Blog Post #300

I’m not one to toot my own horn or celebrate myself incessantly like most people on the internet do, but today marks the publication of my 300th blog post. “Out Demons Out” has been running on a weekly basis since 2007, and it’s come a long way from what it once was. When I first started the blog the majority of my entries consisted of song lyrics, random food & nightclub reviews, old short stories and bizarre memoirs of a disturbed adolescence that wouldn’t go away.

Since then three serials have been published with more on the way. What makes my blog different from many is that I’ve almost avoided any topics that are too popular or obvious, like photos of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. It kills me to see people blogging pics of those overexposed whores and then thinking they’re actually doing something creative. To add insult to injury these bloggers think they’re celebrities and actually have a following. It’s only a blog, asshole, come down to Earth.

And speaking of following, I think it’s funny that I only have 35 followers (and by the way, thanks all 35 of you, you guys are great) and yet an average blog gets about 200 hits. Somebody’s reading this shit whether they want to put their name to it or not. The walls might have ears but the web has eyes, invisible ones at that.

As of December 2012, the three most popular blog posts on “Out Demons Out” have been:
1. The Parker Posey birthday tribute, which makes her a bigger movie star than many people think.
2. The GTO’s tribute from Rolling Stone Magazine. I liked that one, too.
3. The New York Dolls – Creem Magazine glam tie-in from 1974. That one had a lot of style.

Ironically the next biggest blog post was the “Bibles And Blueprints” serial chapter from “Crash Walker” which was about Crash visiting his estranged father, a former aerospace industry designer who has clearly gone insane. Apparently there are people who assume the title somehow refers to certain religious sects that need diagrams of weapons for some form of malicious mischief. Sorry! It’s just about April Van Winter singing “Talk Talk”.

The purpose of a blog should be one of two functions: either to serve as a sort of online diary or progress report on someone’s accomplishments, whether it’s in art, writing or music, etc.; or to serve as a journal of favorite movies, photographs, books, etc. As far as my blog’s concerned, my reviews are simply a fan’s notes and shouldn’t be seen as anything particularly factual or educational. It’s just me talking about what I like. Pretty revolutionary, huh?

One of the great things about writing a blog is that you can express yourself freely without bearing a rainfall of shit as you would on a message board, where very opinion is fair game for attack. After several years of being ripped open on message boards I finally took the hint and avoided them for the rest of my life. There isn’t enough self-hate in the world to get me back on a message board on any website.

As long as we’re on the topic of reviews, I just wanted to say that the best album of 2012 was “12 Bit Blues” by Kid Koala, a brilliant postmodern amalgamation of old blues styles – Chicago blues, Delta blues, Ragtime blues – and turntable cutting and spinning. It’s a brilliant accomplishment and worthy of everyone’s attention.

New Fashion Inventions

One of the great things about working for Viva Rebecca is being able to take advantage of the great equipment, resources and supplies on site to create my own fashion inventions. Since nothing has been sketched for the most part I hesitate to call them designs, but anyway here's a preview of what I've been doing.

Pictured above is a Purple and Gray Striped Top made of a cotton/lycra blend (stretchy) with a boat neck and long sleeves with arrow-shaped cuffs that can either be rolled up or let out to cover mid-hands. Lately I've been foregoing t-shirts for more long-sleeved knits because they fit me better. (By the way, I need to mention the fact that if it wasn't for Rebecca's generous guidance and supervision none of this shit would be possible. Amen.)

Although I've done Moon Crater Wristbands before it was in black leather. This time I got ahold of some faux wood finish leather and stamped my moon crater design on them, and pictured here is a sample of the new line. Looks pretty sick! Another new fashion invention in recent months was a Black and Red Striped T-Shirt Dress I made for Rebecca, very stretchy so it's recommended for evening wear (aka parties and nightclubs). Still trying to get Rebecca to pose for pictures in that one.

One of my favorite sections at Michael Levine's in DTLA is the Denim Section because the selection in colors and textures are so versatile. As a result I've fabricated a pair of aquamarine jeans, a sort of sea sick blue-green hybrid shade that has to be seen up close to be believed. Another pair of jeans is a great gold-olive green hybrid blend of denim that we framed with gold leather front and rear pockets. The leather pocketing was influenced by a pair of X-Ray Jeans that I owned with a similar feature.

Pictured below is a green linen knit top that was also very stretchy, kind of a challenge to sew but the end result turned out very well. Most of these tops are either recommended for night time wear or in colder climates. I can't see anyone wearing this in Phoenix on a hot August afternoon!

Since both of my H&M Henleys are falling apart I decided to create my own striped Henleys, one in red and one in yellow, both in cotton and easy for sewing. We made a pattern from the H&M Henleys in disrepair and cut the new ones from the same design. H&M shirts for men aren't very durable but their pants are an entirely different story altogether. I recommend you go there for the pants. At any rate, with the construction of my Henelys I don't think I'll be missing my H&M originals too much.

Whether I want to get serious about clothes making professionally or not is something I'll think over. Right now I like working with Rebecca, and I certainly don't harbor fantasies of being on frightening contest shows like "Fashion Star" or "24 Hour Catwalk", but there's a certain rush you get when you create your own cool Rock & Roll clothes. Kind of like the day you picked up a guitar for the first time and banged out a few chords and realized you've just written a song. It's that real.

Happy Birthdie 2 Me

Halloween’s here and I’m another year old today. Every birthday becomes more interesting lately because I’ve passed the half-century mark. I still look pretty young for my age: yesterday some old lady called me a “sweet puppy”. I don’t know how many 52-year old men have been called a puppy this week, but I’m willing to bet they can be counted on only one finger!

Living old and looking young can be a bit frustrating, though, because people assume you’re an inexperienced young whelp based on your looks. I’ve always referred to myself as “a man of experience with the face of inexperience”. It’s weird! You may still look young but things change inside. Like what?

1. You’re going blind. No matter how large the type everything looks like little ants running across a spilled packet of black pepper. Everything looks like dots and squiggles and it’s maddening.

2. You’re going deaf. Either you’re going to have to repeat what you just said to get me to react or I’ll just nod my head and pretend I heard you. I’m a dick, sorry.

3. Something’s growing inside of me and it will take my life away from me eventually when it gets bigger. Until then I’ll smoke another cigarette. Like I said, I’m kind of a dick.

4. Remember all the fun food you enjoyed when you were 25? Well, it’s over. Your constitution can’t handle it any more. Club sandwiches are just a distant memory, peanuts are history and potatocorntortilla chips, Cheetos, and the rest of that crap are out of the picture. Vegetables for lunch, maybe turkey or tuna. Eat light…for the rest of your life, or else.

5. Just because you look like a sweet puppy doesn’t mean you can lift things any more. The only thing you’ll lift from now on is a book or a guitar. Otherwise forget it. The simplest lifting of objects will make your body fold up like a cardboard accordion.

6. You’ll get so absent minded you’ll forget where you put everything, like your wedding ring you lost last December. Your mind will be a fleeting thing.

Now that I’ve depressed you to death, how do you stay young or at least halfway humanly alert and alive? It’s actually pretty easy:

1. Never obsess over an era. It’s scary the way my peers still talk about the old punk rock days of 1977, the way my college rock pals talk about 1988, the way my grunge pals talk about 1991, etc. Yes, Mr. Dullsville those were the good old days, no they don’t make them like that any more (thank God). Live for the next moment because it will be better. I promise.

2. You never stop learning things, keep learning. Get the latest gadgets, read all you can about new computer systems, stay ahead of everything. When you stop learning you stop growing.

3. The war is over. There’s nothing sadder than an old bastard trying to play the James Dean-Henry Rolliins rebel. Even Richard Pryor backed down after awhile. Old tough guys are pathetic, so just breathe deeply and watch the world undo itself in front of you. It’s somebody else’s battle now.

4. Never forget that 99% of everyone around you is younger than you, even the fuckers that look older than you. Be patient with them, they’re very loud and annoying, yes, but just remember you were a lot like them when you were a sawed-off punk.

I’ve kept my age a partially-hidden fact because people assume all sorts of shit about age. I’m also pretty vain sometimes, just like my dad. I think I held up pretty well for a guy my age, but the best thing about turning fifty-two is being able to say “I did it all, and now I don’t have to try so hard”. Growing old is easy, but doing it well takes work.

God's Little Darkroom

I don’t remember how I met him, maybe he approached me, maybe I approached him, Yosef was a very cool guy for an Orthodox Jew. He talked the hip lingo, didn’t cop a self-righteous attitude as many did, loved science fiction, and collected vintage Citroens. Yosef was part of some Citroen collectors club so there were four parked in his driveway, some spilling over into the front lawn. He wasn’t a diamond dealer, he was an astronomer who worked at Griffith Observatory. If all Orthodox Jews were as hip as he was, well…

“You know, Andy, Citroens are pretty far-out cars, they have the most amazing pneumatic system that protects them. Let’s go see ‘Barbarella’ tomorrow night, man. It’s playing in Sherman Oaks, I’ll drive”.
“Barbarella, huh? Does Miriam know?” Miriam was his wife.
“No”, he smiled sheepishly. “We’ll tell her we’re going to the Observatory. She hates astronomy”.

Miriam didn’t hate astronomy, she hated everything. A cold, unfriendly Catholic girl who converted to Judaism, Mary, I mean Miriam had “NUN” written all over her. With no makeup on and her shawl around her head instead of a habit, Miriam didn’t resemble a Jewish wife so much as she did an angry nun. And acted like one, too.

It wasn’t unusual, though. After hanging out at Chez Yosef on the Sabbath I got to meet a few of their friends, who were either: a) Jewish ex-hippies who got on the rehab train from acid, speed or heroin; or, b) they were converts to Judaism. So when you met a Nordic-looking kid named Moshe Johnson, you shouldn’t be surprised.

I didn’t mind them at all except when they acted like they knew Judaism better than I did.
Yosef’s wife Miriam was like that.
“That’s not the way you hold a menorah”.
“You can’t be alone in a room with a married woman. It’s in the Torah”.
No it’s not, Mother Superior. I went to Hebrew school while you were eating pork out of a can, you stupid bitch. Out of respect for Yosef I kept my mouth shut from her.

When Passover came around Yosef invited me to come to his Seder (festival banquet). He practically begged to the point of embarrassment, so I gave in.
“Besides”, I said, “It’ll probably be safer than the Chabad House (UCLA campus Jewish institution) Seder I went to last year. The frat house next door was staging a Redneck Night:”
“That sounds funny”.
“No, it wasn’t”, I said, “After the Seder some drunken frat guys were following me down the sidewalk blathering about beating up some Jews”.
“That’s terrible! Baruch Hashem (praise the Lord) you’re safe.”
“The sidewalk was poorly lit and I was by myself. I was pretty scared, and to this day I hate college fraternities”.
“Well, we’ll protect you. I give you my guarantee this will be the safest Passover you’ll ever have. The most enjoyable, too”.

It wasn’t. I met Yosef and Miriam’s friends, some looked like they were visiting and some looked like they were now living in the house. Moshe Johnson was there, and then there was some guy everybody was excited about seeing.
“Herschel’s here! Herschel, when did you get back?”
“I got out on Sunday. They wanted to release me on Shabbos, but I said no”, he said, lifting up his arm to take off his jacket. All I focused on was the tracks on his arms. Herschel was a junkie, who with his sleepy eyes looked like he was still loaded. He always wore a large overcoat and beret. Junkie.

There was Freyer, the Johnny Cool Jew with dreadlocks, resplendent in shorts, sandals and the ever-present tallith under a green t-shirt. Tallith is a prayer shawl that married men wear when they pray. Well, he wasn’t married, and you don’t wear it as a clothes accoutrement 24/7. But all the girls loved him.
“Ooooh, Freyer, when are you going to Israel?”
“Oh, Freyer, will you make the blessing? Yosef won’t mind!”
Even Yosef thought Freyer was a posey little tool but had too much class to spit it out. But he’d get a little snatchy some times.
“Ahhh, Freyer”, Yosef slyly appraised the bad Hebrew hippie outfit, “I see you’ll be working in a nice Shabbos hat with those sandals, huh?”
“Far out, Brother”, Freyer would insincerely drawl. Trash.

Yosef and Miriam had a cute little boy, Mendel, three years old, and a little girl, Chana, two years old. Chana was a show-off and being the youngest got all the attention. I liked Mendel immediately. He was always asking me questions.
“How do you know my abbah (daddy)?”
“Did you stop taking drugs, too?”
“I can count in Hebrew. Wanna hear?”

Miriam had a new friend, a fat, surly black girl (Leah) who wore the same ugly scarf around her head as her. She also disdained makeup like her mentor, and I suspected there was a little more going on, too. I had the nauseating notion that she was now living in their home. Now that Miriam had a sneer sister it was a waste of time trying to befriend her.
“It’s time to set the Passover table, Leah”, Miriam coldly commanded.
“Can I help?” I offered.
“No thank you”, Miriam said, not smiling.
“You’re not taking a mitzvah (holy deed) away from us, okay”, Leah grumbled angrily. I think this was the only thing she ever said to me. For the rest of the time I was there she just kept grumbling quietly about everybody to Miriam, and refused to speak to anyone else. It was astounding how dysfunctional all of these hippie Jews were with their new found gift of God.

The Seder went okay. No, it was irritating, I’m sorry. Freyer sang so loudly he drowned everyone out. Herschel almost passed out in his matzos, and Leah kept grumbling in Miriam’s ear. I wanted to be home and in bed reading Raymond Chandler. The only thing that kept me there was Mendel, whose huge brown eyes kept darting around the room. He couldn’t ask the Four Questions which the youngest in the house is supposed to sing. It was Chana’s job now, and she struggled through it for seven agonizing minutes. Everybody thought it was cute. Leah didn’t smile until Miriam made it okay for her to smile.

Once the Seder was over I was fixing to leave. Moshe Johnson was asking Yosef more questions about Jewish traditional laws in his hippie way.
“So this cat was rapping to the Rabbi, and-“
“Andy, where are you going?”
“I’m going home, it’s been great. Thanks for having me as a guest, I enjoyed myself, and-“
“You can’t go home now”, Yosef ran up to me. “You drank too much wine and it’s very late. Please stay, we’ll go to shul (temple) together tomorrow. Stay!”
“Yes, Andy!” Miriam yelped. “Please stay!”
What the fuck does she care whether I stay or go? I looked over at Leah and she was still cleaning off the table with an angry look plastered on her fat, black face.

It creeped me out: ten people sleeping on the floor of the living room like a hippie commune. I just wanted to shoot myself in the head.
So the lot of us prayed in the house, same area where we slept, is it starting to get claustrophobic for you? Then we walked five feet to the dining room for lunch. Same people, same little house. By one p.m. I was getting a little freaked out by the commune environment, so I escaped to the back yard.

I watched Mendel digging up worms excitedly. Leah walked over and freaked out.
“Mendel, no digging on Passover, it’s a Yom Tov (holiday)”. She sneered at me.
“Oh, okay”, Mendel sighed. Leah trotted away. He looked up at me.
“Listen, Mendel”, I said to him, “the reason you can’t dig around here is because there’s buried treasure in the back yard.”
Mendel’s eyes lit up. “There is?”
“Yeah! There’s gold, diamonds, sparkling jewelry of every color you can imagine. You can’t dig it up because then burglars will find out”, I gave him my best Treasure Island rap.
“Wow!” He ran away all excited. I stretched my legs out on the back yard lawn staring up at the trees. In two minutes Miriam’s face replaced the trees.

“What kind of garbage are you telling MY SON? Who do you think you are filling his head with your vile lies? “ She screamed at me, the cords in her neck bulging like cables. “I want you to stay away from my boy!”
That does it. I try to have a little fun with some kid and I get my ass handed to me by a lesbian pseudo-nun with pretensions of being a Jew. Fuck her.
“Okay”, I said half-heartedly, “I’m sorry-“
“Sorry won’t cut it! You’re filling Mendel with impure thoughts! Such rubbish! You know what I think? I think you must be some evil spirit sent to test us from Satan!”
Okay, that did it, my Judaism questioned by some trendy Cross banger. I turned. “Gee, I’m sorry. Maybe I should be a junkie with a yarmulke and dreadlocks, and-“
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! NOW!!!” she screamed.
“Yeah, fuck you, too”, I grumbled, imitating Leah. Yosef was nowhere to be found, probably in the bathroom jerking off thinking about Barbarella or something like that. I was finally booted out of the commune. And that’s all it took.

Months later I ran into Yosef, once, twice, etc. He was always trying to invite me over to another religious function at his creepy house. After the third invitation whenever I saw him I would duck out of sight from him. I liked him, actually, he wasn’t a bad guy. After all, it’s not like he put the fear of God in me. No, he put the fear of religion in me.

Too Many Options For My Brain To Relax

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.