Andy Seven, former rock star/male model/bon vivant, the man with the action-packed expense account, the fabulous free-lance creator of stories and images is available for your entertainment NOW! on Blogger.
Eight years ago I bought all the Paul Revere & The Raiders CDs reissued on Sundazed Records, and they were brilliant. They rocked hard and looked like drunken Revolutionary War dudes that dumped all that tea into the Boston Harbor. Like many bands of their time they made the effortless transition from garage rock demons to psych golden gods. Great stuff, whether it was “Spirit of 67” or “Hard ‘N Heavy”. Of course, listening to the music wasn’t enough. I registered onto the Mark Lindsay website and the fun, just like Elvis, quickly left the building.
To call Mark Lindsay one of the most narcissistic, control freak rock singers of all time would do him a grave injustice. His controlling and rampant ego would turn Beyonce or David Lee Roth into paragons of modesty. After leaving his cheesy website it took me a year to listen to his records all over again, it was that bad. We’ll talk about Dave Clark from the Dave Clark Five later, that’s another horror story.
One of the first things you do at a website is log on to the Message Board so you can exchange your views on the Raiders with your fellow fans. Ohmygod, I was the only guy on the board and easily the only person under 40. Shit, what a nightmare. Picture if you will a bunch of angry Jesus Freak housewives from the corn belt who think that 16 Magazine is still in circulation with Sajid Khan and Donna Loren on the cover. Half the threads were them daydreaming aloud about being alone with Mark Lindsay serenading them in various forms of dress and undress. The administrator to the website was Mrs. Mark Lindsay, and unlike most website admins was not terribly diplomatic. You could almost imagine her seething behind her computer monitor reading all these horny posts about her man nude singing “Hungry” or “Mr. Sun, Mr. Moon” to them.
Since I was an interloper (male) every post I typed was met with condescension, kind of like DVD Talk. After letting their guard down 3 months later they calmed down and warned me of certain rules: what you can’t discuss on the Mark Lindsay Chat Room, i.e. specific band members Mr. Lindsay hates (Harpo, Fang, Smitty, Joe Jr.). Apparently he hates Paul Revere too, but since he’s the fucking leader of the group there’s no turning around that corner.
One of the power moms posted, “Wow, it would be great if I could get a video of the Raiders on Happening ‘67”. I posted back, “Oh, I have a copy of an episode on video, send me your address and I’ll be happy to shoot a copy off to you”. Uh-oh! I got an e-mail that night from Mrs. Lindsay: “You will never, EVER, discuss unauthorized material of the Raiders, for sale or for trade, on the board again or you will be removed from the site”. If Mark couldn’t make a dime off the video it was forbidden.
The man himself barely made an appearance at his own website, and when he did it was to post his incredibly exciting life:
“My brand new Jaguar purrs like a kitten. I looooove my fast cars!”
“Love my house in Kawauii. The koi pond rocks and after I’m done with my yoga I settle down for some fine dining!”
“Buy my new record on my vanity label. I sing all the old standards, just like Rod Stewart. I dedicate it to “Casablanca” and I’m dressed just like Bogie on the cover!” (Lindsay still wearing zany outfits 40 years later.)
There was hardly any recognition of his fans, just Mr. Wonderful occasionally popping in to tell the Wal-Mart witches that he was living a Hawaiian idyll they’ll never experience. What a dick.
The few pictures showing Lindsay at his present state showed his elfin features obscured behind a magician’s goatee and sunglasses dark enough to make Howard Stern jealous.
What finally made me quit the board? Combined with Mark Lindsay’s arrogance and the Dragon Lady playing rock police, some desperately dumb housewife posted, “The reason so many Jews died in the concentration camps is because they didn’t accept Jesus as their Lord and savior”. As someone who’s lost countless relatives that died there I thought I was going to lose my mind. Nobody contested her idiotic statement. These people are fucking idiots, I thought, and I left the website, never to return.
And I’m sure Harpo, Fang, Smitty, and Joe Jr. were dying to ask me “What took you so long?” POSTSCRIPT: Since I got off the site Lindsay has moved from his glamour pad in Hawaii to Portland, Oregon and got a job DJing on a radio show. Sounds like all the money ran out, ha! And the Menopause Message Board is gone, daddy, gone. Happy endings are the best.
When I was a teenager going to the movies was pretty adventurous, sometimes a little too much. Like the time I went to the Music Hall Theatre in Beverly Hills…just to be hardcore I had to go to the last show (10:45 PM) on a Tuesday night. The movie playing that night was “The Conformist” directed by Bernardo Bertolucci.
“The Conformist” was a very hot film at the time (1974) because it was Bertolucci’s first film since “Last Tango In Paris”, so everybody wanted to see what outrageous movie he’d make next. Oh, my god, this was the worst piece of shit I ever saw. Everything you hate about a foreign film, this one had it. Slow, ponderous, sleazy, political, and the sex wasn’t even good in it. The actresses all looked like they threw up last week’s dinner and didn’t bother to clean up!
The movie takes place in Italy during the 1930s when a creepy guy wants to be a big wheel with the Fascist Party. His horny wife joins his political party too, and after he sells out his professor to the police he and his wife bed down the professor’s wife for some un-sexy three way fucking. The lure of Fascism is sexy because he gets a lot of poozay with his sleazy politics. Later on his wife splits with the professor’s wife. After the Fascist Party dumps him and tells him to take a hike he’s last seen at a rally picking up Fascist teenage boys. By the time the credits rolled up I wanted to blow my brains out!
The theater let out at 12:30 AM and I didn’t have a car (I was 15) so I walked home. One doesn’t just walk through Beverly Hills in the middle of the night in a leather jacket and long black hair, so imagine my surprise when a squad car pulled up in front of me. “Good evening, sir”, the police officer hollered with his flashlight blinding me in the eyes. “Would you care to step in front of the car?”
I stood in front of his car with my hands on the hood (typical procedure).
Beverly Hills Cop (not Eddie): “Would you mind telling me where you’re going?” Me: “I’m going home”. BHPD: “And where would that be?” Me: “1466 South Bedford Street”. (Torn down since then). BHPD: “Where exactly are you coming from?” while he’s looking at my picture ID. Me: “I was the Music Hall Theatre”. BHPD: “Oh, you were at the movies, huh?” Me: “Um, yeah”. Well duh. BHPD: “What was the name of the movie?” Me: “The Conformist”. BHPD (eyes slitted suspiciously): “The Conformist, huh? And what’s that movie about?” OH MY GOD. I have to tell the cop about this lame, arty piece of soft core shit? What am I going to say? There was three way fucking and Fascists stabbing each other and screaming? Shit, think fast, think fast. Me: “Well…it’s one of those foreign films, you know? Where everybody’s talking really fast and even though they’re talking you don’t know what the heck they’re talking about”. The cop chewed this over, eying me suspiciously, then broke into a smile…”Yeah, right, right”, chuckle. He handed me back my ID. “Okay, get on home safely, and don’t stop off anywhere. And next time go to an earlier show, okay?” Me: “Thanks, officer”.
Well, the moral of the story is foreign films still suck and as long as people still think so, you only need one blanket answer to their questions about the movie: I JUST DIDN’T GET IT.
Never count your chickens until the omelettes are broke: in a previous blog post I bemoaned the fact that “Black Legion” would never see the light of day on DVD. After all, it’s Humphrey Bogart joining the Ku Klux Klan. Well, guess what? It’s coming out this February as part of the Warner Bros. Gangsters DVD box set. I don’t know if the Klan can be called gangsters, psychopath hillbillies might be a better description, but Hell, it’s actually getting released. Rockin’ good news. Here’s more crap that needs to get released, and soon:
The Running Man (1963) – Legend has it this movie was a flop because it came out right after the JFK Assassination with the title “The Running Man” starring LEE Remick and Lawrence HARVEY. Good thing Gerd OSWALD didn’t work on the movie.
It’s too bad, because this is yet another great film from Sir Carol Reed, one of the most underrated directors ever (he did “The Third Man”, “Our Man In Havana”, and “Trapeze”, to name a few). Lawrence Harvey and Lee Remick play a married couple who pull a million-dollar life insurance scam and high-tail it to Spain with the money (woohoo!). Alan Bates is an insurance investigator who gives Lee Remick the 3rd Degree in England, so when she runs into him in Malaga he tells her he quit his job as an investigator, or has he? He hounds her like crazy through the picture. Is his pursuit sexual or is he still on the case?
Meanwhile Lawrence Harvey is having so much fun tomcatting in his disguise as a swinging playboy he drives her into the arms of you-know-who. So, you get the picture: it’s a wild romantic suspense adventure. You’ll marvel at Alan Bates’ uncanny resemblance to Noel Gallagher of Oasis.
Bordertown (1935) – Paul Muni plays a Mexican immigrant practicing law who gets disbarred by a rich racist attorney. Muni bolts from L.A. to Tijuana to work as a bouncer in nightclub and ultimately promotes to kick-ass club owner when he runs into the attorney’s wife. Romantic sparks ensue until she plays the race card and then the real sparks begin. While all this is going on the club owner’s wife (Bette Davis) keeps putting the moves on him, and eventually kills her husband to make it legit. You’ll marvel at Paul Muni’s uncanny resemblance to Benicio Del Toro.
Nocturne (1946) – A womanizing composer gets his brains blown out in 1940’s Hollywood and George Raft (playing a cool detective) is on the case investigating it. Every ex-girlfriend he interviews is a Forties hottie and they all say the murdered tunesmith was a dirty dog. Which girl did it? Since Raft can't act his way out of a used condom (just like Vince Vaughn) the biggest star of the film is the stylish Hollywood architecture and Sunset Boulevard location shots. RKO films are trashy fun, and this is no exception.
He tossed his Jack and Cola - and blessed the baby god He slammed his boilermaker His head floated away from his bod He crawled right out to his shitty ass bomber Burning the shit all out of his starter The he peeled on out - ASS OVER ELBOWS ASS OVER ELBOWS, ASS OVER ELBOWS
Ran down the flagpole, broke it in half Barfed on the schoolyard lawn What a Technicolor yawn! Jerked off on the church steps SPILLED HIS HOOCH ON THE DMV Threw his cigarette butt away Years of paperwork - UP IN FLAMES UP IN FLAMES, UP IN FLAMES
Sax solo: Nervous Breakdown by Black Flag
Picked his nose on that shiny Nixon statue You won't have him to kick around any more CRYING ABOUT CHECKERS, THAT STUPID DOG! He let it go at the Ronald Reagan Library Peein' like a demon, LIKE A 20-MULE TEAM Dry humped the 3 Wise Men in the manger Didn't treat the Virgin Mary - LIKE A STRANGER LIKE A STRANGER, LIKE A STRANGER
Passed out in front of Frosty the Snowman Got his busted by the policemen 36 HOURS IN A HOLDING TANK Lost his boring job at the 1st National Bank He was a Christmas drunk TOO MUCH HOLIDAY CHEER! Thrown out on the street - ASS OVER ELBOWS ASS OVER ELBOWS, ASS OVER ELBOWS
Guitar solo: Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, Jingle Bell Rock, etc. mo' Xmas noise
c1998, Andy & Rebecca Seven (Scuzzbuster Music/Wigglin' Fool Music, administered by Bug Music, BMI)
Now that Hollywood and the movie industry are deader than Kurt Cobain I’ve been hitting the museum and gallery scene big time, and what a find this week! Petersen Auto Museum has a fantabulous show running now on Micro Cars, international miniature cars through the decades. If you thought Austin Mini Coopers were the only kinds out there, get ready for an edjimication that’s fun and foxy.
Some of the makers of Micro Cars through the years include Messerschmidt (pictured above) who made the post-war transition from building fighter planes to micro cars. Check out the plane cockpit cone on that baby. Astounding shit. Another auto maker that made these tiny wonders was a refrigerator company that used the same door for their cars as their fridges. The car (seen behind the Messerschmidt) looked like a moving fridge. The show had me clicking my camera away like a Tokyo Tourist, snapshotting away like a Polaroid Swinger with midget cars instead of nude couples.
There were no Micro Car books for sale at the souvenir shop but there were a few fan magazines for the collectors. The average used car for sale in the mag went for about $5000, typical used car prices, but bear in mind the maximum speed these cars can go is at 55-65 MPH. They're in no way built for high octane thrills.
Other shows at the Petersen was an alternative energy car show which had some lame “flying car” from the 50’s that looked like a speedboat with wheels. It was very shallow and had no seat belts. Imagine that baby hitting the friendly skies while your buds drop out of the sky every time you bank a turn!
There was also a killer low rider car show. I was impressed and I hate low riders and their culture, but, damn these cars kicked my Anglo ass. One had Aztec pyramid seats with shot glass drink holders – GENIUS! Buggs Ochoa is a wild maniac of an artist and is more deserving of your attention. Repeat after me – BUGGS OCHOA.
The Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) bored me when field tripping there in the 4th grade and to this day still bores me to death. Ancient pottery, coins and tapestry a good art museum do not make. As big city museums go, LACMA is a poor specimen – stack it next to the Art Institute of Chicago or the New York Museum of Modern Art and it looks pretty damn sad. There are only so many times you can trot out poor King Tut to boost ticket sales, so they went for the sensational this winter. They gave Salvador Dali a great show that combines his artwork with his movie work (not too much, but fascinating).
Dali masterpieces hung in several rooms with short films he collaborated on through the years (the show was titled “Painting and Film”). In addition to the inevitable shorts “Un Chien Andalou” and “La Age D’or” there was a computerized reproduction of a Walt Disney-commissioned work called “Destino” which looked a little tampered, if you ask me. The heroine shown in the clip looked a little too much like Pocahantas!
The room which knocked me out was the “Spellbound” room. The Gregory Peck dream sequence Dali directed for the Hitchcock classic played on a large screen (still shown above). Instead of storyboarding it he painted variations on the sequence in various works displayed throughout the room. The best part was the original back drop from the dream sequence occupied one wall of the room. I kept turning my head from the movie to the backdrop and then back again to the movie. It was positively surreal!
Other highlights: Discovering how small “The Persistence of Memory” is. It must have been 16 x 20”, maybe smaller. And any guy who paints giraffes on fire is a genius.
While you’re at LACMA go upstairs and discover an amazing artist from Germany named Ludwig Meidner (sample painting shown below). In 1912 he painted a series of Expressionist works that depict Berlin on fire and people dying in the streets. Imagine a man who pictorially predicted World War I and the fall of the German empire two years in advance. Some of the eeriest art I’ve ever seen. LACMA almost redeemed itself on Meidner alone.
I forgot to put the bobby pin on my yarmulke, so the skull cap kept slipping off the back of my head again and again. I had to keep readjusting it on my head to keep it from falling off. I walked down Pico Boulevard doing this as the carnival of the damaged and depraved passed me by.
There was Mr. Exploded Eye, the Dog Lady, even old Moe Howard, decades away from Three Stooges fame. He’d hang out by the news stand and talk to the battered old vendor in his frail voice, a small, meek old guy with the spittoon haircut, all white now, too tired to throw a pie or poke a Shemp eye to save his life.
Mr. Exploded Eye had a severe case of conjunctivitis that was never treated, so he had one eye that protruded from his head like an enormous fried egg that exploded. He always wore a baggy suit with a crushed hat and looked like an old baggy pants comedian straight out of a burlesque show.
The Dog Lady was a gnomish woman of indeterminate age who always wore a heavy coat regardless of the weather. She continuously walked four mongrels on a leash. The dogs were so tired and inbred they didn’t resemble any identifiable breed to anyone.
Advancing towards the large intersection of Robertson Boulevard one could hear the shrill wail of Morey Branovan’s alto saxophone. Branovan was an insane little Jew with platinum blonde hair and a baby face who hated children and teenagers. And we hated him. He would play “Hatikvah” in an excruciatingly loud bray that sounded like a horse being tortured. In between notes he’d scream “HEY!” He’d wear a Hawaiian shirt with rotting old leis around his neck and have a sign in front of his sax stand that said “I LOVE GOLDA MEIR”. Even the Rabbis avoided this no-talent creep, stepping around him as you would a big dog turd.
Naïve idiot that I was, I tried to talk saxophones with him. BIG mistake.
“Hey, man, what brand mouthpiece do you use?”
“#@xT&%!” he mumbled insanely, clearly not interested.
“Do you double on tenor, also?”
“Kaftaferogoondoolabob”, he hacked in my face, a loogie just barely missing my pan. I was getting kinda steamed at his phoney crazy ass act.
“Did you blow your Daddy to get that horn, you old freak mother?” I leaned into him.
“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE MOISHE DAYAN SHIT PISS HEBREW NATIONAL!” he roared, his fat pugly face turning beet red.
“Oops!’ I kicked his sax case over, causing nickels, dimes, and quarters to spill out onto the sidewalk, coins rolling into the gutter and further out into the street.
“I’LL KILL YOU!” he screamed so loud everybody stopped in their tracks and turned around. “YOU DAMN KUGEL MATZO BALLO VOOTY BASTARD FUCK SIDNEY MENDEL KATZENBERGER!”
I strolled down the road and felt a little bit better than I did ten minutes ago. I turned for a sec and saw Branovan chasing his change into the street, shiny new Cadillacs almost plowing into his stocky frame and honking angrily at him. The world was crazy and I didn’t care anymore.
We have all gathered here today to pay respects to your dead body. What, you’re not dead yet? Well, admit it, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Confess, you’ve tried to kill yourself once or twice, haven’t you? Who hasn’t? And let me guess – you want to die because she didn’t love you any more, right? You dumb bastard. You tried to flush your life down the toilet because some spoiled idiot chose someone else over you. And you held such small value over your precious life. How sad.
Here’s my consolation for you, you idiot. The guy you lost out to is probably dumped now, too. And HE’S probably thinking about killing himself while YOU’RE reading this. Over HER. Now don’t you feel like an asshole?
“But nobody will make me smile the way she did”. Of course, of course. How many girls have you ever met?
“She was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen”. You’re joking, right? This is California. If you can’t find a pretty girl within a one-mile radius then you need a seeing-eye dog.
“But she’s the only one that really understood me!” Then why did she leave you? Why am I standing over your grave staring down at you?
“It’s easy for you to say – you’re good looking”. You gotta be putting me on. Good looking people have more mind games played on them than anyone, either out of jealousy or insecurity. You really think some stupid girl with no sense of loyalty towards anyone is important enough to stop your life and make me throw dirt over your coffin?
Give yourself a break. After all, there’s lots of gorgeous and mentally unstable fish in the sea…or try Whole Foods Market.
I've had two experiences with the horror named Long Beach Traffic Circle: In 1991 I was visiting Long Gone John my record company chief to discuss my newest record we were going to release. After all the business talk was done we decided to celebrate by heading off to a cool bar somewhere. We went in his car, a junky Volkswagen station wagon (1972 hatchback) where the floor heats up badly, it comes through your shoes, and the engine is so loud you can barely hear what the other person is saying. "I'm pretty excited about the cover concept." "WHAT? HUH??" "I SAID THE CONCEPT FOR THE FRONT COVER'S PRETTY COOL!!!" "THE CAR HOOD'S ON FIRE?? NO WAY, DUDE!" En route to the bar I saw this weird little roundabout that reminded me of that nutty circle near the Arc De Triomphe in Paris. I think Piccadilly Circus has a weird circle like this, too. It was the Long Beach Traffic Circle and cars were merging into it and others were flying out of it. There were metal signs all over but no traffic lights, so basically nobody paid attention to the signs at all. It was anarchy! We got on the circle just barely getting broadsided by a car that didn't give a tinker's fuck about us getting on. BEEP! "HEY YOU FUCKING SHIT FOR BRAINS!" somebody yelled at John. "Fuck-in A", John cussed angrily. He was now trying to switch lanes to get closer to the exit at the other end of the circle. Nobody was letting him get through. He had to cut someone off to get into the exit lane, but not without somebody merging into the circle as he was switching lanes. John slammed his brakes hard, barely smashing into a dented Cadillac. HOOOONNNNNNNK! "YOU BLIND FUCK! WAAAATCH IT!" some angry little dog turd of a man yelled. "Fuckin' A! Fuckin' A!" cussed Long Gone. We finally got off the circle barely getting smashed and maimed by passive-aggressive John Wayne men manning their shit sleds. We finally hit the pier and had a good drinking sesh. Good times.
2002: I got a job offer from some investigators in Long Beach to be a part of their team. I wasn't really interested, you know, staking out insurance frauds outside of their houses in my car for hours holding my pee in didn't sound like fun. But they said, "We'll show you our spy HQ plus WE'LL BUY YOU LUNCH!" Okay, well, I'm down for free food. I drove into old Long Beach and had trouble finding their unmarked mystery HQ (no street number in front) but I had the street name. I drove all the way down and didn't find the building, so I called them on my phone. "Hey, I can't find the building where are you?" "Are you on the corner of T________ and W_________?" "W_______? How do I get to that street?" "Oh", the secretary said, "You have to drive through the Traffic Circle to get there". I looked two blocks down in front of me and there it was like a waiting devil's mouth. Long Beach Traffic Circle. Packed. With cars. And there was something 2002 had that 1991 didn't have: SUVs. So the cars were bigger and pushier than before. There was no other way to get to the HQ so I had to merge into the unyielding flow of traffic. Nobody knew how to slow down but they knew how to get pissed off. BLAP! "GET THE FUCK OFF THE ROAD!" a skinny girl shrilled with a cell phone in one hand and a venti latte in the other. I had to switch lanes to get out, and no one was yielding to me again, so- HONK! "ASS-HOOOOLLLLLE!!!!" some piece of crap with a shaved head and a goatee hooted. Well, I finally got off the Road Hog merry-go-round in one piece and got to the Insurance Inspector's HQ. I saw the lay of the business, all cool ex-cops smoking and showing off their gadgets and tricked out car trunks with spy gear. We had lunch at Denny's cause they're cops and that's what cops eat in their 1965 disc jockey hair styles. The food was okay (Denny's, man) and I told them that I would think about being a Worker's Comp spy for them (heh-no way!), so... Long Beach always brings back crazy memories but Long Beach Traffic Circle...is the stuff of nightmares.
You call it bootlegging, I call it killing the wait until a studio releases the movie on DVD. Releasing “Black Legion” or “711 Ocean Drive” on DVD may never happen in our lifetime, so I’ll happily burn away these minor classics from TCM (Turner Classic Movies). Here are a couple I’ve enjoyed recently:
The Killing of Sister George: Sister George is a sappy Mary Poppins-type character on British TV but off camera is a flesh/scenery chewing old chicken hawk constantly yelling at her young live-in chippy named “Childee” (Susannah York at her best). The “killing” in the title refers to her character getting taken out on the series – the movie is less about lesbianism than it is about aging and the feeling of loss whether it’s an acting gig, your youth, or your young lover. Since it’s a Robert Aldrich film you know there’ll be a sick twist ending that’ll drive you insane.
The Fox: a lesbian couple (it was “Outfest” week on TCM) shack out deep in the woodlie woods in sapphic bliss until a handsome Aryan pin-up arrives at their front door (Keir Dullea of “2001” and “David and Lisa”). Sexually he shakes things up and consequently nothing is ever what it appears – the three switch sexual roles and persuasions at the drop of a hat. While none of it’s believable for a second it’s still entertaining and beautifully photographed.
The Mad Magician: Prior to this movie director John Brahm made a film called “Hangover Square” which took place in 1895 about a madman in love with a singer which ended in a blazing house fire. He followed it with this 3-D flick starring Vincent Price as a, well, mad magician and it takes place in 1895, and uh…ends with a blazing house fire. Around this time, um um um, Vincent Price made another 3-D film called “House Of Wax” which uh, takes place around 1895, and ends with a….OKAY! YOU KNOW! Another blazing house fire!!!! Sheeesh!!! And you thought movies nowadays imitated each other!
Friday night. 11:45 PM. Las Vegas. I walked down the strip; it was lit up like a crazy jewelry box. The streets were jammed with vans, jeeps, and pickup trucks. There were mean-faced girls with tight lips riding shotgun in the cars. There was a stench of pizza, beer, urine, and vomit that filled the air. Drivers and riders were all yelling and laughing form their cars. Some were even yelling at me. “Get a car, asshole!” “Hey faggot!” “YOU are one UGLY son-of-a-bitch!” The yells were accompanied by the nauseating dull thud of the bass frequencies going BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! roaring out of their stereos, all cranked up to deafening volume. The sidewalk shook and coiled like a snake. “Heads up, queer!” A beercan sailed past my head. “What the fuck?” I said, and turned to see a pickup full of teenage white trash with stringy long hair, peach fuzz mustaches, and concave chests covered by tank tops or T-shirts with “Whitesnake” or “Slayer” written on them. “You want to try something, motherfucker?” one guy got up like he was going to jump off the truck to fight. “Cool out, Randy”, his friend pushed him back, “Asshole’s got a problem”. A pack of Marines on leave were walking up the street, big young bulls of varying colors with regulation crew cuts and serious expressions on their faces, all obviously out to have a good time. I reached the ends of the strip. Less cars, less people on the sidewalk, the casino lights dwindling down to darkness. Next to an old keno parlor was a run down hotel, The Oasis Crest Hotel. I took the elevator to the tenth floor to room 1013 and knocked. The door opened and it was my brother Paul. I hadn’t seen him in five years, and I had an envelope of papers to deliver to him. “Tommy, you made it, man”, Paul said, smiling. “Yeah”, I said, “in one piece, just the way I like it”. The lights in the room were very dim and there was a green neon light from outside his window that flooded the room with a strange glow. “Have it your way, just like they say at Burger King”, he chuckled. “Did you bring the papers?” “Yeah, now you won’t have a problem nailing Prince John. You finally have all the evidence you need to put him away for a long time”. I handed him the envelope, and noticed the green neon glowing on him as he scanned the contracts. I noticed something strange. I don’t know if it was him or what, but for a brief moment the word FUCK flashed on his face. It was gone as fast as it appeared. “Great, just great”, he put down the papers. “You know, I was thinking...isn’t it time you buried the hatchet with Dad? He asks about you all the time”. “I’m not talking to Dad. You don’t talk to him, He talks to you and you just sit there and listen. I haven’t got time for that kind of shit”, I said, looking him straight in the eye when I noticed an impish gleam there with the word SHIT in bold type. “Well, my place is with my father. He needs me, and I owe so much to him”, he burbled, the green light still bathing him and the word SHIT still twinkling in his eye. “You should consider doing the same thing”, he continued. “Your family is what comes first. I’ve thought this over very carefully and I know I’m right”. He fumbled around with a pack of cigarettes. “You got a light?” “No. I quit last year”. Paul walked over to the patio and opened the sliding glass door. On the floor of the patio were dozens of crushed cigarette butts. He picked one up and lit up. “Mmm...anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. How successful the real estate company would be with you on the team helping me and Dad”. He no longer had the face of a human being any more. His face looked like the skull airbrushed on the ice cubes of a liquor ad. This was the boy I thought was my brother, the boy I played games with when I was a kid, the boy that shared my mother’s love with me, but I was wrong. He looked like a bad magazine advertisement. He took a deep pull on his butt in green neon, and like a fluorescent light turning on, DEATH and CANCER slowly materialized all over his body. Then FUCK came back on his face and RAPE was spelled out on his nose. I could see him for the very first time. The phone rang. “Ah, excuse me”, he ran over to the patio, grabbed up another butt, and ran into the next room to get the phone. As he did this, he bumped into the coffee table and knocked over a magazine. “Oh! Dad! We were just talking about you!” I heard from the next room. I grabbed up the magazine. The cover showed a pregnant woman with her legs spread, vagina exposed, squeezing her tits with milk seeping out, licking her lips seductively. Her face had the expression of a drugged toad. MILK SQUIRTIN’ MAMAS. “Guess who’s here, Dad? Tommy! Yeah! He told me he’s coming back into the business. We’ll be coming back!” The room swirled around me and I could hear the car horns blaring outside. Girls were laughing and screaming at the top of their lungs. “Tommy! Dad’s on the phone! He wants to say hi! Tommy? Tommy?” I quickly walked to the door and quietly shut it. I didn’t wait for the elevator. I took the stairs.
Rather than a-boo-hoo-hoo about the old rock glory days I much prefer remembering all the reasons why I slayed the old showbiz bitch in the first place. Case in point, the most dreaded rock god task of all: auditioning musicians. I'd rather have my crunk teeths drilled for hours than go through the asswipe personalities I've had to audition through the years. Here's a few winners I had to try out for rock group immortality:
There was Mr. A.D.D., the guitar player who guzzled Big Gulp sodas all through rehearsals and copped such a psycho sugar buzz he couldn't focus on my songs. "Hey let's forget about your stuff and just write a bunch of new shit". Playing rhythm guitar was impossible for him. Every song was played with busy Robert Fripp-styled leads. That's SO punk rock!
Jazz guitar man - he called my ad which specifically said punk guitar, so he comes over with a huge hollow-bodied Gibson and starts picky plucking George Benson jazz guitar to my hardcore skronk. And he scatted vocals to them A DOO-BA-DOOBA-DOO-WAY-AHHH. I broke out laughing, and not for the good reasons.
Topless Dave - never wore a shirt, possibly the stupidest bassist alive. "You gave me a fake address, man, you LIED to me". "No I didn't, I'm at 545 Ogden Drive". "I went to 544 Ogden Drive and the next house was 546 Ogden, there's no such fucking address as 545 Ogden, dude". This asshat couldn't understand that odd and even address numbers never run next to each other. I suspect he's currently a carrier for UPS - that must explain why my last package from Amazon never arrived.
There was the drummer who refused to set up behind the band. His drums had to be IN FRONT. He was kind of the Rosa Parks of percussion. There's something really clumsy about having a wide, messy drum kit set up in front of a band. It kind of keeps everybody from cutting loose for fear of running into ginsu knife-sharp cymbals. Big surprise - he was a lazy player, too.
The bass player who wouldn't come to rehearsals booked after 9 PM. Nightclubs don't open until 10 PM!
Drum Whore: "I'm not coming to rehearsals tonight because I have a paying gig tonight at Big Jim's Sports Bar". And you still have to pay the $36 rehearsal rent because he called 20 minutes before show time.
The greatest paradox in auditioning musicians is when you have a guy who looks cool, listens to killer music and he's the easiest guy in the world to get along with (if you weren't straight you'd marry him) and HE PLAYS LIKE SHIT. DAMMIT! Conversely, there's the guy who looks like your pedophiliac uncle, listens to Supertramp and acts like a dick, and HE SHREDS ON HIS INSTRUMENT. DAMN YOU, KARMIC KLOWNS!!!!
It ain't easy being green and it's harder being Ringo Starr. The only Beatle that never got the respect he deserved, in a way it's easy to see why. Flashing a peace sign every three seconds like a trained chimp at Knotts Berry Farm, it's a meaningless gesture when you have a history of spousal abuse. He had to enter a 12-step program because he drunkenly kept beating his wife Barbara Bach. I guess his peace sign didn't extend to being nice to his woman. Before we hang Ringo here's two reasons why he's an awesome Beatle: 1 - Of the four boys he was literally a walking cartoon character - he was made for the cartoon show! With rings on every finger, his basset hound face and deadpan humor (he coined the expressions "It's Been A Hard Day's Night" and "8 Days A Week" among others) he was made for cartoons. It's no wonder he was the focus of both Beatle comedies, he was a one man - Monkees TV show. 2 - He's a great drummer, and thanks to producer George Martin's brilliant mixes recorded some of the most chilling drum breaks in rock: have there been more propulsive drum beats in music than "Tomorrow Never Knows" (Revolver), "Birthday" (White Album), "Magical Mystery Tour", "She Said She Said" (Revolver), or the spazzy drum solo on "The End" (Abbey Road)? He's a more inventive drummer than Charlie Watts, who's been playing the same lazy drum beat for the past 40 years. Fuck him and the rest of the suck-ass Rolling Stones. "Help!" is getting a Special Edition DVD release this October 30th. Get it or rent it, prepare to enjoy the fabulosity that is Ringo Starr.
My nerves are sliding like worms across a frying pan Your voice is like a fingernail across a chalkboard My hair is burning through my head I'm so dry I'd be better off dead I'm so dry - DT's
I can taste the smoke I can touch the fire Rats are crawling all over my bed all over my head Needles and pins are shaking me all over Shaking all over How dry I am kicked by tattooed shadows - DT's
Sometimes I feel like drowning in a sea of my tears It's been an hour since I've had a taste I break into a cold sweat I'm wet and I'm wild I feel shaken I feel stirred Set em up baby set em up Joe So weak in the knees - DT's
Mirror Meadows was a small district close to downtown L.A. The area was semi-rural and hilly. Trees grew wild with branches stretching and leaning in all sorts of directions. Weeds towered all over, and where there was grass it would alternate in colors of yellow or brown when it didn’t feel like growing anymore. Many homes there were severe leftovers from the turn of the century and obviously hadn’t been kept up at all. “Once I reached a certain age I found less and less things to be frightened of”, she said. I had to go to Mirror Meadows to find Veronica who had been missing for the past two weeks, and several tip-offs led me there. It was a prospect I faced with a large degree of dread. The only thing that saw me through all this was the thought of seeing her again after the night we spent together. “You can’t put somebody down if they don’t give a damn to begin with”, she told me. We had something special in common about each other: we were both children of parents who died under chance-related circumstances. My mother died of poisoning from a contaminated aspirin pill when a disgruntled pharmacy worker was laid off. Veronica’s father was shot to death after he cut off another car to take a parking space. “El Diablo sees me. I can’t stay away from him much longer, he’ll be calling soon. He’ll find me no matter where I hide”, she said fearfully. I swung up the hill to Horoscope Drive, trees twisting like wrecked bodies reaching for death’s cold touch. Through the tall weeds I saw a small clapboard house with rotting wood and peeling paint out in front. The blinds were drawn at some windows and the rest were boarded up. I cut the engine a few yards away and grabbed up a fresh magazine clip into my gun and got out of the car. It was time to take a walk. “In our home town everyone looks up to El Diablo. He has nothing but money and power, and that’s all people see, hear, and understand. Everything else doesn’t matter to them”, she said, feeling tense.
The legend has it that the community of Mirror Meadows started out when a carnival mindreader came to town and built a church. She gained everyone’s confidence and constantly juiced collection money out of the religious poor in the neighborhood. She took everyone for their money. One day she simply disappeared, never to be heard from again, the church and her followers abandoned. Rumor had it she was murdered by the swindled members of her congregation and buried somewhere on the grounds of Mirror Meadows. As I walked towards the house I saw a gunman holding a rifle standing guard in front. I crouched down to my belly and slid through the tall weeds like a garden snake. The guard abandoned his post to walk around the back of the house to take a leak. I shimmied as fast as I could towards the weather-beaten door before the guard could get back. I reached the door, jumped to my feet, quietly turned the knob and slid into the house. “The people of Mirror Meadows will always look at you sideways”, Veronica would say quietly, her voice trailing off like vapor. “Everything here is deceptive: people will move forwards but think backwards. People here like to work hard, but they’re so crooked the right hand never knows what the left hand is doing”. I entered a dimly lit lounge with red satin drapes, leopard spot furniture and black leather lampshades. All around me were young teenage girls servicing old men, but there was something vaguely wrong in what was going on. Instead of having sex these girls were either coughing or sneezing into the old men’s faces while the men vigorously masturbated, and then it hit me: this must be that new perverse sexual act I read about in Time Magazine. The Orgasmo-Viral Fetish Addicts, better known as the Virosexuals. The old men in their underwear and socks looked like judges, prominent lawyers and clergymen whipping their meat. “AAACCCHHOOO!!!” a girl sneezed. “Ooohhh yesss, Jesus Jesus Jesus, I’m coming, here it comes, oohhh yesss!” a priest howled. “COUGH COUGH COUGH!!!” another girl hocked a loogie on an old man’s aging member. “Ooohh yesss, young lady that’s the way, oh sweet fuckin’ Christmas!” some old gavel pounder moaned. The stench of stale semen and phlegm filled the air. I scanned the faces in the lounge, all seemingly oblivious to my presence. In a nearby corner I saw Veronica reluctantly trying to cough.
The old doctor in his underwear was losing his temper with her. “Come on, missy, let’s get on with it, hock me a steamin’ chunk”, he whined, pulling on his flaccid bit of string. She glared at him angrily. The din in the room was almost deafening. Suddenly, a hand jerked open a satin curtain and in came El Diablo, legendary masked Mexican wrestler and rumored white slavery czar. He was dressed in all his wrestling finery: regulation wrestling boots, stretch pants, flaming red wrestling mask and flaming red cape to match. He angrily glared down at Veronica and kicked her, yelling, “Go to work! You cough up some disease or I cut your ears off like a burro, you little bitch!” I whipped out my gun and pointed it across the room at the demonic wrestler. “Get your fuckin’ hooves off her or I’ll blow your face off your head!” I yelled. Everyone froze and stopped what they were doing. Girls screamed and the men scrambled for their clothes. “How did you get past my guard?” El Diablo barked angrily. “Who the hell are you?” “I’m the guy who’s going to burn your little playhouse down, asshole!” Some of the old men ran out of the house. “Come on, Veronica, we’re getting out of here!” She ran over to me. Under the mask was a spiteful sneer. “You will not get out of here alive, young man. I will have your gun taken away from you, and after that...” I felt two barrels of a shotgun poking into the small of my back. The house guard had his rifle stuck behind me, “...I will tear you apart with my bare hands!” I dropped my pistol. I was fucked. El Diablo slowly charged towards me with a sick, hateful grin on his face, a flaming apparition floating closer and closer amid the leopard skins and satins and leathers to seal my destiny. I felt Veronica’s nails digging deeper and deeper into my arm. There was a low, grumbling sound in the room. I must have been terrified because I could feel my body trembling, or was it Veronica? Was it Veronica trembling? Something was shaking. Was it me?? Was it her?? Why was the room shifting and twisting, coiling and unwinding? A voice screamed behind me in terror. “!TERREMOTO!” The gunman cried as the girls raced towards the back door. “!TERREMOTO!” Earthquake! Walls cracked open, powdery stucco ceilings dropped in cracks, chairs fell down over lamps over tables. The gunman dropped his rifle and sped out the front door. El Diablo, unperturbed, rushed towards me. I pivoted to pick up the rifle and spun around to crack him upside his head with the butt of the rifle. I could feel the whole floor hopping up and down as I beat him over the head with the rifle.
“Vanamos! This whole house is gonna tear up!” Veronica cried. El Diablo grabbed ahold of my ankle and held it until I kicked him hard in the face. We ran out of the house as it caved in. We ran and we ran until Veronica tripped over a plot that opened like a chasm. She looked down and screamed, for under her in the small chasm was a skeleton with a turban on its skull, old ropes holding skeletal hands together, old ropes holding skeletal feet together. Sister Clara McGuffin. We continued to run towards the car. We peeled down the hill and it was the shakiest ride we’ve ever been on. Everything we drove away from crumbled down to shit. But we were back together amidst the decay.
It's been said that one of the the brilliant things about Thelonious Monk was that he knew what not to play in addition to knowing what to play, which believe it or not most musicians don't understand. Many of them just run off on their instruments without editing or leaving out something that might sound lame.
The same can be said about writing; Most writing is simply people running off at the mouth (or word processor) without realizing how awful they truly sound. With that in mind I grappled with a dozen topics I wanted to write about, such as: 1) Scarecrows: Nicer Than Real People 2) How Hollywood Boulevard And Las Vegas Will Make You Hate America 3) Show Business, All Business And No Show 4) MySpace: Elephants' Graveyard for Desperate Musicians
The list of unwritten topics goes on and on. I could give you a longer fucking list of what I should be writing about, but three sentences in and I run drier than an old circus clown. Either I'm blocked or my inner editor says "it's just not interesting enough". See you next week. I'll have something insane for you by then.
Parties always sound more exciting than they really are. You go there with high expectations and don't worry, you'll always be let down. There was the party where the TV played a DVD of "Wizard of Oz" with some lousy Pink Floyd album droning in the background LOUDER than it had to be. THAT'S NOT FUN.
Or the industry party where instead of everybody laughing about the fun they had on a shoot or spreading funny gossip everybody's busy passing out business cards, head shots, resumes, um, you know, netjerking. THAT'S NOT FUN.
How about the birthday party that takes place at a bar and everybody has to pay for their own drinks? Isn't that called going to the bar with friends? That's not really a party, and no, THAT'S NOT FUN.
How about the party where there's no music being played because it interferes with everyone talking about their endlessly fascinating selves? THAT'S NOT FUN.
I hate the party where you're the only one laughing or making jokes and everybody looks at you as if you're Count Dracula. You find out months later you're off the party list with those people. THAT'S NOT FUN.
A party is about the three L's: Liquor, Love and Laughs. Anything else IS NOT FUN.
She is the problem and she is the solution One day she's sweet as honey - then she's toxic pollution I love her and I hate her I love her and I hate her When you walk in the room I just run out of games Then I see you in the mirror - I just run out of names I love her and I hate her I love her and I hate her
There's a hole in my heart there's a hole in the sky My heart beat like a hammer - she wounds me like a hammer I love her and I hate her I love her and I hate her Bitter tears fall out like sugar turn to acid rain Burning holes into the sidewalk absorbing all her pain I love her and I hate her I love her and I hate her
Teary eyes burn holes into the billboard up above me and everything says "CANCER CANCER" everything says "CANCER CANCER" I love her and I hate her I love her and I hate her I hear you whisper in my Walkman "Andy, Andy" in my Walkman Spelling saddest wishes in my answering machine I love her and I hate her I love her and I hate her
My demon flower Poison baby shower Sinner, saint, angel, clown Will she smile or shut me down? My demon flower Poison baby shower Sinner, saint, angel, clown Will she smile or shut me down?
Aaagghh...what a fuckin’ day its been. Full moon time. Asshole time. People walking with a lit firecracker jammed up their assholes. People acting crazy, people getting violent over nothing, Blackie thought, who’s minding the fuckin’ store? Blackie walked down the sidewalk in a daze. Funny, it was dimly lit, but it was jammed with these punk rock kids. He felt a nudge in the ribs. “Hey”, he turned to see a punk chick with spiky hair staring at him strangely. “I asked you if you had any spare change”. “If I have a dollar...” he scratched towards his crotch, missing his left pocket, barely sustaining his consciousness. “Dude, are you alright?” “Uh, I just had my appendix taken out. Hurts like shit. They wanted me to stay in bed for a few days...I had to get out of there”, he finally pulled out a twenty dollar bill. A police car slowed down, and a bull shone a spotlight from the car window into the faces of the punks milling around on the sidewalk. The light hit Blackie in the eyes. “Aw, shit”, the girl groaned, “I just bailed home, an-” The policeman glanced down at a photo and nudged his partner. “I think that’s him. The Supermarket Shredder”. “-sixteen. I’m not going back-” “-maybe we should take him in. C’mon, partner”. The bulls leaped out of the car, hands at their holsters like in a cowboy movie, ready for action. The punk girl grabbed Blackie’s hand and tugged him around the corner. “Hey!” the cops yelled and broke into a run. The girl slapped the twenty on the ticket counter in front of the nightclub. “Salt Lake fuckin’ City. Rather eat a year’s supply of cat turds before I go back to that pisspot. Fuckin’ pigs”. Blackie turned around. The cops were gaining on them. She tugged him further into the club. The club was packed with kids, and the band on stage was Beehive 2000, guitars ping-ponging and ricocheting against each other, pre-recorded tapes screeching at ear splitting volume while the rhythm section pounded away like a freight train crashing into a house. The singer turned on a chainsaw, hung it around the microphone stand, and then turned on a steamhammer.
The punk runaway yelled over the noise, “Ah, dude, I can sure use a drink”. “Twenty dollars is all I had”, Blackie groaned. “Here, try this”. He pulled out a large bottle of industrial strength cough syrup from his leather jacket. “Ooh, baby”, she hooted, “I can sure pick ‘em!” She took a pull from the bottle. “Yeah!” The singer on stage now had a sledgehammer in his hands and was beating on a loose car hood with it. The crowd cheered him on. Blackie took a pull on the hooch. “Well, well, what the fuck is this? Blood hasn’t even dried yet and you’re already robbing the cradle!” a tall-assed blonde glared at Blackie. “Barbara!” It was his ex-wife. “This is what you leave me for? This Romper Room slag?” Barbara sneered. “Say, honey, you must be using my old man’s dirty rubbers for a pacifier!” “Fuck you, bitch! Start trotting or I’ll stomp your cunt into cold cuts!” punk baby shook her fist at Blackie’s ex. “You sawed-off gash, I’ll-” Barbara grabbed Punk Jailbait by the neck. Punk Missy retaliated by pulling Barbara by the hair. They struggled and Blackie just stood there guzzling on the sticky sweet syrup watching the melee. Something else grabbed his eye. The two policemen were walking through the crowd under the front of the stage. The singer on stage swung his sledgehammer and accidentally knocked over the mike stand with the chainsaw on it, flying off the stage, instantly decapitating the policeman, his headless body shaking with blood spurting out his neck like Old Faithful. “Yay!” the audience cheered. They thought it was part of the show. The policeman’s head was tossed around the crowd like a beach ball. “It looks so real!” one kid gushed. The steamhammer flipped off the stage and kicked the other cop in the head, knocking him unconscious. “Yay!” the audience roared, stamped their feet and whistled loudly. “They’re even better than their records!“ another kid gushed. “You fuckin’ cock holster, I’ll-” Barbara smacked the punk girl with a loud crack. “Dykewhoreshitgobblinsow”, Punk Cupcake kneed Barbara between her legs real hard. Barbara slid down on a pool of spilled beer. Blackie tugged on his bottle giggling at the scene and briefly glanced at two bouncers tossing a punker out the back door. What caught his eye was outside a line of helmeted riot cops were approaching the club. They were well choreographed, just like the Rockettes, swinging billy clubs left and right in unison, legs doing the same.
Ah, Busby Berkeley would’ve shot a load in his shorts. A bottle flew from a crowd of punks and hit a cop in the head. All at once the chorus line broke up and cops were running towards the nightclub. “Jesus!” Blackie sobered up and grabbed the punk girl. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!” “Not yet! I wanna finish her off!” “Fuck it! We gotta move!” He yanked her arm and pulled her out a side door as the cops burst in through the back door. They ran down the alley. A few explosions erupted behind them. Gas seeped from the nightclub, floating up into the nighttime sky. Full moon time. Asshole time.
Every Sunday my Uncle Alex would have cooking parties with his sixty-something Hungarian bachelor pals, just about supper time. The boys would come by with their favorite cooking ingredients and cook up a storm in his kitchen while the old Hungarian creaky vinyl albums would be turned up Metallica-level loud. They'd bust out a bitter Hungarian red wine named "Egri Bikaver" (translated: "Bull's Blood"). The cooking party would begin with the sappy records playing and all the dudes talking about the good old days in Budapest and how they miss it. Then they'd brag about all the Hunk chicks they fucked, I got a good chuckle out of that. In between Cold War locker room tales they'd race in to the kitchen and check up on their dishes: Stuffed Bell Peppers with Rice and Pork, Paprikash Chirke (Chicken Paprika), and of course Goulash (the heavier, the better). Gotta keep that sturdy frame ever sturdier. Of course the Bull's Blood took it's toll as Hungarian time marches on and the next thing you know some of the boys got a little sarky with each other and fists started flying. Uncle Alex had to step in and stop it-it would get stopped. Alex was a motorcycle mechanic from the old country from way back and even the bikers in New England were in awe of him. His thumbs were all smashed in from mechanical accidents and he walked with a permanent limp from hydraulic jacks mangling his body 100's of times. But he still kept stomping about, and would wind up breaking up countless fights between the guys. Our dinners would end up with some of the guys bruised from the fights voraciously eating their heavy but tasty Hungarian dishes. These guys cooked like the fucking devils they were. I miss those guys!
People say "Be yourself", but it's impossible because they want to be you. Case in point: My name is Andy Seven, been my name for decades, but Hello! There's a pop singer now in Germany named "Andy Seven" and there's an artist now in England named "Andy Seven". This makes things very complicated because I'm a musician and an artist, too. Lately the hits on my website have been going through the roof because people think I am the other two "Andy Seven"s. Once I had a band called Cockfight (spelled as one word) and Hello! years later some band from Florida (with a girl guitarist also) emerge called "Cockfight". I had to put disclaimers on my CD Baby page to eliminate any confusion between the original Cockfight (me) and these latter-day johnniecomenevers. People say "Be yourself", but they won't really let you, will they? Too many imposters.
Somebody's gonna make you rich and famous Somebody's gonna give you lots of children It Won't Be Me It Won't Be Me Somebody's gonna pay his bills on time Somebody's gonna clean up this fucking mess, but It Won't Be Me It Won't Be Me
Some special guy is gonna do everything you want him to, but It Won't Be Me It Won't Be Me Some special guy's gonna see the light Won't smoke, won't drink, won't swing, won't screw, BUT- It Won't Be Me It Won't Be Me, NO!!!!
One day the sun will shine Everyone will smile and sing, but It Won't Be Me It Won't Be Me
c1998, Andy Seven (Scuzzbuster Music/Bug Music BMI)
Spent a Sunday afternoon at Zuma last week. A quartet of girls fully-clothed walked right up to the shore line and set themselves down ogling at the guys getting ready to hit the surf. Two of the girls took pictures from their cell phones of guys stripping out of their wet suits right in front of them. One guy was pretty conscious of this and actually gave them a little show, doing stretches and shit and trying to be blase about it. WEIRD>
Later on a girl in a little white bikini walked by the tide in full make-up, earrings (WTF?) listening to her iPod. To say she was a little overly duded out for the beach was an understatement. Her hair looked very styled, too. Everything about her spelled FUCKHUNT.
My girl even told me she saw Fuckhunt stop right behind me as I was getting in the water in my little Speedo, probably getting ready to roll into her sex scam but changed her mind. I guess my girl burned her eyes into the back of her head. These chicks today!
P.S. I coated myself with suntan lotion like crazy and stayed out in the sun for only 2 1/2 hours. I still came home with a sunburn. The ozone layer is gone, Daddy, gone.
Openly Gator: “Queer Duck, only you would treat a funeral like a disco”. Queer Duck: “But everything is a disco”. -Jm J. Bulllock, Queer Duck (Showtime)
The parade? Well, how disappointing was that? I didn’t see any motorcycle dykes this year and the vivid memory of gay gray leather daddies rockin’ out on a flatbed truck all giving me chickenhawk appraisal is permanently burned in my innocent memory banks. No gray gay leather daddies this year, just a lot of crummy marching bands, wholesome gay kids in white t-shirts marching down the road, dullard Asian PFLAG, etc. I like my gay filthy and nobody was serving it up. There was a bear truck with eyes and fangs but the gays on it were safer than soap. Debbie, oops, Deborah Gibson rode on a convertible and waved to the crowd sporting the worst weave ever seen. It wouldn’t fool a 5 year-old. Worst Gay Pride Parade, ever. After all is said and done, I had a great time both days and it was great to celebrate life and laughs with my gay friends. We are fambly.
Well, what are we going to do now? I can play guitar or my synthesizer, I can paint my Al Pacino tribute painting, I can do another insane woodcut, AAArrrgggh!, I can write more reviews of movies for Amazon.com, I can post more wild videos on YouTube, I've got so much talent up my ass I swear I'm going to explode!!! America, be thankful you have no talent and don't have to piss all over yourself with artistic anxiety like I do. Being super-talented is no fun.