Cockfight - For Those Who Missed It

Cockfight was a four-piece band in the early to late Nineties that combined acid-rock metal guitar with jazz white-noise saxophone to an industrial machine punk rock beat, all dressed up in glittery glam clothes. You got a little Cramps, a little GBH, a little Sun Ra, and even some Sunset Strip metal. Like most of my music projects it was a little too much for the average rock crowd. We always did well outside of Hollywood and our only fans in Hollywood were mostly gay music fans, adopting us to play their clubs and rock showcases at The Abbey and The Garage.

I formed Cockfight as my regular band Trash Can School began falling apart, due to widely divergent musical and personal differences. One night I swung by to Rebecca's rehearsal studio to pick her up after her band Bitchcraft's rehearsal. As I sat by the front door waiting for her to finish I was getting increasingly more and ore blown away by her effortless facility to alternate between lead and rhythm guitar and sing at the same time. Her abrasive guitar tone was so incendiary it reminded me of Jimi Hendrix playing on "Manic Depression" and "Fire". I didn't need three guitarists any more because she sounded like three guitarists playing at once.

The first Cockfight rhythm section featured Rita D'Albert from the Pandoras and pre-Lucha Va Voom on bass guitar. She was a good, solid player and totally fit in with our space invaders glam rock style. She even smoked silver cigarettes. On drums was Erick Blitz who looked like he belonged in The Makers, eschewing a garage rock meets glam style.

After playing a few amazing shows with drag queens like Vaginal Creme Davis, Jackie Beat and Glen Meadmore. Cockfight guest starred on Sofia Coppola's pop-up TV show "Hi-Octane", shown on Comedy Central. We played against a dragstrip hellfire backdrop painted by Rebecca and me, and the great TV segment was directed by punk film director David Markey.

More offers for TV and recording followed: Cockfight recorded "The Stoner and The Stripper" for the Flipside Records compilation "The Devil You Know, The Devil You Don't", and Rebecca even got an illustration on the CD sleeve, too. Her style production friend Elizabeth Tobias filmed a video of the song with us performing on a huge Ed Sullivan-show type stage with guest star Ron Jeremy doing a Chippendales male stripper routine for an unruly crowd of funny money wielding grandmas. Erick Blitz left the band by this point so our friend, film director Roman Coppola sat in on drums.

Cockfight took a short break for two years and with a new rhythm section recorded a seven-song CD. Bo Kjaer played bass and surf documentary filmmaker Fran Battaglia played drums. The CD featured songs that ranged from punk blasts like "Liquor Store" to psychedelic ballads like "Lil' Albino Boy" and even drummed up a propulsive cover of The Plasmatics' "Sometimes I".

Unfortunately, in spite of all the breaks Cockfight was a tough sell given the tempo of the music scene was largely driven by jangly guitar sounding college pop bands, mostly headed by bookish looking snobs with thick horn rimmed glasses and drab Science Fair Geek clothes. Cockfight's brand of atonal glam-o-rama was too rock & roll and out of step with Seattlemania.

Cockfight, for me, was the last hurrah in playing music. Our last show was at Headline Records on Melrose (thank you, Jean-Luc!). After playing in bands for over two decades I thought it was time to find other avenues to artistically express myself, with writing providing a lot more gratification than anything. With occasional guest shots sitting in with Pressurehead, Pygmy Love Circus and The Anubian Lights it was time to simply call it a day. Cockfight, the legend and the legacy: To keep it noisy and look amazing doing so, Glam Noise forever!

Cockfight CDs and downloads can be purchased here: https://www.cdbaby.com/cd/cockfightmusic

How To Stuff A Wild Poodle

It started with a phone call, a call from an art director who specializes in gigantic pieces whom we’ve worked with in the past. The new project assigned to Rebecca was for a Dole television commercial, to dress a monster truck up as a huge white poodle. Why not? When it comes to Rebecca all things are possible, except cooking. I do all the cooking. Otherwise with Rebecca all things are possible.

If anyone had the chops to dress a monster truck up to look like a Fifi pooch it was her, who built an electronic dog for the Nick Swardson show, a raw meat outfit for the Weird Al Yankovic parody of Lady Gaga, and even a 7 foot tall pot head cat mascot for a music video. No job is too weird or too small for Viva Rebecca (staff of two: Rebecca and me, her assistant).

Construction on the outfit would be made in a small loft in Eagle Rock. The studio looked very similar to a body shop or car paint garage. Rebecca had her Juki industrial upholstery machine moved in towards the back. For pattern and fabric cutting we employed a large ping pong table because we required a lot of space. We also brought grommets and grommet setter, a Pfaff portable machine and a large flagpole of endless pattern paper, which we were going to tear through for drafts and re-drafts.

And drafting we did. The monster truck lay in the middle of the loft in pieces. We measured the fenders, the roof of the cab, the hood, the truck bed and the height of the cab in proportion to the bottom of the chassis. After taking all our measurements we then applied them to pattern paper, scaling to suit the coach and then cutting the gigantic pattern pieces.

Before I go any further I need to mention that this was early January, temps were in the forties and the loft had no heating so everyone toiled all day in coats, heavy boots, scarves and gloves. While it wasn’t Siberia it was cold as fuck. The intense cold of the operation made me learn a little sumpin’ about myself. Just like a body can be preserved in suspended animation so did my basic body functions in this glacial environment. In other words, my exposure to the cold was so prolonged that I hardly went to the bathroom, felt hunger or got tired. It’s like I was a jar of pickles kept in the freezer!

In addition to cutting the patterns with Rebecca I cut the fake poodle fur which spread all over the place and got all over my clothes, in my eyes and even in my mouth. Protective eye wear sometimes worked but wasn’t always effective because it was the spreadingest shit I’ve ever worked with! In order to pad the dog fur I spray glued the fur to foam which was a very sticky (ouch!) process. Precision was very important to line the two materials up together. Rebecca sewed one segment and then another until they became so enlarged I had to hold it up while she ran it across the machine. It’s a bitch to sew over ten feet of material without dragging it all over the floor, and this fur was supposed to stay as white as possible.

Another obstacle was stuffing the poodle’s big white pompadour on top of the cab, which necessitated stuffing tons and tons of fiber fill and foam into a big poof ball pyramid type thing. Simple, right? Well if it’s not stuffed equally around the head you’re stuck with a lopsided quiffle, so careful attention had to be paid in filling out the dog’s topper properly. Rebecca also supervised the construction of the truck’s chipper pom-pom tail, which had to be large enough to be caught by the camera without being too heavy and falling over.

After all the poodle fur pieces were sewn together we had to install them on the chassis, so grommets had to be set so cables and bungee cords could tie them around the truck. Since the truck was going to rock a few jumps we had to be damn sure the cables could withstand any rocking and reeling. Rebecca also stuffed the dog jowls and made them nice and furry. After six long and cold days we had the truck to resemble a perky, white poodle.

A month after we completed the assignment we were watching “Project Runway” seeing all these young, aspiring hopefuls grapple over designing a dress made out of popcorn or license plates or whatever. When the show broke for a commercial we saw it in the flesh on TV: the poodle monster truck, 30 seconds of dementia just to sell Dole fruit drinks. And the commercial was shot in The Mojave Desert all night. Now that’s cold!

20 Years of Him, 20 Years Of Her

This week marks our 20th Wedding Anniversary, a marriage built on love, support and unlimited creativity. In the twenty years we have spent together we have supported each other and inspired each other to do our best work. My marriage to Rebecca has seen so much in the past 20 years: a band together (Cockfight), collaborative work together in clothes design, TV show appearances and videos, the worst earthquake in Los Angeles’ history, paintings I couldn’t finish so she completed them for me and it goes on and on. The creativity never ends. More importantly she’s the nicest girl I’ve ever met.

People ask us what do we do to stay together and the answer’s so simple it’s ridiculous. I wanted to marry someone who understood me and I didn’t have to explain myself every five minutes to her. She didn’t have to do that to me, either, because we both got it. I didn’t want to be involved with someone different than me. I guess it was the old punk rock tribe mentality; you keep to your own people and never stray too far from the camp. Once you do you’re fucked.

It was ironic that by the time I met Rebecca I was through running after girls in bands, whom I found to be all selfish, stupid and worthless, so it was funny I didn't realize she was the same Rebecca from Frightwig. She was so different from the idiot Hollywood girls that I’d wasted my time trying to be friends with. She was smart, she was funny, and she drew better cartoons and comics than anybody I’d ever met.

I liked Rebecca right away because she was the classic punk rock tomboy girl I’ve always liked, the kind Jaime Hernandez always championed in his Love & Rockets comic, which not surprisingly, Rebecca turned me on to. I’ve always had a theory that frilly girls were New Wave and tomboys were punk rock. She was also the only girl I met that seemed impressed with my punk rock record, video and comic book collections. She knew more about superheroes than I did! In 1992 it was still considered uncool for pretty girls to like comics, so she was definitely special. Actually, I first saw her at Golden Apple Comics in March of 1992. One year later we were married.

Our wedding was at the LA County Superior Court building where the Registrar-Recorder’s office was located. Weddings were held in the building at the time, not anymore, but since it was the Friday before Valentine’s Day the crowd of people waiting to get hitched was huge. A judge called us in his office with two witnesses, and just like a Justice of the Peace in the movies pronounced us husband and wife. I got her an awesome ring with colored stones, an Amethyst, a Blue Topaz, and a Citrine with a gorgeous setting. We were married on Lincoln’s Birthday, and it guess it was symbolic cause we freed each other by getting married, haw haw.

The following night we had a big party in Culver City and all our punk rock pals were there. It even made the gossip column in the LA Weekly, so that week we were punk rock news. Our marriage split Hollywood hipsters straight down the middle: some said we’d never last and some admired the fact that our marriage was so solid and that they could rely on us being a couple forever. One of the most memorable moments I can recall was when we sat in the darkness of Bar Deluxe in 1999 and seated across from us were Lux Interior and Poison Ivy, holding hands like an old couple and being happy because nobody noticed them. At that moment I understood how great perseverance was for two people who’ve been together forever.

All nerdiness aside, I don’t recall us ever having more than a small handful of arguments, pretty minor over the course of 20 years, and she’s even less boy crazy than I’ve been girl crazy, so infidelity has never been an issue. Some couples act like they’re always looking for someone else, but we never did. As far as I’m concerned Rebecca’s always been the perfect girl for me.

Top photograph by Carlos Serrao.

There Are Monsters In My House

Rebecca made an appearance in an excellent compilation of female lowbrow artists called “Vicious, Delicious and Ambitious” a few years ago. A follow-up compilation on monster paintings was in the works, and Rebecca was asked to contribute. The book died on the vine, but fortunately Rebecca’s paintings didn’t. A few of her works that would’ve been in this most excellent comp (which would have featured XNO, Lisa Petrucci, and The Pizz, among others) are shown here for your enjoyment. They’re all on exhibit at our home.

Pick a favorite? I can’t, but I think Rebecca likes Medoozie more than the others, and party boy Sleazeball from the Black Lagoon (with gold tooth and herpes sore!) rocks the house. I like the fact that even though Rebecca’s monsters create havoc they never forget to party. Drinking seems to be a major component in horror. I agree!

To this day Rebecca thinks “Bride of Chucky” is the most romantic movie ever (next to “Beauty and The Beast”) and demands that we watch it on our Anniversary. I’m trying to get her to paint “Beauty and The Beast”, but I don’t think The Beast drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Gene Simmons' Lucky Strike

After toiling, sweating and bleeding for the Knights In Satan’s Service (KISS) and getting prime time exposure on A&E’s “Gene Simmons Family Jewels” TV show it seemed only natural getting invited to Gene Simmons’ 60th birthday party, held on Saturday, August 29th at Lucky Strike Bowling in Hollywood, California. The event was organized by Simmons’ life partner, ex-Playboy Playmate Shannon Tweed, and lifetime rock partner, Paul Stanley.

The party was pretty cool considering Simmons doesn’t bowl or drink, and there was plenty of both going on. There was an open bar by the front door (once we got past a quickly departing Michael Des Barres) and stacks of chicken satay with peanut sauce on gourmet plates. The PA was booming loads of Baby Boomer classics like “Brown Sugar”, “Highway To Hell” and Stories’ “Jackie Blue”. I felt like I was back in High School! If you were holding your breath waiting for The Horrors or The Raveonettes to get played you would have turned blue and died. Oh well, fuck it, it's his party.

Adding to the age factor was the extremely heavy presence of former Playboy Playmates (circa 1970s-1980s) aka blonde cougars in their den. Because I was the only soul who looked halfway “rock” – all the guys looked like salesmen from Circuit City – I was getting severe fuckhunt leers from the cougars. Rebecca stayed close, tee hee. Now I know how you girls feel on Date Night.

Lucky Strike had some pretty rockin’ lanes, I must say; I would definitely return again just to knock a few pins around. Over the lanes were video screens showing extreme sports videos, which stopped to play birthday wishes to old Gene. The best videos were from Joe Perry standing in front of Mount Rushmore, Bill Maher actually saying something funny for a change (“When they told me an old Jew in high heels and makeup was celebrating their birthday I thought cool, Joan Rivers is having a birthday party.”), and Carrot Top was also busting some funny for a change, pouring a tiny hotel bottle of Crown Royal into a Gene Simmons puppet head, forcing him to drink.

Just when you thought the cougar contingent owned the night I played a few bowling games with some supermodels and their dates. One was seriously plowed but pretty cool and funny. The other one was 6’5”, extremely thin and just came from Russia and never bowled in her life. It was wild, and every time I got a strike I jumped up and down. The weird thing was that the supermodels kept asking me to bend over and bowl even when it wasn’t my turn (?!?) to the point of one of the model’s dates taking off in a huff for awhile. After twenty minutes of hopping and dancing in the lanes I reached back and noticed that my leather pants rode down pretty low and the back strap of my jock (BRIGHT ORANGE) was popping out of my pants. No wonder I was getting all those free turns! A little later the Russian model asked me to head off to the patio and have a smoke with her. Rebecca mysteriously appeared on cue, and we went home.

Happy birthday, Gene Simmons, thanks for the great party, the next time I get invited to your shindigs I promise to wear a darker jock.

2 or 3 Things I Know About Her

Some girls like to whine and pout and some like to scream and shout. I’ll tell you 2 or 3 things I know about her and why she makes a difference to me. There was this girl, oh, we’ll call her Rebecca, she was always a little bit different, much to everyone’s disgust, girls aren’t supposed to be, you know, different, but we can’t change how we’re made. Anyway, she lived in one of those suburban areas where nobody’s different because if you’re different that creates trouble to a lot of people. If everybody’s the same then people can go to sleep in peace, and for many life is all about eating until you burst and sleeping until you die. But the different people stop the not-different people from sleeping well and eating their daily intake of 10 tons of food, but I digress.

So in this land of not-so-different, this girl named Rebecca rode her bike home from school via a short cut of an empty grassy lot with a bush and a shrub here and there. She was riding her bike slowly through the remote path singing “la-la-la” to herself the way Little Red Riding Hood probably did. As she did some greasy maniac jumped out from behind one of the bushes and wrapped his arm around her throat, choking her. She reached back with her arm and smashed his pasty face. He grunted in his sloppy French like all Canadiens do, loosening his grip, and as he did, she kicked him several times in the shins until they were so bruised he couldn’t run after her. She pedaled away as fast as she could on her bike.

When she got home she told her parents about what happened. They reported the incident to the Canadien police, and were told to come to the station to file a report. Rebecca and her parents were informed that several girls her age had been attacked in that empty lot and a few were even killed. One had a hair brush rammed down her throat and choked to death. The police knew about this guy and needed a visual description of what he looked like. Rebecca gave them a full description of what he looked like, and within a few weeks he was picked up by the authorities and prosecuted. It turned out he was a boxboy at the supermarket a few miles away.

Even though the attacker was now in prison Rebecca’s parents were worried about her safety. The possibility of another attack was still fresh in their minds, so they enrolled her in a martial arts school. Nothing fights off rapists better than judo, the martial arts where one can deflect any powerful, detaining hold they’re placed in. Rebecca enjoyed fighting people, so much so that when she fought her opponents she always had a smile on her face. Her sensei, a kind, diminutive Japanese man would admonish her, “No, you no smile. Have to look angry! More powerful that way!” Nevertheless, Rebecca won every match. Her room was filled with medals and trophies.

Judo was fun but there was wrestling lessons at school. She enrolled in those courses and was a terror in classic wrestling, beating all her opponents, mostly fat Iroquois girls from the reservation like Suzy Three Wolves and Cathy Spotted Deer. Their brothers loved to huff spray paint cans in a paper bag in their pickup trucks and listen to Bachman-Turner Overdrive. Rebecca became the girl’s wrestling champion of her school, trophies accompanying her judo medals. Her parents wouldn’t watch her compete because they couldn’t bear seeing her get thrown around a wrestling mat and tortured. It didn’t matter, though, because she always won, anyway.

Unfortunately, once she ran out of female opponents she was now pit against male competitors. Great, back to the egg: being grabbed by men. She didn’t like it, it creeped her out. They would reach for parts she didn’t want groped and put in positions that she wasn’t cool with. She unceremoniously bowed out of the wrestling game, but the end result was a triumph: judo medals and wrestling trophies lined her room and she gained confidence that was valuable.

Years later, men would make the stupid mistake of thinking she was a pushover and hassle her. She’d throw them into the wall in her furs and high heels and they’d discover she’s a lady, but the most powerful one they would ever meet. And that’s one of the things that makes her different – she’s a beautiful girl but the deadliest tomboy alive. If that isn’t wifey material I don’t know what is.

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

When Rebecca recorded Shonen Knife’s “Public Baths” with her band Frightwig for the “Every Band Has a Shonen Knife Who Loves Them” compilation in 1989 several months later she got a letter from the band telling her that they enjoyed her cover and thought it was the best track on the album. A year later she covered Yoko Ono’s “Sisters O Sisters” with The Tater Totz and shortly received a fan letter from Yoko Ono telling her she loved her version of the song. If the Japanese can get behind Rebecca Seven then so should you.

"Plug" Rhymes With "Bug"

All right all you hepcats, drop your cocks and grab your socks, drop your clits and pick up sticks, the new issue of "Punk Globe" is out featuring an ultra-bitchen photo of Rebecca Seven on the cover shot by yours truly! It's for a great article on my Rebecca written by the awesome Rebecca G. Wilson of Juxtapoz Magazine fame.

Here's the link if you want to read it:
http://punkglobe.com/rebeccasevrininterview609.html

The article discusses at great length the mind-boggling genius who thrilled millions playing guitar in Frightwig, went on to become clothes designer to stars like Raquel Welch, Motley Crue, Julie Newmar, Keanu Reeves, Kiss, and billions more! Her paintings have exhibited across the country, melting young impressionable eyeballs from coast to coast!!! Even the guys in Voivod bow to her magnificent greatness!

I don't really plug too many things I do but just as long as I'm at it check out the Flipside Magazine sitting by Kurt Cobain. Who's on the cover but, cough cough, yours truly? I get around, beetchess.

Rebecca: Kween o' Kool Kards

'Tis the season for Rebecca to pull out her artistic armada of weapons: acrylics, pencils, inks, etc. and make me her wild cards. In the next six months I'll be getting my Birthday cards (October 31st), Hanukkah/Xmas cards (December 25th), and our Anniversary cards (February 12th). That's quite a triage, so there's tons of great art to look forward to! Go baby go!

Hooray 4 Rebecca!

One of the things that I always look forward to whether it's Birthday time, Christmas time, or Anniversary time is getting cards drawn by Rebecca. As you can see pictured here her imagination runs rampant and she'll draw all sorts of wild stuff. Rebecca never fails to entertain me because getting her cards is just as exciting as getting the presents themselves!

You Goddamn Subversive Kids!

Let’s be honest, people are peculiar about getting married. Forget about the baseball game proposals, is there anything scarier than some douche in a chick flick asking his girl, “Honey I think we should grow old together”.
Holy shit, is there anything scarier than a bickering old couple? That’s romantic? You really want to picture yourself fifty years from now, spaced out and smelly, arguing with some old cunt you’ve been stitched to for fifty years?
The worst part to getting married, ironically enough, is the engagement. Before we got married, people were so dramatically opposed to our wedding we actually had to be sneaky about it.

The Engagement: Rebecca’s parents essentially hated any guy that dated her, and she had an ex-boyfriend that threatened to call Immigration on her and have her deported. I, on the other hand, did not have my father’s blessing. When I leaked, no oozed out the information to my older brother I was getting married, I added, “By the way, before you meet her, I ought to let you know, she’s black”.
My older brother passed on the news to my father, who bristled, “She’s black? What??? It won’t last! Typical Hollywood marriage, it will fall apart”.
On the other hand, her family was less than thrilled to hear Rebecca was marrying a Jew.
When she oozed out the information to her Hollywood scenester friends she was getting married her phone rang off the hook. Late at night. From her ex-boyfriends. She let the answering machine take the calls, and we’d listen to their whiny voices, “Heyyyy, Rebecca”, “Rebecca, I saw this foxy girl the other day, she was hawtttttt, when she turned around it was yooouuuuu”…we lay in bed and laughed like devils at these dorks.
Rebecca played in a band for something like 5 minutes with a girl I used to date, and she said, “Ugh, Andy Seven, he’s totally in love with me, what a freak!”
“Really? We’re getting married in a few months”.
“Oh! Well!” she flustered, “Uh, harrumph, he’s very special, you know. He has a private side to him, that you know, uh, nobody else knows about that makes him so special”.
Yeah, bullshit.
The rest of Rebecca’s friends were Echo Park gays that thought I knew nothing about homosexuality and would be shocked by their behavior. I don’t know where they got that impression but they kept camping it up like a drag queen’s convention every time they’d see me.
“Girl, my ovary is killing me!”
“Honey, my titty rings are so on fire!!!”
Even that idiot Eric Erlandson from flop group Hole weighed in by saying, “Andy Seven??? What’s Rebecca doing with Andy Seven??”
“Why? What’s wrong with Andy Seven?”
“Don’t you know???” Articulate bastard, isn’t he? That must explain why Drew Barrymore dumped him in less than four months. He must know his women!

The Welding, uh Wedding: We got married at L.A. County Superior Court, leaving religion out of the marriage process. With two witnesses present, it was a long, slow process because we got married on Lincoln’s Birthday (February 12). Since Valentine’s Day fell on a Sunday we decided Honest Abe’s Birthday would be the next best thing (Friday). Everybody had the same idea, so we sat on the waiting room floor with 100 other couples. Some of them wore bridal dresses with cute little mija flower girls standing by.
What slowed everything down was a gay couple (who protested the gay marriage ban) at the front door of the office and held up proceedings for everybody.
When we finally made our vows Rebecca laughed through the whole thing with tears in her eyes. I guess she was happy.
Just so we wouldn’t leave anybody out of our wedding ceremony we had a wedding party the next night in Culver City (Palms, actually). All of our friends were there, and Flipside Magazine took pictures for publication in their next issue. The next day Courtney Love phoned Rebecca, “Are you really married to Andy? How ‘good’ is he?”
I never did like Hole.
Fifteen years later we’re still married, lasting longer than most marriages and with the enmity of our families. It’s ironic to think that the most subversive thing I ever did in my life was get married. One thing's for certain: if we grow old together we’ll never look it, because when you’re happy you always feel young.

Welcome to San Francisco

Nobody hits the streets of San Francisco expecting to knock 'em dead. If anything, if you go there it's to run away from somewhere else, and she was taking flight from French Canada, a chilly graveyard of smug and prim "rebels". She had dark skin of indeterminate race and platinum blonde hair. It shook up hipsters who swore they couldn't be shook up.

The locals didn't know what to make of her, but the drag queens did. They took her under their wing like the Seven Dwarves of Babylon: there was Miss Glamour Thing who had Tourette's Syndrome, "c'mere nigger bitch, get your pussy over here I'll show you how to sew a dress, whore". Sister Fred, who worshipped Boy George - "ker-azy about the Boy", he whined through his nose, and Jill Hershey Bar, inheritor of millions, at 300+ pounds and lover of scat, hence the title. The Girl once gave Miss Hershey Bar some dog shit for his birthday and he was so excited he broke out in tears.

Although she never had sex at all she was constantly in the employ of various sex industries - credit card checker for a 1-800 Phone Sex line or a custodian at a North Beach strip club. It paid for guitar strings, a fuzz-wah pedal, and rehearsal studio time. It was one night she got into the Nightbreak on Haight St. to see the Four Horsemen play. Sitting on the edge of the stage as the Four Horsemen played were two sluts with fried blonde hair kicking their legs up and down to the beat. They looked really smug like they were Sex In A Can. "How much more stupid can these bitches look?" she thought.

After a few beers she went to the ladies room. A minute later one of the fried blonde strumpets came in, too. The Girl turned around and sneered at her and said, "Plan on giving any diseases to the band after the show?"
"Fuck you, bitch", Fried Blondie yelled, and threw a punch at her. She ducked and missed the punch. She dived at her and ripped out clumps of the Fried Blonde's hair.
"I'll kill you!" the ugly stripper shrieked. The Girl tore the stripper's top off, and then got her on the ground using her wrestling medal-winning skills to good use.
"Let go of me!!" the stripper whined. The Girl then tried shoving the stripper's head into the toilet bowl. The stripper's friend came in to help her.
By this point there was such a commotion coming from the Ladies Room, the Girl's friends came in with beer pitchers and beat the strippers upside their heads with them.
The bouncers raced in and broke up the fight, kicking everyone out of the bathroom.

After the band's set, the lead singer of the Four Horsemen approached the Girl at the bar.
"Hey", he said, "I'm sorry about those girls. They followed us, I don't know who they are".
"Oh, that's okay", she said. He focused on a chip she wore around her neck.
"Cool", he remarked. "I'm in the program, too. How many days do you have?" He turned the chip around to read the inscription.
The inscription said, "GOOD FOR ONE DRINK".
He disgustedly pushed it back at her. But not so disgusted that he didn't give her his phone number in Hollywood before storming off.

Months later, she had a job cleaning at The Century Theatre. Two strippers came into the dressing room and froze when they saw her. It was the girls from the Nightbreak. As she was leaving, one of the strippers stopped her.
"I know you", she said. "I know you from somewhere. You look really familiar".
"Yeah", the Girl said, "You look really familiar to me, too".
"Do I know you from Hollywood?" she smiled, getting excited. "Did you ever go to the Scream?"
"Yeah, maybe. Have you ever been to White Trash A Go-Go?"
"No, no, no. Maybe the Seventh Veil", the fried stripper pondered, jogging her imited memory banks. She honestly couldn't place her from that explosive evening at the Nightbreak.
A week went by and the two strippers did their act, never recognizing the Girl. After their "engagement" was over at the club they left the Girl a large tip, and they just couldn't remember that night.

The Girl continued making clothes with the Seven Dwarves of Babylon and it worked out fine.