “The Public Enemy” (which eventually went to Jean Harlow), Brooks had trouble finding work, eventually opening up an unsuccessful dance studio, a stab at writing a novel (never finished), a Saks Fifth Avenue counter girl, and unfortunately ending up as a pilled-up Manhattan call girl. Several marriages failed, but through it all she was always close to her brother, her only friend until her death in 1985 from a heart attack due to emphysema.

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While Veronica Lake didn’t earn the enmity of the entire state of Kansas like Brooks did, she just about pissed off everybody else. Married four times to Louise Brooks’ two, she turned off every leading man in her films, with the sole exception of Alan Ladd. Lake made four films with Ladd because she was shorter than him – she stood at 4’11 ½”. Like Brooks, her comedy chops are underrated, based upon her great performances in “Sullivan’s Travels” and “I Married A Witch”, the O.G. “Bewitched”. She even has some excellent deadpan humor lines in “The Blue Dahlia”, thanks to Raymond Chandler’s screenplay. (Chandler allegedly hated her, too. You just can’t win!) Just about the only guy on her side in Hollywood was Preston Sturges, who fought the studios to cast her in “Sullivan’s Travels”, her first major movie role. She was pregnant during filming, posing a serious undercover challenge for designer Edith Head.

The public loved Lake until the late Forties, when Paramount passed on renewing her contract. She had to file for bankruptcy on the heels of her mother suing her for “support payments”. Her mother later wrote an awful biography on her daughter which pulled in a tiny chunk of change. Lake wrote a slapdash autobiography a few years later as a rebuttal to her mother’s tawdry book.

Lake, like her predecessor Brooks went through a downward spiral in New York, living in fleabag hotels and getting arrested for drunken and disorderly conduct. Her beautiful long locks now long gone, she found work as a barmaid at a downtown hotel. Busted by reporters who found her working there, she garnered sporadic TV and theater gigs from all the attention, even appearing on “What’s My Line”.

Veronica Lake died in Vermont at the age of 50 from hepatitis and acute renal failure as a result of her alcoholism. Her ashes were scattered over The Virgin Islands per her request. A memorial service was held in New York which her son Michael attended, her three daughters long estranged from her.

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I hate tired Hollywood clichés but there is one that sometimes rings true, and that’s when someone says “The camera loves her”, and it was definitely hypnotized by these two ladies. Whatever Louise Brooks and Veronica Lake’s faults were, there are few actresses that can rival their ability to illuminate the movie screen. That means when Louise Brooks celebrates Christmas in a cold cellar in “Pandora’s Box” we forget how hard her situation is because the warmth of her beauty is enough. That means whenever Veronica Lake is on screen in “The Blue Dahlia” or “This Gun For Hire” everyone else disappears because she commands your absolute attention. That’s no small accomplishment for a dame that can’t even clear 5 feet.

Whether these ladies got along with the car crash we call civilization or not almost seems unimportant. Aspiring actresses, clothes designers, filmmakers, models, and even artists can tell you what Louise Brooks looks like or what Veronica Lake looks like. Their hypnotic beauty is immortalized by the silver screen, and for that we will always revere them.

"American Yodeling"

2011-11-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Everybody likes to brag about the great deal they got from downloading music, but there has never been a deal as amazing as the one I got early this summer. For a mere $11.98 I downloaded a 100-song, 2-disc set of incredible sounds called “American Yodeling”. You will never find a deal as truly phenomenal as this.

“American Yodeling”, as you can assume is a compilation of songs featuring singers yodeling their hearts out, but the compilation itself is so sprawling and sweeping in its scope that it covers an endless panorama of genres. The first assumption is made that you’re going to hear nothing but country music, but alas, you’re wrong. Sure, there’s tons of cowboy music, great stuff, too, but there’s also Cajun music, cowgirls singing, folk, bluegrass, polka, blues, western swing, Swiss mountaineer jive, and even Black hot twenties jazz yodeling. Everybody’s covered and get to twirl their tonsils out.

There’s something bizarrely athletic in the way these crooners go into their yodeling pyrotechnics. Tracks like “She Taught Me How To Yodel” by Kenny Roberts are almost surreal in the way he can make his voice bend at supersonic speed that has to be heard to be believed. Legendary faves like Bill Monroe’s badass “Muleskinner Blues” get represented here, too. Some guys really tear it up with several tracks on here like Yodeling Slim Clark with his “I Miss My Swiss” who has a classic Swiss mountaineer tone to his yodeling. Elton Britt’s pretty awesome with “Chime Bells”.

The cowgirls like to put a nature slant in their yodeling, making wild bird noises, purring like kittens and scatting in their vocals. My favorites include Carolina Cotton with “Mockingbird Yodel” and the demented Dezurik Sisters with their insanely bitchen “The Arizona Yodeler”. Their harmonies are so perfectly synchronized it would put an army of talent show losers to shame. Other range fillies include Patsy Montana, Girls of the Golden West, Rosalie Allen, and Texas Kitty Prins, to name a few.

A lot of the perennials are on here, too, like Rex Allen, Gene Autry, Patti Page (!), Hank Snow, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autry, who all sound incredible here. But the obscure names are the real finds, like a rail-riding hobo named Goebel Reeves who really swings his dirty panhandling pie-hole. Sweet!

When the crooning’s not about riding the range there’s a whole lotta jive about romance in the Swiss Alps: songs with titles like Visit Me In My Swiss Chalet, Swiss Echo Yodel, My Swiss Moonlight Baby. The girls have some pretty sexy songs, too, with titles like Salt Bush Sue and I’m Gonna Straddle My Saddle. Woof!

If you want the Cajun stuff there’s Paul Brunelle’s “Le Boogie Woogie De Prairies”, The Guidry Brothers’ “La Valse De Marriage” and a couple of other crazies.

“American Yodeling” never gets boring and almost sounds quaint in its depiction of a world that’s virtually vanished from the American landscape. It sounds like radio broadcasts from a parallel planet that’s saner and happier than anything we’ve ever created. And what’s better, it makes everyone smile real wide whenever they hear it.

Slacks For Slackers

2011-10-28T15:25:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately there won't be a big blog this week because I sliced my thumb open last Sunday. It's amazing how much power your thumb wields over the rest of your hand, especially your right one. The thumb is basically the boss of your fist, and the boss is severly injured, so once my six stitches have been removed and I'm back to normal I'll be back to type in more cool stuff. In the meantime here's a picture of a great new belt I created before the accident. The cool Frankenstein buckle was made by Lucky 13 Belt Buckles.

One thing I haven't exhibited much of are the dress slacks I've created. Dress slacks aren't terribly sexy, but pretty crucial. You need to wear them to work or the worshiping place of your choice. I tend to lean towards striped material myself because it means you mean business. A good, lean pinstripe should do the job, preferably with a black or dark brown background. In the pair shown below we have a dark brown pair with gold pinstripes in narrow, fine lines. Fat lines would look too comical, like a bad Ralph Bakshi cartoon.

In order to break the monotony of wearing something traditional like striped pants throw a few kinks here and there, so I designed a leather waistband with belt loops to this particular pair. It makes the slacks stand out a bit from the pack. The leather shouldn't be too tough or it'll fight the rest of the material, so a soft leather like lamb or suede will work best. By the way, I don't like to discuss politics, but I don't think West Hollywood's proposed ban on fur vending will succeed, given the poor economic situation in the country. Now isn't the time to place restrictions on what vendors can sell to improve the city's economy and raise sales tax revenue that can only benefit the idiots that run the City of West Hollywood.

The next pair is a cool black cotton material with solid purple stripes running through it. This material was so flash that even the cutter at Mood drooled over it. "Where did you find this???" His eyes were greener than the money I pulled out to pay for them. Needless to say, he's probably making a pair of his own slacks out of this awesome fabric. Now, normally, I would model these great pants as I always do, but I was a little torn about posing in them with my stitched up Frankenstein thumb. Then again, what could be more in the Halloween spirit?

BY THE WAY....that cool steak bag I posted pics of in my blog "Accessories Bought And Made" is now available at Etsy. Click here to buy if you're interested:http://www.etsy.com/listing/84890911/meaty-steak-bag

Baboon Dooley and the Hardcore Hall Monitors

2011-10-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

One of the inevitable things to emerge in any pop culture phenomenon is the proliferation of serious scholars and experts, and even something as low-rent as hardcore punk was not immune. By the early 1980’s you couldn’t crack open a punk fanzine without a self-appointed expert running down their version of history of punk. Even worse, they would force their yardstick criteria of what was admissible as punk and what wasn’t allowed, so an entire subculture that encouraged anarchy now had these hall monitors throwing down restrictive rules.

The fun was squeezed out by these Nimrods, always espousing clichés about supporting “The Scene”, whether it be by living a straight edge lifestyle, sharing everything you had to uphold some imaginary Socialist punk wonderland, or even worse, doing everything for free.

One of the few blasts of fresh air during this dark period were an indefatigable series of cartoons from a guy named John Crawford who mercilessly cut through all the punk rock double-talk and hardcore bullshit courtesy of a Neanderthal character named Baboon Dooley. According to ZineWiki, the punk fanzine Wikipedia, Mr. Crawford’s comic strip ran in over two hundred different fanzines, like Forced Exposure, Flipside, and Maximum Rock ‘N Roll, who eventually tired of his attack of said fanzine.

A typical Dooley comic strip would be titled a “Scene Report” and then satirize what was going down in Berkeley, D.C., Orange County, or any other hardcore hotbed. Dooley would come down there trying to freeload on free records, food, beer (unless he was fronting straight edge), or even a place to crash. Gimme gimme gimme, as Darby would say.

Other Dooley strips would flat out spoof popular figures on the published music scene, whether it be the self-titled Dean of Rock Critics, Robert Christgau, Bob Guccione, Jr., publisher of Spin Magazine, or even Mordam Records chief Ruth Schwartz.

Some strips simply showed a pair of simian-faced punks spouting inane rhetoric of punk rock principle in the most pedestrian form of didacticism possible. Needles to say, neither one bothered to listen to what the other one said. Speaking and not discussing, hearing but not listening.

Crawford's artwork was reminiscent of Edwin Pouncey aka Savage Pencil’s distinctive scrawly penciling style with a heavy-handed ink brush and screaming lettering. It definitely grabbed your attention in between the dull Homestead and SST Records ads.

While some of the humor may have gone overboard from time to time, I found a lot of these comics to be very funny and, dare I say it, punk rock in their efforts to burst the balloon of crushing self-importance and stuffiness that frankly ruined a “scene” that previously thrived on outrage and spontaneity.

French Crime Time

2011-10-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

It’s simply a matter of propinquity, but lately I’ve discovered a lot of great crime novels and movies this past summer, all produced in France. Nobody renders crime stories the way the French do. Their slant on noir is unique for two reasons I can think of:

1. They are the biggest fans of noir, bigger than America. Writers like Cornell Woolrich, Jim Thompson and David Goodis have enjoyed greater popularity there than in their home country. Many American noir novels have been adapted into film on a routinely regular basis, so as a result their influence on modern French crime writing is considerable; and,

2. The French have always suffused their noir with erotica, so in addition to all the cold-blooded misanthropy the story-telling serves heaping dollops of sex. Many of the books and movies listed below have strong sexual activity in them that serve the stories well.

One of my discoveries this past summer was the works of Sebastien Japrisot, a highly successful, award-winning writer who’s virtually unknown in the United States. That’s a shame, because he’s a brilliant story-teller and deserves to be read by more people. My favorite books by him are:

One Deadly Summer, the tale of a beautiful but amoral girl who moves into a small town and marries into a family that she believes played a role in brutally attacking her mother. In the course of her revenge there’s lots of Brigitte Bardot-styled sex shenanigans.

Trap For Cinderella, a tale of two girls, one rich and beautiful, the other poor and plain, trapped in a house fire in the South of France (where else?). One girl survives with her face reconstructed and her memory lost. Which girl survived the fire? An inheritance of millions is at stake, so if the poor girl survived she’ll require lots of training from an insane female guardian.

The Lady In The Car With Glasses And A Gun, a timid yet beautiful secretary drives off with the boss’s expensive American convertible, picking up hitchhiking gigolos near the South of France (here we go again!), having her way with them and finding a dead body in the trunk of the car.

Another great crime writer is Jean Patrick Manchette, whose novel Fatale is the bizarre tale of a female hitman losing her grip on sanity. She stops in a small upper-class village and foregoes the chance to blackmail the richest citizens after having a meltdown and simply kills them methodically, one after another. This one also had some surreal touches in them, as well, like the professor who serenely urinates all over the banquet room wall in one chapter.

Right around this time I also caught TCM’s Summer Under The Stars series on the day they highlighted crime star Jean Gabin. They screened Jean Renoir’s classic film, La Bete Humaine (Human Desire), a great noir with a brilliant performance by Gabin. The film has a recurrent theme of a speeding train during scenes of murder and lovemaking. The love interest is played by Simone Simon of “Cat People” fame, and she’s also very good in it.

Another Gabin film I saw was Georges Simenon’s The Night Affair, a hipster noir about a police inspector who falls in love with a strung-out jazz singer who frequents a beatnik night club. Made in the Fifties during Gabin’s older years, it has that weird French underground vibe with a TV detective show vibe (think “Johnny Staccato”) combined. I liked it a lot, and of course there’s lots of sexy Fifties gals like Nadia Tiller in it to keep it French and noir.

The French love for noir is the stuff of legend. Film critics have always professed their love for film directors like Anthony Mann, Robert Aldrich (“Kiss Me Deadly” being a big favorite), Sam Fuller, and many others, while upper-echelon directors like Francois Truffaut have directed noir classics like “Shoot The Piano Player”, “The Bride Wore Black”, and “Mississippi Mermaid”.

I really like the French spin on noir and intend to investigate more great stuff that hasn’t enjoyed enough popularity in our country. What we take for granted here in the States is a revered genre in France, and sometimes we need the superfans to remind us what an important art form it is.

Fearless Food Faves

2011-10-06T08:06:00.000-07:00

I’ll be the first to admit I’m not much of a foodie, but I know what works for me and what doesn’t. Poorly prepared Mexican food (99.9% in Los Angeles) always gets me sick with equally poor Chinese food running a close second. The best eats are the ones I discover at the market to prepare, and lately I’ve discovered a lot of great stuff I want to talk about.

I’m pretty fond of the Near East line of flavored couscous (http://www.neareast.com/#products/couscous). My favorite is the Mediterranean Curry flavor, but the Roasted Garlic & Olive Oil and Wild Mushroom & Herb flavors are excellent as well. They’re also the quickest cooking sides I’ve ever made. A full saucepan will cook in less than five minutes, pretty awesome.

Also on the Middle Eastern front is Tribe Hummus (http://www.tribehummus.com/) and Ralphs market Tabouli. You can probably get fresher and tastier from a specialty store, but for the folks that live out in the smaller cities this is the best option. Tribe makes a wide variety of flavored Hummus, but I’ve found that the regular classic recipe is still the tastiest.

Not being a big fan of salmon in general I found myself addicted to Trident brand Wild Alaskan Salmon Burgers (http://www.tridentseafoods.com/retail/products.php?id=537). They’re surprisingly easy to make and taste great even to a seafood hater like me. I think they’re formed firmly like a meaty hamburger so there’s no fragile flaking that you get with a standard fish fillet.

Gekkeikan Kobri Plum Wine (http://www.gekkeikan-sake.com/product.cfm?start=10&type=domestic) is a white wine that’s infused with plum flavoring and caramel so it’s the most golden-colored white wine money can buy. This plum wine isn’t for everyone, but it's so sweet and candy tasting it’s hard to resist. It’s got a fruity versatile taste that matches well with meat and fish alike. Dig in.

On the cooking front I’ve been using Armenian Cucumbers, aka The Snake Melon, because they stay crunchy longer than the average cucumber. I think this is due to the fact that it doesn’t hold as much water so it keeps longer. At any rate, I use these for my cucumber salads and I think they taste better than regular cukes, anyway.

These are a few of my favorite things I’ve been cooking and eating lately. It’s a great antidote to the eating-out blahs I’ve been experiencing. Cooking with these great products eliminates any kitchen nightmare you could possibly think of.

I leave you with a picture of some salt-stick rolls I baked last week. We couldn’t eat these breadly devils fast enough. Starch out!

The Lonely Goddess Ascends (red COFFEE Conclusion)

2011-09-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

When I regained consciousness something wet was running down my head. I was lying flat on my back strapped to a pair of black wings and looking up at Lieutenant Sparta and Detective Ted Braintree. There were a few police cars parked around us with their headlights puncturing the darkness. A few policemen were looking at a man lying on the ground in a pool of blood several feet away from me. He was dressed up like a scarecrow and didn’t seem to be moving.

Detective Braintree leaned down and looked at me funny.
“Don’t move a muscle. You’ve just survived a traumatic automobile accident. Do you know your name?”
"Of course I do. It’s Lois Angelus”. A sheet was draped over the prone figure, placed on a stretcher and carried away to an ambulance. “What’s happened to him?”
“I reckon he’s dead thanks to a gunshot through his face. I taught you well, Lois. You’re a regular Annie Oakley”.
I stared up at him looking puzzled.
“Don’t worry, kid”, he patted my arm. “We’ll get you the best medical attention the City of Los Angeles has to offer”. He smiled.
The last thing I heard was police car radios crackling loudly and policemen spitting, whistling and laughing. The last thing I saw was two nurses picking me up and putting me on a stretcher. Then I passed out again.
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I awoke in a white room wrapped up in a bolt of creamy fabric. A tube was connected to my arm and my head felt tight, like I was wearing a turban. The texture of this creamy fabric was definitely a cotton blend of some sort and felt like I was lying in a tub of cool butter.

The room was an atelier and occasionally a tailor’s form would roll in and stick a pin in me like I was some damn pin cushion. Other times it would call out the door and another tailor’s form would roll in on its wheels. They would both mumble words like “beautiful” once in a while. I also heard a lot of starched fabric rustling by my ears every time I was sleeping.

Another time I opened my eyes a little bit and squinted them to get a better look at a little girl standing by my doorway. She held a couple of dolls in her tiny hands.
“Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady?”
“She’s broke, just like when Betsy was broke and Pa had to fix her”.
“Betsy wants to stay with the broken lady”.
“Carol! Come back here! Don’t disturb the poor woman!”

The little blonde girl ran up to me and stared at me very seriously. “Betsy, take care of the broken lady”, she said quietly and left a tiny blonde doll by my right hip. Then she ran away.
“Mommy! Betsy’s going to take care of the broken lady!”
“Oh, Carol! How many times do I have to tell you not to speak to strangers?”
My eyes got heavy again and I passed out.
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“Oh, look, she’s waking up”, I heard a voice say to someone. My head hurt something awful when I moved it and reluctantly opened my eyes into clear white light. Lieutenant Lou Sparta and Detective Ted Braintree were sitting by my bed staring at me.

“How long have I been here?” I asked with my dry mouth. I smacked my lips to get some moisture and Teddy reached to the bed stead and poured a glass of water.

“You’ve only been here for a couple of days”, Lt. Sparta answered, twirling his hat in his hands. Teddy put the glass to my mouth, helping me drink. “You suffered a pretty hard concussion. We thought it would be best for you to rest here for a few”.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Teddy asked.
“My head hurts a little, but I think part of it’s these bandages on my head. They’re a little tight”.
“Oh, that’s okay. The doctor says they’re probably coming off tomorrow”.
“Well, that’s grand. How’s Ida?”
“She’s fine, Lois”, Lt. Sparta responded, “We rounded up all those thugs and got her to safety”.
“It’s a funny thing about those thugs”, Teddy said, “Our friend Shep Rogers had a little gang organized and they sort of squatted in that drive-in theatre that was getting built in the hills. After we carted those mugs off we investigated the grounds and found crates of guns and a list of prospective future victims. It was quite a list!”
“Well, we won’t have to worry about Rogers or his thugs again”, Sparta added. “Some of them even supplied us with all the missing links in their killing streak”.

“Oh, and by the way, Lois, do you notice anything different about me?” Teddy beamed.
“No, I can’t say that I have”.
“Well, you are now looking at Chief of Detectives Theodore Braintree”, he bragged, smiling.
“Why, that’s great, Teddy. Congratulations”.

“Excuse me, Miss, but there’s a two-person visitors limit to each patient”, I heard some matronly nurse say.
“But I’ll only be a minute!” I heard Ida’s voice.
“Miss, you’re not permitted-“
Ida burst in the room and ran over to the bed with a newspaper. “Lois, I know you don’t like to miss the society column for all the world. There’s an item about Myrna Loy you just HAVE to see!”
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave!” An old, mean nurse came racing in after Ida. There was no question why she wasn’t allowed to come in.
“Alright, Momma, keep your girdle on!” Ida followed her. “Page Three, Lois. Don’t miss it!”
“Why, thank you, Ida. The Herald-Examiner. My favorite. I can’t wait to read what that Myrna Loy did this time”. I picked up the paper and turned to page three.

The headline read, “LA COPS FOIL MILLIONAIRE MURDER PLOT”
“A reign of terror over Los Angeles’ richest model citizens ended Friday night by crusading Detective Theodore Braintree of the Los Angeles Police Department with the apprehension of a killer gang-“
“Oh, I hope she makes another movie with that dashing William Powell. They work so well together!” I read on. If I could make my smile freeze any harder on my face I swear it would have cracked.
A picture of Shep Rogers dead with a bullet hole through his face was posted next to a staff photo of Teddy. “Leader of the terror gang, calling himself The Grinning Scarecrow, was shot and killed by upstanding law enforcer Detective Braintree after refusing to surrender in a storm of gunfire”. I got sick to my stomach.
“That Asta is the cutest dog, isn’t he? That Nick and Nora, you’d think they were a real-life married couple!”
“Lt. Lou Sparta told reporters that Detective Braintree will surely be promoted to head his Department for his intrepid heroism. We applaud his efforts in apprehending The Grinning Scarecrow, Los Angeles’ most horrific killer”. My head hurt even worse than I imagined.
“Well, how about that!” I put the paper down. “Well, won’t that give that Jean Harlow a run for her money!”

Teddy got on his knees nervously, and now he was spinning his hat in his hands. “Gee, Lois, I was thinking. We could be even better than Nick and Nora Charles. With my crusading crime-fighting strength and your good looks we could make quite a team. We won’t need Asta, I have my cat Punchy. And just think, we’ll have babies and do it regular, and ordinary folks”.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Well, heck yeah, kid. I’m crazy about you and I hope you kinda like me a little bit. Whadda ya say?”
“What about Ida?”
“Well, the kids are gonna need a governess, and you know how those colored girls are good at sewing and cleaning and stuff”.
“I don’t know what to say, Teddy. I kind of like modeling, I don’t know if I’m ready for kids”.
“Well, that’s out. We’re gonna have so many kids, you won’t have to time to show off your legs anymore. Besides, I don’t want a bunch of dumb lugs ogling my wife, but we can talk about that later. We’ll have lots of time to talk about it”.

Sparta relaxed his posture in his chair and barked, “Come on, Miss Angelus, you’ve got the newly promoted Chief of Detectives for the LA Police Department on his knees. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll do it!” I smiled.
“Yipppee!” yelled Chief of Detectives Theodore Braintree, jumping for joy.
“Hahahhahahahahahahaha!” laughed Lt. Lou Sparta.
“Hahahhahahahahahahaha!” Detective Braintree laughed harder.
“Hahahhahahahahahahaha!” I laughed the hardest, looking at the two biggest saps I’ve ever seen.

___________________________________________________________

Long Beach, 6:10 AM, Monday morning. Ida Parker was already out of the taxicab and heading up the ramp to the ocean liner RMS Queen Elizabeth.
“Come on, Lois, we’re already late. Let’s go, we can’t miss our boat! They’re holding the ramp for us!”
I tipped the cabbie who took out our bags and then tipped the porter to lug the bags up the ship for me. “Lady, jeez, how many bags are you luggin' on board anyway?”
“Close enough for fashion”, I smiled.

I finally got up on deck and smiled at Ida, who was dressed smarter than I’ve ever seen her dress.
“Nice dress, Ida, but once we get to Paris I’m going to doll you up and make you the talk of the town”.
The boat started tooting and howling as it left the harbor.
“Tell me one more time what it’s going to be like in Paris”, Ida smiled.
“Again? How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Come on, you owe me”.
“Okay, one more time. Paris is filled with chic cafes, friendly people, food like you never tasted, fancy dresses, gorgeous jewelry and even better, the handsomest guys you ever did see. And what’s even better is they give a square break to folks like you. Why, they even made a colored girl a movie star in France”.
“Oh, Lois, you’re gonna be the biggest model in Paris, I'll swear to it”, Ida was beside herself with excitement.
“Yeah, I can hardly wait”, I said as the city of Los Angeles shrank further and further away from us in the distance.
Ida looked at me seriously for a moment. “It’s too bad the way things turned out between you and Teddy”.
I looked at the shifting aquamarine waves below us and sighed, “Well, you know what they say. I might have been born yesterday, but yesterday wasn’t April Fool’s Day. C’mon kid, let’s make nice with the ship’s Captain, he ain’t half bad lookin’ for an old guy. We could use a drink!”
We both brightened up and laughed. With the ocean sparkling like sequined fabric, the sky a lush blue bolt of silk and the sun shining like the brightest gold satin, I traded in the City of Angels for the City of Light, and the future was as bright as the sun.

The Los Angeles River (red COFFEE Chapter 15)

2011-09-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

It was getting onto midnight, and I was driving at break neck speed following a white line gleaming in the darkness. I was tailing a motorcycle and it left a white line from the tires running over concrete powder. There were only three problems: One, the white line was getting thinner and weaker, two, I had just stolen a police car, and; three, I was driving well above the speed limit, and I never drove a car before. All I could do was try to imitate the way cabbies drove whenever I rode them.

The white line looked like a ghost trail and dwindled to a few drops, but my quarry was ahead of me, a red Indian motorcycle. He must have seen me in his rear view mirror, because he picked up a broken piece of asphalt and smashed the chained lock holding a gate. He then kicked open the gate and drove down the ramp that led to the Glendale Narrows, the entrance to the Los Angeles River. VRRROOM>>>

I hit the brakes a little too hard and almost flew out the windshield. I’m going to have to tap the brakes a little softer next time. I looked down the ramp and saw him riding down to the river and I guess I had to follow him. Nuts!

The Los Angeles River is hardly a river, and least not certain parts of it because it’s bone dry and a wide stretch of concrete channeling clear across Los Angeles County. What I had ahead of me was the task of pursuing Shep the Scarecrow down a long concrete channel that runs for miles and has no connection to city streets unless you drive up a ramp that appears every few miles. So it was basically just him and me isolated from anyone nearby.

I drove down the ramp very carefully, almost steering off the steep ramp. This was my first time behind the wheel and I wanted to get the killer before I killed myself with bad driving.

As soon as I reached the surface of the river Shep the Grinning Scarecrow was gone by a few miles. He tore out as quickly as he could, so I stomped my foot on the accelerator and raced after him. The car occasionally slipped and slided around the road as there was still a weak trail of water running down the river, so while I was in hot pursuit the car would jerk in weird ways.

While I was racing down the river the radio dispatcher called over the police radio like some broadcast from Hell. “KGPL, Car 4DO68, please copy, over?” a man’s voice calmly requested over crackling distorted transmission. “KGPL, Car 4DO68, you have been called in as abandoned and/or stolen, please copy”. Either Detective Braintree or Lt. Sparta must have already called in the car as missing.

I caught up closer and closer to The Grinning Scarecrow and he leaned over behind to look at me and the slashed smile painted for a mouth on his mask was leering at me. He gave me a taunting look under that mask and I swore I heard him yell, “COME ON GIRL, COME GET ME!” GGGRRRRRWWWWW>>>The motorcycle growled ahead of me. I then made the biggest mistake ever; I thought it would be clever to take the car and spin it around in front of him and corner him against the wall. I got a little ahead of him and then spun the wheel to close him in and my wheels spun, I lost control of the steering wheel and the car slammed into the wall of the river. It was I who was now stuck.

GGGGGRRRRRWWWWWWW>>>>>The Grinning Scarecrow slowed his cycle down and scratched his chin thoughtfully as I revved the engine trying to pry myself out of the wall. I pumped and pumped the pedal but the engine as flooded. The auto groaned and coughed trying to get itself started. “Come on come on come on come on help me”, I whispered. The radio crackled and beeped loudly in my ear. In the rear view mirror I could see The Grinning Scarecrow pulling out a medium sized scythe out of his saddle bag and advancing towards me.

“Hell, this is too good!” he chuckled and clucked to himself. His grotesque grinning mask loomed larger and larger by my window until he jumped on top of my hood and began slamming the scythe into the windshield. BAMBANGBAM! As he beat against the windshield he cursed and screamed. “Open up the door, bitch, and accept your punishment!”

BAMBANGBAM! “I killed the money changers and now I’m going to kill The Queen Whore!” He beat away at the windshield which was cracking under his demolition. I stopped pumping for a few beats and then hit the accelerator. VRROOO>>>>The car reversed from the wall, sending Shep spinning off the hood, dropping his scythe, his head hitting the pavement.

“I’m way out of my league, I’d better just look for a cop nearby and get out of this lousy pit”, I said, looking for a ramp that would get me out of the river. I drove down the concrete river looking from side to side to find an exit out. I don’t know what came over me, you can call it exhaustion, maybe shock, but as I drove down the river I saw dark figures of dead men in tuxedos hanging from trees. Some of them looked like photographs of the victims they showed me at the police station. Contorted faces of strung-up millionaires flashed by me as I drove quickly down the river.

The radio continued to crackle, feed back and squeak at an ear- piercing volume. . “KGPL, Car 4DO68, please copy, over?” The dispatcher’s voice sounded a littler more impatient this time. GGGRRRWWWWWW! A growling motorcycle noise overcame the sound of the radio, and for good reason. The Grinning Scarecrow was now pursuing me! Leaning over his bike with scythe in one hand, he began pounding on my rear fender, banging it and bending it.

He finally overcame me and beat on my windows, cracking them. I drove faster and faster, but it didn’t help. I helplessly watched him shatter the windshield and my vision was distorted from the broken glass. The he did something I didn’t count on: he took his scythe and chopped my right front tire.

The car spun out of control and I hit the brakes, which only made the car spin around even worse. The tire hissed and the car flipped several times until it landed upside down. My head banged against the steering wheel and I almost fainted from the blow. Smoke was pouring out of the hood and I was afraid of being trapped in a flaming automobile so I crawled out from my window.

I heard the motorcycle stop and The Grinning Scarecrow slowly unmounted his bike with the scythe held behind his shoulders. The blow from the steering wheel made me fade in and out of consciousness, so I had to fight to stay alert. “Reckon I never did any butcherin’ but there’s a first time for everything”, he mumbled as he ambled towards me.

He stood several feet ahead of me with his scythe ready to attack as I lay on the ground in my black wings. He came closer until he stood above me. “Too bad you got such a pretty face as I see I’m gonna have to chop it clean off your head. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. No more hangings, just chop y’all up”.

I reached down to my breasts. “That won’t work, lady. Once a whore, always a whore”, he spat, and then lifted his scythe to kill me. “Zero in on one object - just like an eagle, Lois”, I heard someone say. So I pulled out the Colt .45 taped inside my bra and shot straight into the smile on The Grinning Scarecrow’s mask. The last thing I heard was noise from the car radio. THKSQKTITCHSKRL!....

Then everything went black.

Smokin' Like A Villain

2011-09-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

I’m not going to justify my enjoyment of smoking and drinking because it will inevitably result in a debate with some blue nose, usually female, who takes great pride in leading a supposedly sanitized lifestyle. The argument usually culminates on how the sanitized female will live forever, which of course raises my favorite question: Who the fuck wants to live forever? What are you looking forward to? Economic recovery? World peace? Another awful contest show on television?

Now that I’ve got that off my chest, I want to talk about smoking. I first started smoking when I worked as a clerk in bustling downtown Los Angeles in the 1970’s. Girls in skimpy outfits stood on street corners around 5 o’clock handing out free packs of Winston cigarettes, and they just wanted to get rid of them sitting on those trays hanging around their necks. I liked Winston a lot, and soon tried out different brands to taste the difference in the tobacco.

I tried Kool menthols which made my sinuses freak out worse than pot, I tried lights which felt like smoking toilet paper, and I even tried old school unfiltered brands like Lucky Strike, Pall Mall, and Chesterfields, which Captain Beefheart once said should come with your own iron lung. I stayed with Winstons.

Owning cigarettes was only part of the ritual: Zippo lighters were the next step. I got a great one with an image by Robt Williams that Amphetamine Reptile used to sell back in the day. They sold lighters with images by Pizz, Dennis Worden, Gary Panter and Kaz, to name a few. Then you had to have a rockin’ cigarette case because those crush-proof boxes were garbage. I got a nice metal one with a Chinese dragon on it to match my Chinese dragon bracelet. A vice is incomplete until one acquires the proper paraphernalia for it.

One of my favorite stops in Palm Springs used to be The Tinder Box which had at least three cigar stores on every block. There’s a good one in West Hollywood, too, and I always like checking out all the smoking paraphernalia, like smoking stands for your sofa for that old lounge vibe. Cigarette holders are pretty weird, too, the longer the better. Some of the best smoking paraphernalia can be found at truck stops, so on that next trip to Vegas keep your eyes peeled for that Winchester rifle lighter.

I do confess to calling a moratorium on smoking several years ago when I started chain-smoking and having choking fits, which I no longer do and no longer have. When I did chain smoke, I didn't do it as weirdly as I've seen some people do it, which is lighting the next cigarette with the butt of the previous one that's burning out. Even as a smoker I found that practice creepy, quite frankly. These days things are different. I have one coffin nail a day and even skip a few days here and there. It’s not that terribly important like it was 20 years ago, so when I skip a few days I don’t start nervously twitching or overeating.

But if there's anything weirder than chain smokers it's the actual haters themselves. While some people object to cigarette smoke in patios they think nothing of toting their dogs. If there's an odor more offensive than Marlboro Lights it's the smell of a wet dog when I eat. Then there are those hipster parents that shoot daggers at me when I light up in front of their children like I'm the devil. These are the same clowns that think nothing of dragging their kids to the supermarket at 10 pm. Perhaps these Orwellian moms and dads are bugged because the kids look a little excited to see my cigarette case, lighter, and other tobacco toys in action. Roll over, Joe Camel!

The most extreme case of smoking hatred might be the time someone posted a movie review on the Independent Movie Data Base (iMDB.com) ripping into an old Cary Grant movie because he counted people lighting up 35 times in the film. His review didn't critique the nice set design, cool Edith Head wardrobe or dazzling performance by Cary Grant, no - cigarettes were lit up and smoked 35 times in this movie, so he hated it. What a freak!

Why do people smoke anyway? Why do people consider this recreation relaxing? I’ve always felt that smoking is the only time one can breathe deeply in a social situation and not look like a total freak. The calm inhaling of tobacco makes the body relax and stimulate the mind. So the next time you see me and my friends standing twenty feet in front of a building out on the sidewalk puffing away it’s because we’re chillin’ while the healthy blue noses are insanely screaming at each other driving on the road.

Rip, Rig and Panic

2011-09-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

Back in the Pleistocene era of punk rock (1977-1979) the top fanzines of the West Coast were Slash (Los Angeles) and Search & Destroy (San Francisco), which were both written and designed by people that worked in the field of graphic arts, cinema and publishing. This meant that both fanzines not only covered the new music that was emerging at the time, but also covered cutting edge artists, filmmakers and performance artists. Performance artists got an extraordinary amount of coverage in Slash/Search & Destroy, and a lot of these artists were every bit as exciting as any punk band.

In an era of Siouxise Sioux, The Slits, and Cindy Sherman, no other artist embodied femininity gone awry better than Johanna Went. Playing every feminine role with the manic ferocity of a mental patient, Went portrayed nuns bathed in blood carrying crucifixes, violent housekeepers throwing flour around the stage with baby dolls tied around her neck, speaking in tongues, babbling and shrieking into a microphone. A terrific jazz-noise combo would punctuate her whirling dervishes, creating an aural wallpaper as disturbing as her I Am Woman nightmarisms. She even released a great EP of jazz-noise bludgeon called “Hyena” (available on eMusic with bonus tracks, yes!).

If there was a British Music Hall act from Hell it would be The Kipper Kids. Two stocky men who favored a cross between British lorry drivers and The Blue Meanies from “Yellow Submarine”, a performance from them would include: a boxing match between them clad only in jock straps – who would you root for, Harry Kipper or Harry Kipper?, a version of The Velvet Underground’s “Heroin” on ukulele, or an argument between them in a language only they knew. And of course, a lot of blood, animal entrails, food product and fluids all over each other, which is the sort of “Johnny B. Goode” or “New York, New York” of the performance art world. No performance artist could complete their show without making a mess all over themselves.

But performance art was more than just a spectator sport. When I lived at The Masque (1978) I once woke up to the sounds of metal being banged around, kind of like a garbage can fighting its way out of an alley. When I got up to see what the racket was all about I saw Z’ev auditioning on stage, which meant him hurling a gauntlet of metal cans, pots and scrap metal all tied together and creating a cacophonous metallic soundscape. I thought he was great, but I wanted to jam, so I busted out my saxophone and walked into the hall blowing some wicked atonal tenor saxophone. Z’ev looked shocked and probably a little pissed that I was playing along, but Brendan Mullen and company were entertained by my contributions.

Word got around The Canterbury (where I lived after the Masque) that Hermann Nitsch was doing his“Orgien Mysterien Theater” (trans: Theatre of Orgies and Mysteries) at The Otis Institute of Art and if you had a horn you were invited to play. My neighbors Don Bolles of The Germs and Pat Delaney of The Deadbeats were going but I couldn’t make it, and I was bummed. The day after the performance Pat had dried blood all over him, and he said I missed a great show. Naked men and women were tied to crucifixes behind hacked animal carcasses as Nitsch poured blood and cow entrails all over them while the horn players blew a wall of noise. I kicked myself all week for missing that one!

Another phenomenon that was fairly big at the time was tons and tons of loft parties in the warehouse district in Downtown LA where all you had to do was show up with your horn and blow. Sometimes with a band, sometimes just by yourself along to prepared tapes, it was important for the maximum effect of the loft party. Nobody played crummy rap records, it was all about the originality of the environment and even if youdidn’t know the host of the party you were welcome to play. Shit done changed after all these years. People need to loosen up!

At the risk of writing yet another whiny piece about how cool the scene used to be I just want to testify that there was a time when punk rock was more than just a lot of bands and party merchandise. It was a living, breathing wall of sound and vision, and I’ll always fondly remember those days of watching, listening, and even participating in the sonic outrage of the Seventies.

"A Salty Dog" - Procol Harum (1969)

2011-09-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

It all happened one beautiful Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills. I walked into the Burberry boutique to view their fiendishly fashionable Prorsum line, and the first thing that hit me was “The Wreck of The Hesperus” by Procol Harum booming over the Burberry speaker system. So sweepingly cinematic, it brilliantly complimented the dramatically beautiful and quintessentially British Burberry fashions in the boutique. Matthew Fisher’s airy vocal melodiously drifted through the room, making us all feel as if we were out to sea, singing the maritime lyrics of Keith Reid:

“We’ll hoist a hand, becalmed upon a troubled sea

“Make haste to your funeral”, cries the valkyrie

We’ll hoist a hand or drown amidst this stormy sea

“Here lies a coffin”, cries the cemetery, “You will surely see”…

Majestic English horns blew fanfares while Robin Trower’s guitar conjured an endless seascape as 1,000 strings laid a melodious pattern of sheer ardor. I almost forgot I was supposed to be looking at the new Burberry Prorsum line.

It’s been an eternity since music had the power to transcend its environment, but then again I haven’t owned “A Salty Dog” in years. Although I enjoyed “Shine On Brightly” I forgot how unique “A Salty Dog” was, one of the great albums that never really received the attention it deserved.

Procol Harum released their third album in 1969, an album so eccentric, a much too British maritime-themed album that it turned American listeners away. 1969 was a year for outrageous album covers, i.e. Blind Faith, Trout Mask Replica, and the great Blodwyn Pig cover that still disturbs people, etc. “A Salty Dog” featured a take-off on the Player’s Navy Cut cigarette box; rather than show a respectable English sailor a shaggy gob of indeterminate origin wearing a cap with the name “Herod” stitched on top. That got my five dollars in a flash. I thought it was cooler looking than some ugly naked girl holding a toy plane, really.

Most of the tracks on the album are dirges, the most notable one being the title track, the lyrics articulating feelings of hopelessness on a restless and poorly charted sea. While the keyboards and strings play staccato minor notes, Gary Brooker sings mournfully,

“Across the straits, around the horn: how far can sailors fly?

A twisted path, our tortured course, and no one left alive…”

“We sailed for parts unknown to man, where ships come home to die,

No lofty peak, nor fortress bold, could match our captain’s eye…”

Ironically, while many of the songs allude to distress and despair aboard the ocean blue, the lyrics also define the despair of drug addiction. “The Devil Came From Kansas” reflects these feelings:

“There’s a monkey riding on my back, he’s been there for some time,

He says he knows me very well but he’s no friend of mine…”

“For the turning and the signpost and the road which takes you down,

To that pool inside the forest in whose waters I shall drown…”

While Gary Brooker leads a monkish sounding choir chanting the chorus, Robin Trower’s blistering metal guitar screams over a tattoo of tribal drums, setting this anti-Wizard of Oz fable in a tail-spin with descriptions of “a dark cloud just above us” and “for the sins of those departed and the ones about to go”.

The lost-at-sea analogy as drug damaged casualty is also expressed in the blues dirge of “Crucifiction Lane” (dig the pun):

“Tell the helmsman veer to starboard, bring this ship around to port,

And if the sea was not so salty I could sink instead of walk,

In case of passing strangers who are standing where I fell,

Tell the truth: you never knew me, and in truth it’s just as well”.

In spite of the fact that the tempo to every song is slow like the languid waves of a calm sea (with the exception of “Kansas” and “Hesperus”) there is enough sonic seafaring to keep the record from sounding like one monotonous moan. I don’t know why I set this one to the side, but I’m glad it’s back on my deck. And to think, a trip to Burberry Beverly Hills made it all possible. I wonder what they’re playing tonight?

March of the Scarecrows (red COFFEE Chapter 14)

2011-08-26T17:19:00.000-07:00

There we were, the three of us, the cowboy, the blackbird and the lumberjack all piled into the front seat of a police car headed after a man who abducted my friend who impersonated me tonight. If we didn’t stop him in time he would definitely kill my friend, thinking it was me. Detective Scott was flooring it through the coal black Hollywood night.

“The valet said an angel and a jack o’ lantern ran out and grabbed an unparked white Buick. The jack o’ lantern shoved the angel into the car and locked it. When he turned around they took off”, Detective Scott, the lumberjack reported.

“How are we going to catch up with them if we don’t know where they’re headed?” I, the blackbird, asked.

“Simple. This is a pretty quiet area at night and a white Buick’ll stick out like a sore thumb”, Detective Braintree, the cowboy, chuckled.

We drove further up the Los Feliz hills towards the Griffith Park area when Detective Scott turned his head to the left and slowed down.

“Did you see that, chief?”

“Hell, no. What gives?”

“I just saw the back end of a white car climb the hill”.

“Follow that Buick!”

We went down Los Feliz and turned up the side street and sure enough there was a white Buick racing up the road. Since the street was dimly lit the luminous white car looked like some unholy ghost floating up the road. Detective Scott stomped on the accelerator and the Buick noticed and increased its speed, too. It turned a dark corner and as soon as we reached it the Buick was gone and we found ourselves in a large dark field with a huge construction site.

A large sign was pitched out in front that said

DRIVE-IN THEATRE COMING SOON!
A NEW EXPERIENCE IN MOVIE-GOING ENTERTAINMENT!

ENJOY A PICTURE SHOW IN THE COMFORT OF YOUR AUTOMOBILE!!

COMING SOON: SPENCER TRACY IN ‘DANTE’S INFERNO’

Walls were already pitched up in front with a narrow entrance to allow cars to enter.

“Movies in your car? What the heck?” Detective Scott pushed his wool cap back.

“I’ll bet that car drove right inside that construction site”, I offered.

“Drive on in, Scott”, Braintree ordered.

We drove in past a few work horses and, sure enough the white Buick was parking right by a huge wall that looked like a movie screen.

“Let’s get ‘em, we got the mug cornered”, Scott said. Just as he said that a dozen men in scarecrow outfits emerged from the shadows to converge upon the automobile.

“Nix, nix”, Braintree almost punched Scott in the arm. “We hang back here and see what happens”.

“What are you talking about?” I cried. “Can’t you see they’re going to kill her?”

“Nuts, there’s too many of them. Radio for back up, there’s gotta be almost twenty of those spookies walkin’ around this joint”.

“Check! KGPL Car 3JA45, do you read me?” Scott called into the receiver.

“We’ve got to stop them, please, Teddy”, I grabbed Braintree.

“Let me check this out for a second”.

What followed next looked like something out of a nightmare. Ida, dressed like me in an angel costume was dragged out of the car by Shep Rogers with her arms tied behind her back. The scarecrows stood around watching Shep, the head scarecrow, shove her towards the movie screen. A man handed him a rope and Shep put it around her neck, accidentally knocking off her blonde wig, revealing a smooth head of black hair. Everyone got quiet and Rogers stopped what he was doing.

“Oh boy, this doesn’t look good”, Braintree grumbled nervously.

Ida looked like she was being asked a lot of questions and she looked nervously around her. Rogers then ripped her sleeve off, revealing coffee-colored skin under her pale white disguise.

“They found her out. They know she’s a ringer”, I started for the car door.

She didn’t answer their questions, so undaunted, the scarecrows decided to hang her anyway. “I can’t sit by and watch them kill my friend!”

I opened the car door, and the two detectives jumped a yard.

“Lois! Lois! Come back here, what do you think you’re doing?” Braintree tried grabbing me but I slid out too quickly.

I grabbed the patrol light from the car and pointed it down the field at the mob, which got their attention. Then I pointed it under my face.

“It’s me you want, isn’t it? Free the girl and I’ll turn myself over!” I yelled. A few men ran towards me and I could see Ida getting dumped to the ground. As soon as the scarecrows got as close as ten feet away from me, Detective Braintree got out of the car, pulled out his cannon and shot several rounds at the feet of the men.

“Now hold it right there, boys. Give yourselves up and maybe we’ll go easy on you. What do ya say?” Braintree yelled. A rock sailed from out of the darkness and smashed the window of the car.

“God dammmit!” Scott yelled, throwing down his wool cap and pulled out of the car with a small rifle and opened fire on the mob. The mob scattered at the gunfire. “Los Angeles Police Department, you’re all under arrest!”

“Careful, you’re gonna hit Ida”, I warned them.

“Let go of the girl!” Braintree yelled across the filed.

“Come get her, Police Department”, yelled Rogers.

Braintree looked at me. “See what you got me into?” Before I could answer him he and Scott began walking towards the darkness where the mob was lighting torches and grabbing scythes and axes. The scarecrows began marching towards the detectives, and I could see the two men giving each other signals to shoot to kill.

I heard a faint automobile engine growling behind me. I turned around and saw four police cars coming towards the construction site entrance, and ran out to signal them. I waved them in. “Over here, quickly!”

The area was quickly flooded with the high beams of four police cars with policemen pulling out machine guns and opening fire on the mob. Rogers ran behind the screen and changed out of his jack o’ lantern mask and back into his scarecrow mask with the twisted smile. I ran for him as the police fought the mob, with several men getting shot for their trouble. When a policeman tells you to stop, you stop.

No one could get close enough to me as I ran by the side of the field. I felt like some black-winged football player heading for a touchdown. I saw myself getting closer and closer to Rogers.

“Retreat, Detectives”, Lt. Lou Sparta commanded from his bullhorn by the squad car. “We are going to administer tear gas. I repeat, retreat, Detectives”.

I kept running towards Rogers, but he jumped on a motorcycle and sped right by me, away from the crowd, and out of the field.

I watched him ride out leaving a trail of powder from his tires. I ran back to the end of the field and jumped into our car with the cracked windshield. In the distance I could see two police officers untie Ida and drag her away from the oncoming tear gas attack. Now that she’s out of danger I have to finish the job. I turned the car key and squealed the tires, jamming out of the construction site.

“Hey! That’s a police car! Come back here!!!” Sparta yelled at me.

I pressed my high heeled party shoe on the accelerator on the trail of white powder marks from a single tire. I was after a madman. Unfortunately, I never drove a car before in my life.

Fancy Dress (red COFFEE Chapter 13)

2011-08-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

I remembered that the society column in the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner had the nerve to publish the guest list for the masquerade party thrown for designer King Vivian scheduled for tonight, so I planned ahead. I had a feeling a certain dangerous, uninvited guest might show up so a bit of subterfuge was in order.

Since it was a masquerade party I dressed up as a black bird, my pale blonde skin glowing luminous against the black feathers on my dress, long opera gloves and matching headdress and mask. The task at hand was disguising a half-cast black girl like Ida Parker to look just like me. If that wasn’t the hardest disguise to pull off, nothing was.

“You won’t be completely covered in white, just your face, arms, some leg, and, voila!” I helped her with her outfit, a silver angel with wings.

“I’ll be glowing in the dark”, she complained.

“That’s the point, how else are we gonna catch this creep? You have to be my decoy”.

“I don’t know why I agree to these things. I must have rocks in my head”.

“No, you’re just a good friend. Put this mask on!”

“I hardly even know you. Why am I putting myself in danger like this for a semi-stranger?” She put the silver mask on.

“You’ll be catching a killer, just like in the gangster movies. Teddy’ll be there to keep an eye on you. Here’s your blonde wig, Ida. Get a look at you! Why you’re looking more and more like me by the minute”.

I helped her into some 3” high heels so she can match me height wise since I was a pretty tall bird.

“Well, if I’m not a regular Svengali, kid. Walk over to the mirror and get yourself an eyeful. Why, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you!”

Ida reluctantly sashayed over to the mirror, and practically jumped at her image in pale skin and blonde hair. “My mother wouldn’t want to recognize me!”

We took an expensive cab ride with our wings folded up to the Lovell Health House on Dundee Drive. If you haven’t been to this house it’s a nutty kind of place: imagine a bunch of boxes on top of each other but messy like in a shoe store where the boxes are all crooked and ready to crash down on you and the whole thing’s held up on stilts. This was the joint for King Vivian's soiree.

Mr. and Mrs. Lovell were hosting the party, of course, and they’re strong health nuts. There were classy tonic bottles lined up in a row for all the guests. A very healthy, fresh-faced Nordic guy in a boiled suit handed us our bottles.

“Tonic – for your health! Healthy bodies, healthy minds for a strong

America

!”

We ambled over to a corner of the room away from all the rich swells. I pulled a flask out of my wings and spiked our drinks. “For our health!” we clinked bottles, toasting each other.

I lifted the beak strapped to my mouth and took a relaxing swig, and then stopped. “Do you hear that record? What are they playing?”

“I don’t know, sounds like some long hair music. Why?”

I listened closer. Drat, it was that record again.

“It’s Anitra’s Dance from ‘Peer Gynt’. Jiggers, I can’t get away from that lousy tune. I’m going to take that record off and break it!” I started towards the sound of the phonograph, but Ida the silver angel pulled me away.

“Nix, nix, that’s the rye talking”.

The room was getting more and more crowded with people. I couldn’t help thinking that our target, one Mr. Shep Rogers, was lurking about somewhere. After all, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting some well-heeled big shot there. King Vivian got around.

“Lois Angelus! Back from the dead!” King Vivian ran up to Ida, resplendent in a well-tailored, spangly matador outfit. “And how fitting, as an angel!”

“Uh-hum!” Ida coughed, looking at me with fear in her eyes poking through the mask.

“Lois dear”, I lisped, flapping my wings, “You promised me you’d show me the powder room”.

“Uh-Hum”, Ida already ran towards a dark room down the hallway, her angel wings scraping against the ceiling. King Vivian stared at me.

“I thought you had to use the powder room”.

I spun around and raced after Ida.

A cowboy in a mask floated around the room and approached me. His lips looked familiar.

“Psst…Teddy”, I whispered.

“Lois, is that you?”

“Of course. Say, there’s a mighty suspicious character walking around here, dressed like a lumberjack. He looks kinda like our man Rogers”.

Detective Braintree laughed. “Boy, I’d hate to have you pick a mug in a line-up. That’s one of my guys!”

“Well, he does look like our man”.

“I’m keeping a close watch and so’s he. Are you sure he’s gonna be here?”

“Sure I’m sure. My feminine intuition’s driving me crazy”.

“You said it!”

I started for the bedroom Ida was headed to, but immediately got pulled back by Teddy. “Say, Lois, let’s have a quick kiss in between crime chasin’”, Teddy clutched me. I pecked him like a bird.

“There, are you happy?”

“Say, you don’t have to peck like a bird, even if you’re dressed like one. Make this one count!” Teddy leaned in. I glanced behind me and noticed that the bedroom door was closed.

I gave Teddy a matinee idol kiss. “Okay, Valentino? Now get back to work”.

“Awww”.

After our clutch the creepy song from Peer Gynt started playing, "In The Hall Of The Mountain King". I glided over to the bedroom and tried the door. It was locked. The next thing I heard was a weird, scuffling sound with things banging around inside. Nobody really heard much because the music was loud and the room was set far from the living room area. I jiggled the door knob and got nervous.

“Ida! Ida! Open up! Come on, open the door, it’s me!”

No answer.

Since the door wouldn’t budge I finally gave up and decided to find Teddy. I collared him while he spun a six gun in his hand like a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy.

“Teddy, Ida’s in the bedroom, but I’m locked out”.

“What do ya mean?”

“Ida’s in the bedroom with him!”

Braintree signaled to the lumberjack across the room, who joined us towards the bedroom, attracting everyone’s attention for a few seconds, which predictably passed back into their socializing.

“I hope the home owners aren’t anywhere around. I caught hell for doing this the last time”, Braintree pulled out a long file from his holster and jimmied the door open, not without tearing out some of the door sill along with it.

Braintree and the lumberjack jumped into the room and pulled out their guns to an unoccupied but messy bedroom.

“Look, chief, there’s signs of a struggle”, the lumberjack pointed to a fallen dresser and torn bed sheets.

“Yeah, she put up a fight”, he scanned the wreckage, running over to the open balcony. “Get a load of this!”

We ran out to the balcony and saw a line of torn bed sheets knotted together in a link for escape out the back.

“Well, Lois, your feminine intuition paid off”.

I broke out into a cold sweat. “Teddy, what are we going to do? We have to find Ida. She’s my only friend”.

“What about me?”

“Why, you’re more than just a friend”, I wrapped my wings around me.

“That tears it”, the lumberjack grunted. “I’ll get the car, but pronto!”

Give Booze A Chance

2011-08-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

This is a promotional sticker for Suzi Quatro's album on Bell Records in 1974. That alone is funny because Bell Records was known for having wholesome, bubblegum acts on their label like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. Once glitter rock hit America Bell Records cashed in on The Sweet, dropping them after one album, Gary Glitter, picking up Mud and Showaddywaddy for singles only, and Ms. Quatro.

You'd never believe it nowadays but there was a time when a girl pictured in a leather jacket and leather trousers was automatically dismissed as a "dyke" regardless of what her sexual persuasion was. Somehow her appereance dressed in something less than girly was threatening to the arena-rock sensibilties of some. When I looked around for the latest Suzi Quatro single at Tower Records on the Sunset Strip the artist file card said "Suzi 'Dyke' Quatro". Gee, I wonder why they went out of business. But Suzi had the last laugh; her first LA appearance at The Whiskey A Go-Go was sold out and she was awesome.

Here's a flyer from a memorable punk gig at The Masque featuring The Skulls. The late Marc Moreland used to have his clothes torn off him while he played wild, screaming psycho leads on his Gibson Flying V. Sometimes it got so bad all he had left on him was a pair of shredded boxer shorts and sneakers. Once even the shorts came off and he ended up draping himself in the US flag previously standing in the corner proudly. I got to sit in with The Skulls for awhile and it was a great experience.

It was also one of the very first shows played by my band, Arthur J. and The Gold Cups. We were a punk-rock big band that played skewered covers of all kinds, like The Soft Machine's "We Did It Again", which we played ten different times during our 30-minute set, pissing punks off in ways they thought they were too impervious to be irritated. Some of the other boys in the band included Geza X on guitar, Brendan Mullen on drums, Hector Penalosa from The Zeros on bass, and a host of others.

I remember reading the fine print on the Creem Magazine masthead where it said they aren't responsible for returning unsolicited contributions, which to me meant they didn't exactly refuse them, so I sent a few album reviews to Creem in 1972. It seemed pretty important at the time, because back then Creem Magazine was the best rock magazine around, reporting on bands like The Stooges and Roxy Music, which their larger counterparts Rolling Stone Magazine refused to acknowledge. Well, maybe my reviews weren't the greatest ever written, but they couldn't be any worse than a lot of the in-joke nonsense they used to publish. At least I got this rejection letter from them that was sent on cheaply xeroxed stationery. What a bunch of skinflints. I guess they needed the money to buy dope for the next J. Geils Band arena concert. I wondered what kind of stationery they used at Circus Magazine.
(Click on image for enlargement)

Rebecca's friend Jane painted her house in San Francisco as a shrine to her favorite band The Beatles. She obviously loved every phase that these talented chaps from Liverpool went through, as you can see. First of all I just want to say that her parents are the hippest people on the planet for allowing her to paint this amazing tribute all over their home. What makes this piece so brilliant is that the band image placement is proportionate to every phase of their careers, so you have the early "Hard Day's Night" Beatles down by the basement (early period), the 1966 Al Brodax - King Features Syndicate cartoon show Beatles (complete with crocodile) towards the middle, and then the 1968 Yellow Submarine Beatles way up on top, complete with "Paul Is Dead" reference. Three of The Beates look healthy but obviously Paul's face is painted red because it's all bloody from that alleged car crash.

After awhile the house missed a few upgrades and even The Beatles started to look shabby, so the neighbors began leaving notes on their front door offering to paint over this shrine, even offering to supply the paint for free. And to think, I thought people from San Francisco loved great art. By the way, don't bother trying to find this place in SF because it's long gone, just like the boys themselves.

BTW, if this was my home I'd have a few quadrophonic speakers set up in front of the house blasting Beatles music all day, every phase of their careers from the Tony Sheridan - Cavern days to the Sgt. Pepper period to the Dead Paul Vs. Yoko Husband period (1970). I'd even throw in Ringo's "Sentimental Journey" album and the "Don't Worry Kyoko" masterpiece from Toronto. That would really give the neighbors something to talk about.

Masters of Illusion: Jewish Magicians

2011-08-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

The Skirball Cultural Center is a museum located far up the Santa Monica Mountains, so high up it’s located beyond Bel Air and The Getty Museum. The museum is located in an area is so remote it defies credibility but there is nothing so incredible as the world of magic, which is why I went there. The Skirball hosted an exhibit on Jewish magicians of the early 20th century titled “Masters of Illusion”. I thought it was a wonderful show.

In addition to beautiful show posters for magicians as diverse as Kellar, Jean-Eugene Robert Houdin, Goldin and the great Houdini there were props from the original acts, including magic wands, trick cards and balls, restraints and the inevitable strait-jacket. Magic as a form of popular entertainment was at its peak around the late 19th-early 20th century thanks to Vaudeville, Music Halls and Carnivals. Their greatest rival was this new thing called movies, which eventually signed up Harry Houdini who starred in several mystery-sci fi serials, which were screened at The Skirball that afternoon.

A lot of pieces were on loan from Ricky Jay, a great magician who’s worked in millions of movies like “House of Games” and “The Grifters”, the ultimate sleight-of-hand movies you need to catch up on. Others were loaned out from The Magic Castle, an invitation-only club that exclusively showcases magic acts.

Many anecdotes on Houdini were posted at the exhibit, but my favorite was the one about Houdini’s attendance at a séance at writer Arthur Conan Doyle’s home. Doyle’s wife was a big fan of the occult and conducted a séance where Houdini’s mother supposedly contacted him from the grave. Houdini was skeptical of the ceremony and patiently sat through the whole bogus affair. Needless to say, the ceremony reached a new pitch of outrage when after the séance Mrs. Doyle handed him a letter “written” by his mother from the great beyond. It was in English; strike one, Houdini’s mother only spoke to him in Hungarian, their native language. It also had a crucifix scrawled on it; strike two, Houdini was a rabbi’s son, so he came from an orthodox Jewish home. Houdini exposed Mrs. Doyle as a fraud and doubled his efforts at exposing fraudulent séances, many at the time targeted at bilking rich widowers of their money, as fictionalized in the great movie “Nightmare Alley”.

I don’t think magic will ever leave us as a major entertainment form. We still have conjurers like Penn & Teller and that weird TV goth guy whose name escapes me still doing the sleight of hand, and some people are dumb enough to believe Harry Potter’s a real magician, so the art of magic still lurks among us.

Another exhibition recently attended was the “Beauty Culture” show at the Annenberg Photography Space in Century City. I thought the Annenberg was a gorgeous space to view photography. On display were diverse images from the past century with icons either represented by movie stars, i.e. Marilyn, Bardot, Harlow, Audrey, etc. or supermodels, i.e. Twiggy, Jean Shrimpton, Lauren Hutton, Heidi Klum, etc. I enjoyed discovering photographers I was previously unaware of, like Horst P. Horst and the amazing Marvin Sokolsky = check out his floating balloon series, absolutely amazing. And as I said there was diversity in images of beauty, whether it was photos of tribal beauties, mid-century models still working into their seventies and plus-sized beauties, to name a few. The show runs through November, admission is free, and is highly recommended.

The Clicking of 1000 Typewriters (red COFFEE Chapter 12)

2011-07-28T12:10:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-07-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-14T05:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-08T05:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Click on image for maximum results:

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.

Click on image for maximum results:

Accessories Bought and Made

2011-07-01T05:00:00.001-07:00

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.

Angels Flight (red COFFEE Chapter 10)

2011-06-24T05:00:00.001-07:00

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’s you learn to throw like that?”

“I was the star pitcher for the Kansas City NegroWomens 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

2011-06-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-06-09T16:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Rock & Roll Confidential Part 6

2011-05-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

As far as I'm concerned punk rock started with this Craig Godlis photograph published in Andy Warhol's Interview in 1975 depicting Television collaborators Tom Verlaine and Richard Hell in their most raggedly ragged ramshackle glory. Their music fell short of their wild looks but this photo pretty much lit the fuse to what was to be The Sex Pistols look and what eventually would become "punk fashion".

Here's an ad for The Mercer Arts Center from The Village Voice during the summer of 1972. If you look down at The Oscar Wilde Room you'll notice a bill for "The Dolls of N.Y." (!). It doesn't mention the other acts performing like Suicide, KISS, Queen Elizabeth featuring Wayne County or The Stilettos (Deborah Harry), among others.
I didn't catch the blurb for the Dolls so I missed them (sorry), but I did catch the Off-Broadway production of "One Flew Over The Cukoo's Nest" (predating the movie, BTW) which was very good featuring Lane Smith in the role of Randall McMurphy. Lane Smith later played Perry White on the ABC-TV show "Lois and Clark".

In the late 1960's Frank Zappa extensively advertised Mothers of Invention albums in Marvel Comics. This great ad designed by Cal Schenkel was on the inner cover of a giant-sized Spider Man Special comic.

Here's an ad for Led Zeppelin playing The Rose Palace in Pasadena, California with Julie Driscoll, Brian Auger & The Trinity opening. The cost of a ticket was only $4 back then. Those were the days.

Pictured below is a press photograph of Sparks seen performing on "American Bandstand" around the era of "A Woofer In Tweeter's Clothing" (1973). While I'm not the world's most foremost authority on all things Sparks-related they're probably doing "Wonder Girl" or "Girl From Germany". Notice the cartoon sledgehammer Russell Mael is sporting.

Elevator Shoes (red COFFEE Chapter 8)

2011-05-21T17:26:00.000-07:00

“You are cordially invited to the view the Bullock's Fall Collection presented exclusively at
Bullock’s Wilshire, 3050 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles, California
Saturday, October 12, 1935, 7:30 pm,
By Invitation Only
RSVP
Refreshments will be served”

Jiminy Christmas, it seemed like every silver spoon and diamond tiara was in force to view the little soiree Bullock’s threw to sell the new styles between Downtown LA and The Miracle Mile. The fashion show was held in the upstairs showroom, cleared out as a banquet hall with a small runway with a small bar on one end and a buffet on the other end. Waiters walked around with trays filled with canapés dodging hungry dowagers and their drunken husbands. The drunken husbands were the ones with all the dough dragged in by their status-climbing wives. When they weren’t boozing it up they were puffing away on stinky cigars and talking stocks with their rivals.

Looking at the crowd from behind the curtain I could see that every spittoon shooting bigwig had a bodyguard hovering a few feet away from them, understandable given the recent spate of murders in the past few weeks. The room got pretty smoky until Mr. Hermann the store manager requested that everyone kill their smoke. “The clothes are susceptible to tobacco smoke and odors”. The old lizards grumbled, of course, crushing out their smokes of choice in the sandy urns.

Bored, I walked over to the window to kill time and noticed a headless, stumpy bird sitting on top of a street light. Then I saw its head revolve in front of it with its big, golden cat eyes staring at me. It was an owl. What was on owl doing in the middle of the city? The owl’s eyes remained fixed on me.

“Lois, have you been in makeup?” Bell Amie the designer asked behind me. I turned around to show her my fully made face to her. “What do you think?”
“Get in hair, right now, and then get fitted, we’re starting in a few. No time for staring out the window, dear.” Drat, I just wanted to be home with a glass of milk and a volume of Balzac but I needed the money.

The first outfit: I walked out in a silver lounging ensemble. “Our model is attired in a silver silk pajama ensemble ideal for long Sunday mornings or for resort relaxing”. I sashayed around and glanced down, catching ZaSu Pitts apprising my outfit.

The second outfit: I modeled a navy blue wool work jacket and skirt. “Labor Day is here and our model looks smart in this seasonal work ensemble, whether taking dictation, answering the phone or watching the stock market rise”. I looked down and noticed a few gray moustaches leering at my business section.

Half an hour later the other models and I slipped on our clothes and walked around the lounge. I felt uncomfortable doing this because it reminded me of stories I read about courtesans waling around the parlor of a brothel. Some of the models actually had phone numbers and keys slipped to them, out of wives’ sights. Luckily no one got fresh with me, probably because I was the tallest girl in the room.

“Excuse me, ma’am, what do you call that outfit?” a familiar voice asked behind me. I turned around, and said, “I like to call it – Teddy!” I smiled, hugging Detective Ted Braintree, my friend from the police academy shooting range.
“Hi, Lois, great show, but I gotta tell you, what you’re wearing now beats the pants off all those other classy outfits you wore tonight”, he said smiling.
“This is just some beaded dress I bought two years ago”.
“It looks great, kid.”
“What are you doing here?”
He leaned over conspiratorially to me and quietly said, “I gotta watchdog these two loaded stiffs, can you imagine? Just look at them over there!” he pointed at a pompous white-haired fat man wearing a cummerbund and a pince nez, and his wife standing nearby in a fox fur stole smoking with a cigarette holder. “Kaiser Wilhelm and Marie Antoinette. Who would want to kill them?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“There’s a lot of washed necks and shaved legs at this shindig. Jeez, you look swell tonight”.
“Listen, Ted, why don’t you lose the fossils and take me home? I haven’t seen you since that swell time we had target shooting.” I played with my hair without realizing it.
“I’m sorry, Lois, but I gotta wet-nurse the waxworks, police duty and all that other stuff. Let’s make a night of it next Friday, whatta ya say? It’ll be my first free night in weeks, honest to God”.
“Well alright, ya big lug, but remember a promise is a promise”, I said, squeezing his hand.

The models had to exit the building from the back towards the alley. Things were safe what with all the limousines and taxicabs surrounding the department store. I guess I had nothing to worry about. But then I started thinking about that owl just staring at me in the darkness from on top of the lamp post, burning his large golden eyes into me.

I pressed the elevator button with one hand on my hip and the other around my handbag. There was no one else waiting for the elevator, which seemed a little funny. When the doors opened a man in a large coat stood in the back, his hat brim pulled down so low you couldn’t see his eyes. I got in and pressed the street button.

The elevator began going down until the man behind me pushed me aside and hit the stop switch.
“Hey, what gives?”
The man in the coat shoved me against the wall. I tried pushing back but he slugged me hard on the side of my head.
“Listen, pretty puss, you wanna keep your pretty face you keep that big mouth of yours shut. Just give with the beautiful looks and stay out of other people’s battles. You got me?” The man had a strong Southern accent and an ever stronger grip on my arm. I tried twisting my arms around me to get to his neck put kept reaching into emptiness, my vision getting darker and darker.
“Let go of me or I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead and scream, scream as loud as you want, toots”.
I opened my mouth and nothing came out because he had his hand over my throat, choking me. I felt myself choking until I passed out and collapsed to the floor. After I hit the floor I could feel myself drifting down and the elevator doors opening. I woke up a minute later and there was no one there.

The Beauty Pavilion (crash WALKER Chapter 0)

2011-05-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

Although Crash Walker wasn’t a convicted killer he still couldn’t freely walk around Sunset Boulevard as he pleased, especially under the scrutiny of Hollywood tour buses floating up and down the street. So he donned the darkest pair of sunglasses money could buy and returned to his favorite watering hole, Schwab’s Drug Store for brunch with his actor pals.

His fat buddy Tony wasn’t wearing his Julius Caesar toupee today, letting it shine, but he was ragging Mr. Walker.
“Look at you, just look at you, eating with sunglasses like Ray Charles. Does food taste better when you can’t see it?”
“Come to think of it, it does”, Crash ate with his head hung down, avoiding eye contact with the other diners. “If I can’t see how nasty it looks it tastes much better”.
“You can’t eat with your head hung down, it’s not natural. You’ll choke!”
“Shut up”.
“Lookit, Buddy Boy, they way you’re sitting, your wind pipe is bent over your esophagus, you’re going to choke on your toast, a strip of bacon will strangle you!”
“Don’t you have a screen test to bomb out on? COUGH, COUGH, COUGH”, his face turned purple as he choked on a piece of toast. Tony diligently banged on Crash’s back as he gulped down some steaming hot coffee to sink the offending piece of bread.
“AH! AH! AH! What did I tell you? What did I tell you?”
“Don’t you have an audition for a toilet paper commercial to go to?”

Albert the dog-faced actor piled into the booth with a puzzled pooch look on his face. “Hey, Harold, what’s with the lunettes?”
“Don’t call me Harold, I’m Crash, ya dig?”
An equally doggy waitress glided up to the booth with a pot of coffee. “Some freshening up, ya movie stars. How about you, Big Spender? Your customary coffee and toast?”
“Yeah, the usual, and hold the sarcasm”, Albert whined. “Say, Crash, I know a great way you can cash in on this Bill Flagg murder. Why don’t you write a book called ‘If I Did It’?”
“WHAT?”
“Y’know, you could walk us through the murder, pretending what would happen if you really did kill that pompous fake cop bastard”.
Tony’s face turned red. “Are you crazy? What kind of an idiot would kill somebody and then write a book called ‘If I Did It’?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard”, Crash shook his head. “No dice”.
Albert lifted his hands supplicatingly. “Just think of the payload you would-“

Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch a blind ten-year old black boy walk up to their booth led by a German Shepherd almost twice his size.
“Mister Crash Walker?” the kid jerked his head towards the gang.
“What did I tell you?” Tony blurted. “Even a blind kid can pick you out with those sunglasses on”.
“Shut up! Over here, kid”. The boy walked towards the sound of Crash’s voice as the German Shepherd sniffed the food on the table. He handed an envelope to Crash, whispered “God bless”, and left.
“Well, obviously he didn’t want your autograph”.
“Shut up, Tony”.

Crash opened up the envelope, pulled out a beautifully handwritten note that said, “Mister Crash Walker, I have some inside information on the murder of William Flagg that I am sure you will find valuable. Meet me at The Beauty Pavilion at 8760 West Sunset Boulevard around noon. Ask for Dr. Gastmeyer.
P.S. Don’t be late.
P.S.S. Just kidding.
P.S.S.S. No, I’m not. Don’t be late, my time is valuable”.

Cruising in the Corvair down Sunset Boulevard Crash and Tony listened to The Roger Christian Show on 93-KHJ. He was playing “You’re So Good To Me” by The Beach Boys and the sun was already out and boiling the brunch in their stomachs. “Is this it?” Crash asked. “8760 West Sunset?” He pulled up by a weird futuristic coliseum – type structure.
Tony looked at the note and said, “This looks goofy enough to be it". They walked down a narrow driveway towards a mirrored glass door. There was a little intercom box by the door. Crash pushed the button on the box.
“Yes? Yesyes?”
“Crash Walker for Doctor Gastmeyer”.
The door buzzed and the guys walked in to the waiting room. There were statues and paintings of Venus, Aphrodite and Freyja throughout the room with incoming patients seated waiting to be served. A man with his nose bandaged held his head down reading a magazine, a beautifully made-up woman took her sunglasses off to reveal two black eyes, an effeminate man nervously squirmed in his chair with a large brace around his neck trying not to be noticed.

“Yes, are you Crash Walker?” the secretary asked Tony.
“Heck no, don’t you watch TV?”
Crash piped up, “Like I said, we’re here to see Dr. Gastmeyer”.
A nurse looking remarkably similar to the secretary opened up the pink door to their right and led them inside. The effeminate man continued his squirming.

They entered a completely white, overlit room with four surgical chairs several feet apart with patients lying back in them, all with their heads covered save a few holes cut into the covers for operation. One for eyes, one for the nose, one for the lips, etc. Nurses attended each patient, but the most interesting person in the room was a woman with a blonde beehive hairstyle in a surgical mask and gloves bent over a patient. She must have been at least six foot seven, an Amazon.

She straightened up and looked taller then everyone else, quietly instructing the nurse on treating the patient. She glanced to her side, saw Crash and walked over. Removing her gloves glamorously, she bounded towards them, “Mr. Walker, I am Doctor Hilda Gastmeyer”, she put her slender hand out, her huge blue eyes expressive under the surgical mask. “Welcome to The Beauty Pavilion, more than just a clinic, but a new beginning!”

“Please to meet you”, Crash smiled, “I brought my friend Tony Romano with me. We didn’t even know about this place until now. It’s so out of the ordinary!”
Dr. Gastmeyer pulled off her surgical mask and smiled, “Yes, I have the most gorgeous factory in the world. I manufacture glamour with my colleagues to keep Hollywood beautiful!”
“This is quite an impressive clinic you have here, Doc”, Crash looked around. “Am I imagining things or are you operating on several patients at the same time?”
“Yes, I’m keeping my production moving just as you would a conveyor belt, keeping pretty in a constant state of motion”, Crash noticed her lips not moving smoothly together, something unnatural in the way they synchronized to the words she was saying.

“Hmmmm! I suppose you could do a lot of alterations on my looks, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely not, you are a very photogenic man, every feature perfectly proportioned”, she grinned, and then frowned at Tony, “but your friend, ugh!” She disgustedly shrugged her shoulders. “Fixing his exterior shell would take many, many appointments!”
Tony frowned at her.
“Can we talk about the note you sent me?” Crash asked, craning his head up to her. She had eight inches on him.
“Of course, my office is down the hall!”

Dr. Gastmeyer was so tall when she crossed her legs behind her desk you still saw a lot of leg behind the desk. She lit a cigarette and offered one to the guys, who declined. Her office had silver wallpaper with a few boring certificates and diplomas on the wall. In the corner were two bird cages, one with an African Gray parrot and the other with a Blue Amazon. They nervously paced on their perches, occasionally ruffling their feathers.

“So, I read everything in the paper about the Flagg murder case. This Mr. Flagg, did you know him well…outside of the argument you had with him at the party?”
“A little bit, not too much”.
“You know he dabbled in drugs? On television he preached against them but he actually indulged in quite a few pharmaceuticals”.
“Really?” Walker raised an eyebrow. “This is hot news. Why didn’t you go to the cops with this information? You could have saved me a lot of trouble.”
Gastmeyer smiled quietly and blew out smoke. “Mr. Flagg and I went to the same supplier. I can’t jeopardize The Beauty Pavilion with that kind of scandal, not even for you, my perfect looking friend. I’m sorry”.
“I’m glad you’re sorry”.
“How do you like that?” Tony shook his head, “of all the screwy-“
“Shut up, Tony. Alright, I’ll let the cops know about them and I’ll keep you out of it”.

Gastmeyer’s intercom buzzed. “What is it?”
“Doctor, it’s your husband on the line”.
She spoke into the speaker. “Hello, dear, what is it? Quickly”.
“Did you talk to the movie star yet? The bank’s been calling, and –“ She quickly snatched up the phone, cutting out his voice on the speaker. Tony nudged Crash and pointed under the desk to her right arm, which had heavily applied makeup covering marks along her forearm.
“Darling, I’m with a client right now. We can discuss this later”.
Crash stared closer at the silver wallpaper and noticed that the corners were peeling and there were cracks in some of the seams.
“I know, but it will be taken care of. Now! I need to go, love you, Hugo”.

She hung up and collected herself, smiling at Crash, putting out her cigarette. “What was the topic? Refresh me, glamorous man”.
“You have the dope, I mean information, give it to me and I’ll let the cops know and you won’t even be involved”.
“Well, Mr. Walker, knowledge is power, and knowledge also means money. How much is this information worth to you?”
“Hey!” Tony yelled.
“Cool it. I’m not good at playing guessing games, Doctor. Why don’t you tell me your asking price and I’ll just tell you if I can afford it”.
“Well, you look like an attractive star with strong prospects, how does Twenty-Five Thousand dollars sound?”
“Are you nuts?” Tony yelled again. “Jesus!”
“No, nada, no soap. I don’t have that kind of money to bang around”.
“Well”, Dr. Gastmeyer rolled her eyes regretfully.

“LALALALA”, the African Gray sang from its cage.
“The fucking movie star! The fucking movie star! Grease him for the dough!” The Blue Amazon sounded just like the man named Hugo from the intercom.
“I have a habit to support. Where’s my syringe?” The African Gray chanted, his eyes glazed staring at Crash.
“The loan sharks are gonna bust my hump!” The Hugo voice piped up.
“Verdammt! Verdammt!” the bird bobbed his head.
“Soak the pretty bastard, scheisse!” The parrots now yelled with their eyes glazed and their crests folding up.

Dr. Gastmeyer jumped up from her desk and tore off her scapular and threw it over the cages in an effort to shut them up. They still muttered remarks but it was too late.
“I knew it, I knew it!” Tony banged his fist on the arm of his chair.
“Sounds like a shakedown to me”, Crash cussed. “We’re leaving and you can forget about the twenty-five grand, I’ll pass on your fake information”.
“I warn you, sir”, she regained her composure, “I have a powerful team of attorneys. What was discussed today will not leave this office”.
“But we will. Fake looks, fake information”.
Tony sneered, “And you didn’t think I was good lookin’. At least I’m not a damn junkie!”
“Get out of my office! Hier raus!” She yelled, throwing her big glass bowl ashtray at the wall. The boys trooped out, past the cloned secretary and the hapless, unhappy, super-bandaged but glamorous Hollywood patients in the clinic.

“Shitfire. What a waste of time”, Crash sighed as they got back to the car. “You know, the prettiest thing I’ve seen today was the Rocky and Bullwinkle statue”.
“Hells bells, kid, let’s drive by it one more time!” Tony yelled and then ripped a vicious fart.

The Brotherhood of The Horn

2011-05-07T13:06:00.000-07:00

It was 1972 and I had $185 left in my Bar Mitzvah fund. I was taking flute lessons at Siegel’s Music and on the way out of the store after a lesson it stood in the shop window staring me down: a Conn Mark IV Tenor Saxophone, silver plated and so small for a tenor it was mistaken for a C-Melody saxophone. It was from the 1920’s and in pretty good condition. It had a naked girl with long, sexy platinum hair and a killer pair of titties etched into the bell of the horn. I ignored her beckoning towards me for the next two weeks. I tried to forget about her lying in my bedroom listening to Captain Beefheart, Blodwyn Pig, the Bonzo Dog Band, and The Mothers of Invention, all showcasing demented psych-jazz saxophone playing. I finally said, “fuck it”, went to Crocker Bank, closed my account and walked one block down to Siegel’s Music and bought my horn. But it wasn’t just a horn, it was buying a new life, newer than I ever imagined.

My flute teacher Jerry Myers was thrilled to hear I got the horn. “Now you’re going to be playing the real stuff, Andrew”, he said as he began drawing up saxophone exercises for me to practice. One of the first things I did was play my sax alongside Jimi Hendrix records hoping to replicate distorted guitar sounds. I also remember playing along to T. Rex records, wearing out my copy of “Electric Warrior” playing lead sax to “Jeepster” and “Rip Off”.

As soon as people found out I could play saxophone invitations were extended for jam sessions; after all, who needs yet another guitar player or singer? People always need a sax player. Within weeks I was skronking and skreeking at downtown loft parties, all the booze you can drink, Yes! I played New Year’s Eve with my brother Marc Anthony Thompson backing up some wild rock band at The Blind Pig. Have horn will party :).

Beyond the loft party sax tramp shenanigans Jerry Myers taught me about the whole old school jazz fetishisms, as in watching him rehearsing with a big band at The Musician’s Union on Vine Street. Big bands generally suck but once you’re sitting in front of a wall of saxophones, trumpets and trombones, the sheer power of these winds will blast your ass into the stratosphere. Even a hoary (whore-y?) old chestnut like “Signed Sealed, Delivered” sounds strong enough to make you see the Saints.

Across the street from the Union building was M.K. Stein, which sold every type of brass and wind instruments, cases and horns and instructional books, etc. The walls were jammed with yellowing framed photos of jazz recording stars whom played up the street at The Vine Street Grill, Shelley’s Manne Hole, The Hollywood Palladium (home of big band leader Guy Lombardo) and the CBS radio station on Sunset & Gower. I bought a leather saxophone gig bag at M.K. Stein after I found a $100 bill in my back yard – I lived next door to a massage parlor and when I took out the trash on a rainy night I saw a bill on the ground, grabbed it and ran up the stairs.

The best sax repair man in Hollywood was right around the corner, a guy named Mac who had a big speed boat in his driveway which you walked past to get to a little garage in the back. Inside the garage were hundreds of horns in various states of disrepair with pads and keys being replaced or overhauled. Jazz music was always blaring out of a tinny cassette player and “Mac” in his skipper cap would calmly tell you your horn would be ready in a few days. And it would sound better than you ever imagined it could sound once you picked it up.

The wild thing about this sonic education is that one ear was listening to glitter rock and the other one was discovering jazz. In between the Sweet, Roxy Music and Queen shows I’d go to Shelley’s Manne Hole to see Charles Mingus and Gato Barbieri and Donte’s in the Valley to see Stan Getz and Art Pepper.

My time to groove in the Big Band Mode came when Jerry taught a big band class at Los Angeles City College (which has an awesome music curriculum, by the way). “Pick your horn, Andrew, don’t be shy”. I wasn’t. I picked up a baritone saxophone, huge and heavy, so large I had to place it on a stand, lest I dislocate my neck. We played another Stevie Wonder classic, “For Once In My Life”, and the vibrations shaking from the resonating horn boomed across the room. I was bringing down the bottom, electricity flowing through me, from my cerebellum through the reeds, down the curved horn and out of the bell of the horn.

The next week I walked to The Donut Show at Toluca Mart on Pico & Robertson and the crazy bastard Morey Branovan with this thick sunglasses and Hawaiian leis around his neck braying “Hatikvah” on his alto sax like some hebe Roland Kirk echoing down the intersection providing Jewish nightmare music. I picked up some chocolate buttermilk donuts realizing I could play better than this untalented dinosaur.

Walking down Pico Boulevard I started picking up jazz 78’s from the Hadassah Thrift Shop. My favorite was “I Cried For You” by Dinah Washington with that wild, swinging Ben Webster tenor solo. You could also buy 78’s in great condition at Music Man Murray in the red light district of East Hollywood, records like vintage Charlie Christian sides complete with the album cover (opening up like a photo album). I’d alternate playing my scratchy 78’s with “Nothing Is” by Sun Ra, “Volunteered Slavery” by Roland Kirk and “Science Fiction” by Ornette Coleman. Music would never be the same again and my life would never be the same again.

The Andy Seven Inventory

2011-04-28T12:33:00.000-07:00

It's every disgruntled worker's fantasy to walk off the job, but how many actually do it? Well, two months ago I did. I was so angry when I walked off I left my things on my desk, and you have to be seriously pissed off to do that. A month later I received two boxes of my things FedEx'ed to me with a packing slip some poor soul at work probably had to type out, so just so his/her efforts weren't in vain, I give you The Andy Seven Inventory:

1 Bottle TRIMSPA Dietary Supplement (approx. 20 pills)
1 Bottle Gaviscon Extra Strength Antacid (approx. 30 pills)
1 Bottle Armani Code (Cologne)
1 pr. Sunglasses in black case
1 Bottle Apple Pectin 500mg (approx. 90 pills)
1 pr. reading glasses in gold case
1 Bottle Aspirin 325mg 3 brown pills; not aspirin (How do they know? - Andy)
2 pack Zantac Maximum Strength (approx. 18 tablets)
1 cord Motorola phone charger
1 Hair Brush
1 Desk top 2011 Taschen Magic Calendar (Highly recommended! - Andy)
1 Bottle of B-12 Dot Vegetarian Formula
1 Halogen Lamp Bulb
1 pr. scissors
1 Cigar, Optimo Peach
Andrew Sevrin Nameplate
1 pack of LA County Sheriff's Dept. Breath Mints
2 Elle Decor Magazines (11/2010 & 12/2010)
1 Toy Coffin (Retail Slut painted on it) (The only good thing I got from that store - Andy)
5 Plastic Las Vegas Coasters (Black & Red)
1 Box of Kleenex (Did they count the tissues, too?- Andy)
1 Cake of Memorex CD-R's
1 Mouse Pad Artistic Painting (Dali's "Persistence of Memory" - How ironic! - Andy)
1 Set of Small Earphones for to digital audio (SIC) (Hello, they're called earbuds - Andy)
3 Packets Starbucks Iced Tea (SIC - it was coffee) Instant Drink Mix
2001 Thomas Guide Los Angeles and Orange County
1 Bottle Fantastik Cleaner
1 Staples Stapler
2 Boxes of Samoas Girl Scout Cookies
1 Envelope with 2009 Birthday and Holiday cards
1 Frame with Certificate from Department of Children and Family Services (DCFS) - Outstanding Support Staff : Director's Employee Recognition Award - August 2005
1 Certificate of Appreciation - Los Angeles County Registrar - Recorder/County Clerk's Office
1 Vintage Can of Schlitz Beer used to hold pens/pencils
1 Ceramic Frog Figurine with 7 quarters, 6 nickels, 3 pennies, 1 dime
Salt & Pepper shakers (1 each)
1 Halogen Desk Lamp
1 Best Buy gift card ($25 value)
1 Starbucks gift card ($15 value)
1 Maggiano's gift card ($25 value) (I wonder if it's good at the bar? - Andy)
1 small tin TRIMSPA with 3 red tablets
1 small tin with thumb tacks
1 Tide-To-Go Spot Remover pen
4 boxes of matches
3 Cigarette Lighters
2 Cologne Samples (POLO and HUGO BOSS)
1 tin with pennies ($0.67)
1 coin from Costa Rica (50 colones)

Well, there you have it: an inventory list that summarizes what makes me tick. A lot of pills, smokes and sexy cologne to seal it all up. And I'm back doing what I do best, making cool clothes. Goodnight, everybody!

Sur La Plage (red COFFEE Chapter 7)

2011-04-22T19:49:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I get called to play the tall, blonde vamp in a comedy short when they need an icy, harsh blonde. Today was one of those awful spring days on the beach where the sun comes out for a few minutes, decides it hates being out, and crawls back in behind the clouds. The climate alternated wildly between sweltering warmth and an annoying chill. Because of the transitory nature of the sunlight the director was tearing his hair out and screaming at everybody all day.

We were shooting a comedy short starring Pip Collins, a fading silent comedy star whose gimmick was looking and acting like an oversized baby that just fell out of bed. He wasn't terribly funny, but as long as he had smoking babes in his movies there was a guaranteed load of hard-up guys ready to put their money down to see his next unlaughable flop.

In this masterpiece Pip was in a Gay 90's bathing suit onesie cutting up around the beach, Santa Monica, and trying to impress all the girls including the snobby vamp, me. I was dressed in a very small bathing suit and freezing my sardine can off.

Pip did this annoying thing where he would stutter and stammer while he fluttered his eyelashes like a mentally deranged baby boy. "H-hey, Leticia, want to see me dive off the c-c-c-c-cliff?" he stammered. I didn't have any lines; all I had to do was roll me eyes and act stuck up. What I really wanted to do was punch him in the head.
"Chucky, you bad boy!" Martha, a doe-eyed brunette with sweaty peach fuzz over her lip, was supposed to run over and grab Stupid by the earlobe. She missed her cue. "CUT! CUT!" the director yelled, "God damn it! You dumb bitch, you're supposed to run over from the right, the blonde stands to the left".
Pip grinned real big. "I'd like the blonde to stand on my jimmy, you bet!"
The creeps in the crew laughed. "Pip, you're a stitch!"
"We just lost the light".
"Cast break!"
I walked away. "Aw, stuck up like your character, huh, babe?" whined Pip.

I grabbed my handbag and pulled out my cigarette case and lighter. I walked towards the sunken dunes with tall grass growing around them for some privacy. As I walked further away from the set I felt something on my head, gripping me gently like little needles. It was a blackbird that landed on my head. I shook my hair and it flapped its wings and hopped off right in front of me. "What gives, buster?" The bird just looked up at me with a puzzled look on its face. Everybody's a comedian, only the birds are funnier than Pip Collins.

I walked a little further and saw a couple lying on the sand behind a bush. As I got closer I realized it was two men locked in embrace glancing at me with a sliver of annoyance. Carry on, boys. I must have been yards away from the set far away from everyone and lit up, taking a few much needed drags.
"Young lady, are you smoking tobacco cigarettes?" I turned around to see an old woman in her Eighties sitting in a rocking chair in the sand staring at me.
"Yes, ma'am".
"Could you trouble an old woman a cigarette?" She had a Southern accent.
I smiled, "Here you go", I handed a Lucky Strike to her and even lit her up. "I'm Lois".
"Thank you very kindly. I'm Charlotte. Forgot mine today, seems like I'm forgetting more things every day. Well, dang".

I stood and she sat, both quietly smoking among the tall weeds and sand, the booming waves crashing in the distance. I looked at her as she stared off, then she looked at me while I looked down, until she said, "What brings you to the beach on such an inclement day like today?"
"We're filming a comedy short", I spoke, smoke filtering out my nostrils.
"I haven't been to a picture show in ages".
"You're not missing anything. They're still awful".
"How long have you been out here in Los Angeles, if I may ask?"
"I'm a native. One of the few".
"Ah, well, you need to go out and see the world, young lady. Paris, Berlin, Florence, the Tower of London, even the streets of New Orleans, what's left of them", she picked tobacco off her lips.
"Are you from New Orleans?"
"No, child, I'm from Georgia. I had a happy and quiet life there when I was about sixteen, we had money, we had a the biggest, most beautiful house, Daddy had a gin mill, livestock, and then the Union Army came right in and destroyed it all. My Daddy stood his ground and they shot him in the head. Even our Negroes cried when he died in Mother's arms. We had to escape from the Army or they would have put us in a camp. They were so busy burning and destroying our land they didn't see the Negroes riding away with us hidden in the wagon".
"I'm sorry you lost everything that young".
"Let me tell you, between you and me. There are Southern folks still mad at Yankees and want a taste of good old Christian revenge. An eye for an eye, like the Bible says".
"How?"
"I can see some good ol' boys coming around acting all neighborly to the Yanks and then when they least expect it, they'll get even. It will happen".

We got real quiet and once again just stared at each other to the sounds of the ocean waves hissing and crashing.
"Do you know what I remember seeing as we were riding away? The scarecrows by the corn fields on fire, looking like burning Dixie soldiers". I felt a sudden chill at this remark.
"Well, you don't have to worry about anything burning around here".
"No. I suppose not".

A black woman in a nurse's uniform came by and got all over Charlotte's business. "Miss Charlotte, you know you're not supposed to be out here in the cold like this. You're going to catch your death of cold. And you've been smoking! I can't keep my eyes off you for a second!"
She turned around to face me. "She's here every day, ma'am. You can see her tomorrow. It's right about time for her daily elixir". Charlotte scowled.
"Well, toodle-oo, young lady", she waved weakly.
"So long. Welcome to L. A."

I trudged over to the movie set and progressively heard more voices yelling at each other. Pip Collins was chasing a few bathing suit beauties around the set. He saw me walking towards the klieg lights.
"Heyyyy! There's my girlie!" he yelled, grabbing his tiny winkie.
He ran towards me, fast enough so I could pick him up by the hips and toss him into the klieg lights, toppling two of them over, narrowly missing the director.

"YOU BITCH! YOU CUNT!! YOU'RE FIRED!!! DON'T EVER BRING YOUR SNAPPER ON SET AGAIN! YOU'RE FINISHED IN HOLLYWOOD!"

Two days later my phone rang every two hours so I left it off the hook. Later that day I got a telegram from Pip Collins begging me to come back on set. I used it to light my stove. The name of the game is burning things. Charlotte said so.

Detective Braintree (red COFFEE Chapter 6)

2011-04-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

When the cops heard I fought off some dirty creeps and an executive banker was found dead where the cab picked me up, well, I got a phone call from them PDQ. It was from my friend Lt. Lou Sparta of the Hollywood precinct of the Los Angeles Police Department.
“You have the option of either coming back down here to tell me what happened or I can send on my detective to your place”, he barked.
“I’ll meet you half way. I’ll talk to your detective at Musso & Franks over a Bloody Mary. After last night I need some Dutch courage”.
“Alright, but he can’t drink on duty so no funny business, you copy?”
We agreed to meet for noon lunchtime. Funny business, that’s so funny I forgot to laugh.

After an hour of applying makeup over my bruises from the night before I painfully walked down Hollywood Boulevard to Musso & Frank’s Grill. Daniel, the Maitre’ D smiled when I entered. “Good afternoon, Miss Angelus, in for lunch today, yes? Your date is already here. I seated him myself a few minutes ago”.
I looked around. A tall man with auburn hair and a few visible scratches across his right cheek lit up at the sight of me and waved me over. Uh, oh.
“Is that him?” I frowned at Daniel. “Mister Scratchy?”
“I believe so. He showed me his badge. Bloody Mary, the way you like it?”
“Please!”
“Extra Tabasco Bloody Mary, on the double”.

Mister Scratchy stood up from his chair and pulled mine over for me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Angelus, I’m Detective Braintree”, he shook my hand with a strong grip. “They make a swell medium rare sirloin here!”
“Well, go on with your meal, I’m expecting my drink any time now”.
Detective Braintree took his tucked napkin off his neck and pulled out a pad and pen. “Nuh-uh, steak can wait. Business before pleasure”.

Before I could blink my eyes my Bloody Mary silently drifted down by my side and the waiter quickly left. I set aside the jumbo olive and took a big sip from the Bloody Mary. Spicy, the way I like it.
“You’ve got some mighty big claw marks on your face, Detective Braintree”.
Braintree smiled and pointed at the red and brown scratch marks on his cheek.
“Oh, these? Wouldn’t you know it, I got a crazy idea that it was time to give my cat a flea bath. We did the old back and forth and this time the cat won. I demand a rematch!”
“What’s your cat’s name?”
“Punchy. Yeah, go ahead and laugh, lady. I tried to give a cat called Punchy a bath”.
“I’m sorry, I guess I need a laugh right now. Well, it serves you right, kid”.
“I axed for it”, he laughed along. Before I finished my BM my waiter raced up and asked if Madame would like another drink. Yeah, now more than ever.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, Miss Angelus –“
“-Lois”.
“Lieutenant Sparta assigned me to investigate the deaths of Darby Wells and Miles Beecham. You stated you met Officer Wells the night he died and a cabbie named Percy Flint told us you attempted to stop an attack on Mr. Beecham”.
“That’s right”. I killed the first drink in anticipation of the next one. “I heard Mr. Beecham was an executive at Crocker National Bank”.
“And how! He was Vice President of the bank and worked late to finish some fiscal deadlines. Now, normally when he calls his wife to tell her he’s working late he’s actually goofin’ around, but this time, well-“
“I didn’t know him, but his wife was a regular customer at Bullock’s where I modeled”. Braintree jotted this down as if it was important information.

He glanced down at his notes, “I paid a few visits to The Screen Test bar, funny. The bartender’s pretty new, he says he started two days after Wells was murdered. The guy that served you, name’s Burton, took a powder, the address they had for him was some flop on Union Street. When I got there they said Burton cut out awhile back”.
Waiters and bar staff glided around tables, serving people who looked happy and relaxed. I wish I was happy and relaxed.
“Lt, Sparta also reported you couldn’t identify the two men in the bar that harassed Officer Wells. Are their faces any clearer to you since then?”
“No”, I banged my glass on the table a little too hard, “but there’s this…”

I told Braintree about the scarecrow who pulled off his mask after I attacked him and how he had a thin, emaciated, whiskered face. I also told him the names of the scarecrows: “Buff, Fergus, Shep, and there was a fourth guy, I didn’t get his name”.
“Now we’re getting somewhere! What else can you tell me about them?”
“They had Southern accents. Not only did they look like farmers but they had definite country voices”.
“Did you get a look at these other mugs?”
“No, but I stuck a hatpin through Fergus’ face so he’ll have a large hole through his nose to remember me by”.
“Good, good”, he chuckled, jotting this down. I started my second drink. He looked around and then leaned over, speaking quietly. “Say, Lois, you want to know a great way to relax and defend yourself at the same time?”

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

“This is grand, Teddy!” I yelled, drunk and smiling.
“Shhhh, quiet, Lois, if we caught I’ll get in a load of trouble”. We were in the Police Department indoor shooting range. “Okay, now this is easier than you think, you just need to aim straight at the target”.

Teddy planted himself behind me, his torso leaning against my backside, his arms around me, his hands holding mine holding the pistol. I squeezed off a few shots. They weren’t good ones but I think I hit my target anyway.
“You’re doing great, Lois”, he said in my ear, his soft face touching mine. He felt good, his body radiating warmth all over me, like the feeling you haven’t felt in a long time. The gun, the drinks and Detective Braintree colored the afternoon.

The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys

2011-04-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

Blame it on glam rock, blame it on the glitter scene, yeah, I accuse David Bowie, the New York Dolls, T.Rex and all the other glittery suspects for making me love the platform shoe fetish. Nigh on forty years later I still feel the need for high-heeled wheels. The first time around I had an awesome pair of metallic bronze shoes with gold-tinted metal 3" heels and matching soles. Unfortunately at the time I was still a growing teenager and the shoes caused temporary damage to my spine, i.e. one leg grew longer than the other, so my doctor prescribed orthopedic shoes I had to wear in between forays to Rodneys English Disco, the Riot House and the SM Civic Auditorium (home to Queen, Sparks, The Sweet, etc.).

Even though it was a sign of the times if you fast-forward to the Nineties grunge days I still gravitated towards boots with a healthy 2" Cuban heel. It wasn't out of some short man's neurosis; I stand one inch less than 6 feet tall. And speaking of tall guys in taller heels:
No one appreciated that more than Lux Interior who wore transvestite heels every night on stage (and probably off-stage too). For all we know he's probably buried in a pair of high heels. I certainly hope so - I want the same burial wish!

Just what is it that makes platform shoes so special? Well, for a start: 1. I like the leverage to the carriage when you walk in high heels.
2. High heels also improve your posture as you're beholden to standing up straight and erect when you walk, otherwise you'll probably fall flat on your face.
3. You can't beat the killer silhouette you'll cast when you wear platform shoes, your body lifted up on a leather-bound pedestal. Watch the shadows cast by these elevated shoes, i.e. the Brett Smiley cover pictured above. It's simply a damn great look!

Now that my spine worked out its curve and my legs are of equal length I can comfortably wear high heels at my leisure. The styles are still there thanks to shoemakers like Demonia, Fluevog, Aldo, Rad Hourani and J.P. Gaultier's even getting into the act. It won't be long before we hear the low spark of high-heeled boys again.

Freakbeat April Fools Day

2011-04-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

When is a good song just a little bit over-exposed? When its called "Hold On", danceable and groovy but simply not worthy of so much extensive coverage, so in the spirit of April Fool's Day, I give you..."Hold On".

Rupert's People aka Les Fleur De Lys
The first band to interpret this freakbeat masterpiece, so masterfully done it needed to be released under two band names, Rupert's People and Les Fleur De Lys. Both band names are pretty forgettable.

Impsissimus
Impsissimus decided to do a quasi-Deep Purple reading to this rugged, manly classic, perfect for belt-whipping groupies and assorted biker wenches. Garrr!

Jason Crest
Jason Crest's career hit rock bottom with their "Black Mass" ode to Satan and other sinister agents of darkness. Here they are covering this freakbeat classic.

Sharon Tandy
And the winner, of course, is Sharon Tandy, crooning in a sublime Dusty Springfield breathiness that adds a much needed sexiness to the song.

So how about it, cutting edge kids of garage rock, its time for you hip commandos to whip up your cover of "Hold On". There aren't enough versions of this magnificent song!

Cheapie Noir Czech Hugo Haas

2011-03-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

Before the advent of cable TV, satellite TV and any other form of video entertainment the only way you could catch low-budget B-films and other cinematic obscurities was on The Late, Late Show, usually accessed on a local television channel every night after 2 am. It was a filmic No Man's Land of weird comedies, poorly dubbed foreign films (gladiators are standing by), and ultra-low budget noir movies. This is the universe that Actor-Producer-Director Hugo Haas inhabited.

Hugo Haas, Czech exile from the Nazi menace that destroyed Europe, came to the United States in 1940 playing Slavic Counts, Professors, Concert Pianists and even sidekicks in adventure films like "The Fighting Kentuckian" and "The Princess and The Pirate". By 1950 he turned to producing and directing a string of noir vehicles usually starring himself and boxy battleship blonde Cleo Moore.

While some people have quipped that "Once you've seen one Hugo Haas film, you've seen them all", I think they're being a little too harsh on the guy. I will say this, if you like James M. Cain's "Postman Always Rings Twice" you know the triad. Haas is the nice Slavic gas station/cafe owner/working stiff married to the conniving cheap blonde dying to bust out of her dreary surroundings (Cleo), and the hot young stud with the monkey wrench in his mitt aimed at the back of Haas' skull (a revolving cast of studs: John Agar, Vince Edwards, etc.). Haas riffs on "Postman Always Rings Twice" with enough clever variations so you don't mind the redundancy. Besides, in two films the wife is played by Beverly Michaels, no slouch in the golddigger department.

While I haven't seen every Haas movie ever made, the following is a list of the ones I have, most of them recommended:

Hit And Run (1957): Hugo runs a creepy auto-salvage yard symbolizing his ramshackle existence in a new country he's too unhip to fit into, meets cheap showgirl Cleo Moore who sizes up his assets and marries him. Vince Edwards recalls his role as the philandering hipster creep from "The Killing" by scheming with Haas' wife Cleo Moore in killing hubby (Hugo). They run him over on a darkened road, but to their horror receive a visit from Haas' twin brother...or is he??? Dolores Reed stops the show as a lusty lion tamer.

Strange Fascination (1952): Pretty dull affair where Haas plays a concert pianist who chases after a nightclub dancer (Cleo), one of the thickest I've seen since The Velvet Hammer in their heyday. The sets are over dressed and there isn't enough tension to make this a noir. It's more like a bad melodrama than anything.

One Girl's Confession (1953): The only Haas movie available on DVD and for good reason; it's the best Cleo performance I've seen. She plays a waterfront waitress who embezzles a big bundle from her father's ex-partner and hides the swag in the woods. Once she's freed from prison she gets a job working for hard-drinking and harder-gambling Hugo at his cafe. Sending him out to get her loot after losing his ass at cards, she assumes he ran off with her money and kills him. This movie has some dream-like images regarding redemption employing images of a Nun's Orphanage and the Pacific Ocean.

Bait (1954): This one is so Z-budget it looks like a Shemp-period Three Stooges short. Too bad it also has John Agar, Cedric Hardwicke(!) and Bruno Vesoto in it. There's a lot of hurly burly going on about gold mines, prospecting in the desert and Cleo being used as bait to exploit Agar. Slow and one-dimensional.

Pickup (1951): Haas is a station agent for the railroads and bags cheap Beverly Michaels who thinks he's got a fortune stashed away in the desert. Alan Nixon is his young assistant and Michaels races after him for some lust and larceny, plotting on the killing of Haas, discussing it out loud in front of him because he's lost his hearing with the most intense case of tinnitus in the history of the cinema. The movie also has a beatnik hobo buddy called The Professor. This is one of Hugo's best and reminded me a lot of pulpy Jim Thompson novels.

After his string of noir classics he made "Lizzie", a "Three Faces of Eve" type multiple-disorder movie, a detention girl film (1959) and three years later made his last film which starred Marie Windsor, Chester Conklin, Corrine Griffiths and a few other silent film stars.

While his movies weren't the kind to compete with Billy Wilder or Robert Siodmak noirs, there's an awesome dime-store crime novel vibe to all his films that makes them irresistable. Haas films are fun no matter how sleazy and its high time for a serious revival of these back door Late, Late, Late Show classics.

The Straw Men (red COFFEE Chapter 5)

2011-03-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

After the distress I was under I thought it would be choice to be around a lot of people at night and pick up some money at the same time. I went in for some night school modeling at Los Angeles Junior College. All I had to do was sit naked holding a stuffed raven while amateur artists and old codgers sketched away. Well, most of them did.

There was this one character in the back, not a day over 95 leering at me and pretending to be sketching, spending more time pinching his bait and tackle. Forty minutes into class, the instructor, Miss Summers finally let him know the jig was up when she picked up his sketch pad and said, “Henry, is this all you’ve done so far? Are you sure you’re here to draw?” I’ll tell you, Henry was sweating mildew, so mortified that after that he stuck to scrawling and less dinky dipping. Thanks, Teach!

Miss Summers spent most of the class strutting around inspecting everyone’s sketches and other half of the time pushing the stuck needle on a record player playing a very scratchy, battered copy of Edvard Grieg’s “Peer Gynt Suite”. The cold air in the class room made my nipples hard and pointy which made some of the men in the class sketch a little slower and scrutinize my pose a little carefully, like maybe too much. The things I do for money. What would Mister Bradley say?

“Henry, try touching the sketch pad more than your pants!” Everyone laughed.
After Miss Summers admonished him the funniest thing happened. The room slowly shook, tables rocked and the lights flickered for a moment. The older women started shrieking, especially this portly number, Mrs. Montgomery, a rich dame taking the class just “to keep busy”. Three cheers for art.

“Now, everyone, it’s just a mild earthquake, please stay seated!” Miss Summers wasn’t fooling anyone, she looked jittery after that shaker.
Mrs. Montgomery bleated, “I just remembered, I have a pressing engagement to attend to, I forgot about it, please forgive me, Miss Summers”, racing out of her stool, almost leaving her sketch pad behind.
“Oh hell", Miss Summers cussed, “Class dismissed!”

You never saw so many people file out of a class room so quickly after. Those clucks didn’t need to be told twice. I wrapped a smock over my cold body and quickly slipped on my heels. I always feel naked without them on. I lit up a cigarette and sat on a stool.

“Hey kid, you got an extra butt?” Miss Summers turned to me.
“Yeah, here ya go”, I lit her up.
“What a way to make a living. I’m trying to get a show together but I have to do this malarkey just to get by. If I had a rich guy I wouldn’t have to mess with these Sunday painters”.
“Look, Miss Summers, you seem okay so I’ll give you a number to a sculptor who makes good and can give you some square leads. His name’s Wechter, he’s a kook but if you tell him Miss Angelus sent you he’ll set you on the straight and narrow”.
“Gee, thanks, Lois, you’re alright”.

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

The evening was far from over. As I walked out towards the street I saw a galoot from art class, a heavy-set, sweaty cluck with thick glasses waiting in front smoking a cigarette, looking like he was waiting for me.

“Hi, what a coincidence, both of us from the same class, standing out here, which way are you headed?” he stammered nervously.
“Well, wherever you’re headed, I’m going the other way, see?”
“Gee, don’t be that way, I think you’re swell, you’re the stuff, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, Norman”, Miss Summers appeared from out of nowhere, “Don’t you ever give up? First me and now the model? Go home to your wife, she needs your help tucking the kids in to bed. Miss Angelus already knows how to get to bed!”
Norman turned beet red. Thanks again, Teach!

I walked down a few blocks, the streets getting increasingly quieter and darker. As I crossed the street I saw a seagull walking towards me, his beak open, waddling very slowly and carefully.
“Hey, little fella, aren’t you a long ways from the beach?”
The seagull waddled slowly some more and stopped.
“Wouldn’t you rather be feasting on some crab or lobster instead of hanging around the city?”
The bird looked up at me and waddled away. Funny.

There was only one cab waiting at the stand. It was weird. It was like he was just sitting there waiting for me. I got in and saw a very kind, old man behind the wheel, white haired, moustache, small and thin. I have to remember details better since my meeting with Lieutenant Sparta.

“Good evening, ma’am, where are we headed to tonight?”
“Hollywood and La Brea, please”.
“My favorite neighborhood, coming right up!” He klunked down his flag and sped off. I slumped down in my seat and stared up at the looming office buildings in the dark, some still lit up and some dark like ravens in the velvet draped night. I found myself drifting off to sleep until I felt a huge bump and the taxi began limping like a crippled horse.
“Well I’ll be hanged, of all the times to get a flat tire! In the middle of a fare, it couldn’t happen any other time”, he cursed and stopped the car. “I’ll get the tire fixed in no time, Miss”.

I got out of the car while Pops was changing the tire. I drifted a little further away than I thought, the hack's voice in the background imploring, “Don’t go too far, Miss, I’ll have this tire fixed in a jiffy! We’ll be on our way in no time!”
I turned the corner and wandered down the block, the hack’s voice getting fainter and fainter as I walked. The business street was dark and silent.

I walked by darkened shadows of telephone poles and power lines, bookends to the towering buildings with enormous windows of pebbled glass, latticed window frames, stenciled company names of varying shapes and sizes. I saw shadows of gargoyles looming above, making me nervous. Each building was larger and more gothic than the next, funny for a city that was draped in Spanish tile. Everything was closed and dark, from the diners to the gas stations to the drug stores. It was later than I thought.

I passed an alleyway and the quiet was broken by several footsteps and the sound of a man’s muffled screams. I leaned into a wall to get a better look at what I was hearing. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

A man dressed in an expensive suit was bound and gagged and being dragged down the alley by five men. The five men wore shabby farm clothes, overalls, work boots, filthy dungarees all wearing dirty, torn hats. They wore heavy gardener’s gloves, but the part that spooked me the most were their faces. They wore crudely marked up sack cloth masks with slanted eye holes and no mouths, just like scarecrows. My eyes widened at the sight of them.

“Dang, this bastard’s heavier than I thought!”
“Shit, these city people eat like pigs”.
“Let’s gut him like a hawg, Buff!” The bound businessman twisted and struggled against his bonds and moaned through the gag tied around his mouth.
“Nix, we hang him like we hung the others. I’m the boss, don’t fergit that!”
“He’s fat, he’ll hang really good!”
“Fergus, watch the street, see if the coast is clear”.
“Aw, hell”.

A cat knocked over a garbage can right by me, making the scarecrows turn in my direction. “What the hell’s that?”
I tiptoed slowly away from the direction they were looking at, almost home free until I tripped over a garbage can lid, falling flat on my face.
“I knew it! I knew it! There’s someone here!”
Getting up on my knees a scarecrow pulled me up by the arms and shoved me towards them.
“Damn, it’s a city woman. What do ya make of that?”
“These city folk are like rats, crawling around in the dark. Ya sure there aren’t some more crawling around here?”
“Nah, just this skinny Minnie”. I struggled but the man’s grip was too strong. He had my arms in a strange twist.
“Let’s have some fun with her, Shep”.
“Nah, she’s all skin and bones, this heifer’ll break like a twig before we even start”.
“Dang, ya cuss, we never have any fun”.

The head guy, Shep, walked over to me and drawled, “Now, Ma’am, you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’re gonna have to, like, marry you off. Do you know what a shotgun wedding is?”
Buff kicked me hard to answer. I wanted to scream but there was no one around for miles. “Yeah, I know”.
“We’re gonna marry you and Uncle Moneybags here. It’s gonna be a double wedding, both of you hanging from the tallest trees in Westlake Park!”
“What’s the matter, you run out of sailors to kill?”
“I knew it, I knew it, Shep, it’s that dame from the bar!”
“Shut up!” Shep yelled. “Okay, let’s go, enough patter!”

The scarecrow named Fergus lifted me up and pulled me over his shoulder, letting go of me long enough so I could pull a long, pearl tipped hat pin I had on my coat lapel. I twisted around him and shoved the hat pin straight into his mask, striking through what felt like the cartilage in his nose. Fergus screamed at the top of his lungs and fell to the ground on his knees. Just to make sure he’ll remember me I took my fist and punched the pin all the way through the mask, which was now soaked with blood, anguished screams tearing through it.

Another scarecrow ran over, breathing heavily and stopped me from running, lifting me up by my breasts. “Don’t you go away from me now! Whoo-ya!” he hooted.
“So you think you’re a scarecrow? Do you know what crows do best?” I yelled. I dug my fingernails through the eye sockets in his mask until I found eyeballs and tore my newly sharpened fingernails into them.
He screamed just like the last one and fell down, still screaming until I finally let go of his eyeballs. I think I struck some optical jelly because there was creamy mush in my fingers.

The scarecrow pulled off his mask to reveal a thin, stubbly face turning every shade of purple in the color wheel, his bloody eyes shut tight.
Shep and Buff, the other two scarecrows picked up their two partners and ran off. They had dropped the bound and gagged businessman who now lay still, and for good reason. He was dead, no doubt, from a heart attack. I took my heels off, undid his gag and bonds and pulled out a beauty mirror set to his face. No breath.

I limped over to a street light looking for a phone booth when Pops pulled up in his taxicab.
“Great Scott, where have you been? You look like you just fought off the Foreign Legion”.
“Worse. Scarecrows. Call the police before you take me home”. I didn’t tell him about the corpse. Let the police earn their money.

Stairway To The Cloudy Stars (red COFFEE Chapter 4)

2011-03-10T23:32:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t quite breakfast time when I was already standing on a tiny platform at Paramount Studios, standing erect as pins were being jammed into the material of the fancy dress I was swathed in. The pins went in farther and farther, just barely missing the flesh of my arms, my hips and my thighs. If these pins come any closer I’m going to bleed over the fabric. Lois Angelus, Hollywood fit model was being treated more like a voodoo doll than a mannequin.

King Vivian, the costume designer for this picture told his assistant, “The seam on the waist needs to be pinned more to the right, otherwise we’ll have an unsightly pucker”, and “Pull out that pin and lower it half-an-inch lower”. The outfit being fitted was for a costume epic, “The Fall of The Roman Empire”. Warren William’s stand-in was waiting impatiently for his chance to be fitted, occasionally glaring at me, holding me personally responsible somehow for his long wait. As if moviegoers will spend more time looking at Warren William’s outfit instead of Constance Bennett’s. Well, too bad. Men’s costuming always came after women’s.

King Vivian consulted his design sketches the way an architect looks over his floor plan, glancing from the sketch to the assistants carefully pinning the material around me. “What do you think, Mr. Vivian?” a production assistant asked him.
“We have the wrong girl, she’s so tall and Miss Bennett is so short. Why did they send her here? We’ll just have to scale everything down. She’s got perfect legs, perfect breasts and the tiniest hips but not really the size we want. Oh well, we’ll just have to work with it”.

Warren William's stand-in began pacing in circles harrumphing and cartoon coughing, making his disgust quite vocal. King Vivian’s seamstress, a little Prussian woman finally ran up to him and yelled, “Go in other room and sit down – will call for you”. The stand-in looked visibly hurt!

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

I had a lunchtime date with my agent Miss Lillywhite, who promised to offer me moral support when I’ll go to the Hollywood Precinct station to report everything I know about my night with the late Darby Wells. Miss Lillywhite was a mystery to us models; nobody knew her first name or even knew if she was really a “Miss” or once a “Mrs.”. All we knew was that she was proud of her friendship with Hemingway, old Gertrude Stein and Picasso. She hated F. Scott Fitzgerald though, calling him an alcoholic cry-baby. “And what a pain in the ass that wife was! Even my models never gave me that much trouble!” Although she was getting fed up with Vi from Norway.

“We’ll call you next week for the Hepburn fitting”, King Vivian smiled before he dismissed me so he could deal with the William fitting.

I had time to kill so I walked down Hollywood Boulevard in my sunglasses, slowly perusing the penny arcade seductively inviting me. I walked into a cacophony of explosive sounds and flashing lights. There was Harry The Drunken Clown, laughing and dancing for you, Los Tres Mariachis, Mexican marionettes playing weepy music, old pinball games of chance, little peep show machines “French Dames Say Oui-Oui, Grown-Ups Only”, guys eyeing me and then looking into their peep scopes. The juke box in the corner was playing hot jazz very loudly, too loudly.

A fortune teller machine loomed above me with a huge mannequin of an exotic old gypsy witch with a veil and a deck of Tarot cards in front of her. Madame Hindou.
The sign above her head promised in large golden script, “MADAME HINDOU PEDICTS YOUR FATE AND FORTUNE FOR ONLY A NICKEL. DO YOU DARE TO LOOK DESTINY IN THE EYE? MADAME HINDOU TELLS ALL!”
I stood back and lowered my sunglasses to get a better look at her. “Okay, Madame Hindou, I guess it’s just you and me. Let’s both look destiny in the eye, shall we?”

I plunked down my hard-earned nickel (earned working for geniuses like King Vivian, thank you). The light above Madame Hindou’s head glowed and the theme from “Scheherazade” played, her eyes robotically blinked a few times, her wrinkled hands mechanically hovering around the cards below her, The Hanged Man, The Lovers, The Tower, Temperance and all the rest. In less than a minute a small ticket spat out of a slot below the fortune teller.

“The stairway to the stars is cloudy – be careful”. I frowned at this silly message, and spat, “Nuts!”
A woman laughed uproariously behind me. “Did you get taken for a nickel by that brazen gypsy? Well, serves you right!” Miss Lillywhite smiled. “Getting your advice from dummies now, are you? Well you know what they say about girls that do that, don’t you?”
I gave her a sheepish grin. “I was just killing time before our meeting at the police station”.
“Too late. It looks like you’ve already been robbed!”

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

“Psst!” Miss Lillywhite hissed. “Stop biting your nails!”
“Well, you won’t let me smoke!” I hissed back.
“You can smoke later, shhh! Here he comes!”

We were seated in Lieutenant Sparta’s office when he bounded over to his desk and plopped his burly frame down.
“Good afternoon ladies”, he shuffled a handful of paperwork, “You called in yesterday saying you had some inside information about the sailor that was found dead in the park a few miles away from a bar called….”
“…The Screen Test”.
“The Screen Test, yes, of course, okay, so tell me what you know”.
“Do we need a stenographer?”
“Not yet. I need to hear what you’ve got first, then we’ll see if it’s worth recording”.
“Oh, okay. Well, I met Darby Wells at The Screen Test, we had a few drinks and talked for awhile”.
“What time was this?”
“Around 9 pm, and –“
“How long were you with him?”
“Well, about half an hour, more like forty-five minutes, actually”.
“I see, Sailor Wells was found dead around midnight, so you left him about two hours before his body was discovered. Hmmmm, that’s not much to go on”.

He pulled out a pipe shaped like a bulldog, got a pouch of cherry-smelling tobacco on his desk and tamped some of it in the bowl of his pipe. I could tell he was starting to get bored.
“But it’s like this, Lt. Sparta, he seemed pretty agitated. I saw him argue with two guys at the bar before we talked, and he kept looking over at them like they were just staring at him all night”.

Sparta put his pipe down. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Did you get a look at these mugs?”
“Well, yes, but –“ I stammered, frozen and mute.
“- But? Yes??? Give me a description, hair color, eye color, were they thin, heavy set, something/anything?”
“I, uh, well, they were, uh-“
“Come on, Lois, try to remember”, Miss Lillywhite urged.
“Well, it’s hard. The club was so dark, and all I saw were shabby clothes…they were kind of thin…with their shabby clothes they looked like scarecrows”.
“Scarecrows? That’s it?”
“That’s what they reminded me of. Scarecrows”.
“Oh, I see”, he picked up his pipe and lit it. “Two scarecrows walk into a bar and then they kill a sailor much, much later”.
“I know it sounds crazy, but-“
“Well, it’s not much to go on. I’ll tell you what, we’ll send a detective down to The Screen Test to check things out. Leave your address with my secretary and he’ll probably want to talk to you, too”. He waved us away. I was so mad I could have kicked him. I’d like to see him identify two skinny bums in a dark bar sometime, the big oaf. Damn his fat ass.

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

Miss Lillywhite felt bad for me so she treated me to a phosphate at the Rexall Drugs soda fountain. I felt like a kid getting consoled after playing a bum piano recital at the Third Grade Talent Show. Damn it.

“Drink up, dear, Picasso loved Cherry Phosphates, now you’ll have something in common with him”.
“After that abstract deposition we have a few things in common”.
“Well, maybe you’ll remember a few more details later on. Don’t be so hard on yourself”.
“Did you see the way he waved us off? I could have kicked his big bu-“
“I get the picture, child, you don’t need to elaborate. Never forget you’re a lady”.
“Let’s go, I can’t drink this stuff, it’ll burn a hole through my stomach”.

She paid up and we walked through the cosmetics counter giggling over the cheap grease the store was pawning off to the customers as serious beauty product. I turned around, and crashed right into an elderly, tall man with the largest head, barely supported by his incredibly thin frame. A short woman as old as him was holding his arm tightly.

“Oops, sorry”, I said, my eyes widening at the sight of this strange, dapper man.
“No, please excuse us”, the small woman said, smiling gently.
“A sunflower that talks, Maria, amazing. Most extraordinary!” The Tall Man beamed broadly, staring at me happily. “Why her hair, so yellow, so tall, it’s a human sunflower”.
“I know who you are”, Miss Lillywhite stepped up, “You’re Augustus Scrimm, the famous English writer”.
“You have to excuse Augustus, he’s conducting a social experiment. He’s studying social patterns in Hollywood utilizing ancient tribal minerals”.
“Oh! My! How fascinating! I must tell Miss Stein, she will find this most stimulating! Is it marijuana?”
“No, rather it’s flora from the desert of the New Mexico natives”.
“I can feel sounds, car horns sounds so lovely, but the loveliest sight of all is this tall, beautiful sunflower”.
“Thank you, Mr. Scrimm! You’re too kind.”
“May I touch your blonde petals?”
“He means your hair, dear”.
“Oh, uh, okay, but just the hair”, I giggled.
His eyes had a glaze over them, he squinted hard, and then gently touched my hair, fondling each strand as if they all had a separate personality.

“The flower petals are talking to me, they’re sending me a message”.
“Oh, yeah, I’ll bite, what are they saying?”
“Oh my…the stairway to the stars is cloudy. Please, please be careful!”
I ran out of the drug store screaming.

Fash Flash 2011

2011-03-04T21:57:00.000-08:00

A lot has been happening on both the creative front and the retail front regarding fashion. Among the new creations is a terrific vintage silk charmeuse star shirt, which along with my striped tank top completes a great flag fetish look. Other creations have included a great pair of denim jeans with leather trim and belt loops, striped slacks with leather waistband and other inspired-cum-offbeat material combinations.

In addition to buying more Fluevog shoes I've gotten into a great shomeaker from England called H By Hudson. Some of their shoes can be purchased through Urban Outfitters online, among others, and they have their own site. Beware, some of their styles won't be sold to the United States, though, so hit up that cool Canadian friend if you can. :)

There has never been a better time to buy great mens fashions online at terrific prices, and I'll be happy to share some of these great sites with you. The two most popular at the present time are both exports from England, ASOS and Topman. I've bought a great cowl neck top ($65) and a beautiful pair of red metallic skinny pants ($37) from ASOS, and they design their own stuff as well as sell other designers. Topman is totally on the cutting edge of mens fashions, cost a wee bit more, but still dead cheap. I like their suit and coat selections, not as wild as Burbery Prorsum but definitely getting there.

Other great fashions sites for men:
Shopstyle - Not a designer per se, but a great shopping resource for men.

YOOX - Same as Shopstyle, a little pricey but no stone's left unturned in mens selections.

Everyguyed - More help than GQ at giving out good fashion advice in all things mens style, from formal clothes to grooming to what the proper cologne to wear morning, noon or night.

There's also sites like Polyvore which is more geared towards the ladies (there are ladies sections at ASOS and Yoox, too), but if you dig deep into the site you'll find a few cool mens items there, too.

The three best mens style magazines to follow are Essential Homme, VMan and W Menswear Magazine, all published quarterly. They keep you up to date on all the best designers like Simon Spurr, Paul Smith, Rick Owens, Andrew Buckler, John Varvatos, and the larger houses (Hugo Boss, Burberry, Calvin Klein, etc).

On the shopping front now is a good time to check out H&M since Lanvin's top mens designer is designing great things there. The quality of the pieces are surprisingly better than usual. I also recommend getting a few sunglasses from Oliver Peoples, who I think is the best eyewear designer for men. His frames and colored lenses are always exciting and fresh!

New designs in the works: more multi-material pants and way-out shirting. I'll post a progress report in the months to come. I leave you with my favorite pair of Fluevog boots: