Andy Seven's Blog, page 10

Long Haircuts

It's been awhile since I've had a haircut, and I'm accustomed to having my hair a certain length. If my hair gets too long I start looking like Geronimo or some other dime store Injun with my old face peeking out of a mop. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and I had to give myself a haircut.

I once gave myself a haircut when I was a teenager and it was so savage in butchery that I ended up looking like a shock therapy patient, big bald spots in my scalp followed by long, stringy strands of hair. It was truly horrorshow, but things would be different now.

I did my best to remember the way my hair was cut in the past. I used a tiny, delicate pair of snips, not some garden shears. I set up a large circle of mirrors around the bathroom so I could see my head from all angles.

Cutting the front and sides was never a problem for me, that was always simple for me. The real challenge lay in cutting the back of my head and making sure that it was done as evenly as possible. Wearing my barber's cape, I snipped gingerly around the left side rear....SNIP! Then the right side rear...SNIP SNIP!!!

Then moving up towards the middle of the head, gently combing out longer strands of hair...SNIP!! Again, a little to the left...then the right....SNIP SNIP!!

Getting towards the top in the back...don't take too much off the top, easy...easy...SNIP! I could actually feel my hair feeling stronger and healthier with each cut, the strands shorter and thicker. When it felt like I'd cut enough (who knows?) I appraised myself in the mirror and liked the job I did. And I'd be a liar if I told you it wasn't one of the hardest things I've ever done.

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It's funny that my internet friend Linda Bloodworth has a novel called A Raven's Touch because I know what that feels like. When I worked in Koreatown the blackbirds would get excited by my jet black hair and land on my head!

I'd feel their claws gently resting on my scalp while their wings would flap above me. It was like wearing a crown of black wings! You could say it was their way of saying, "WE ACCEPT YOU ONE OF US">>>>>>>>>>>>

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

When I went into Sunland I saw a lot of beat trailer-style homes with cars parked on the front lawn, their guts pulled out sitting on blocks , not even finished, some even getting rusty from overexposure to the elements. There were kids' toys strewn about the yard, dirty and sticky from use and abuse. The odd mattress lay about here and there, springs sticking out like spikes from an old cactus.

The roads were not only poorly paved but looked like a pothole convention. My shock absorbers got a mad workout bouncing up and down the poverty roadwork. The car bounced like a bumper car from some long condemned carnival.

As beat as the homes looked, there was that constant of the American flag waving loud and proud in front lawn poles or at the very least stretched out over a stumpy porch. The poor always let you know what country they're living in , even though same country was giving them the rawest deal of their lives.

They definitely loved their horses as much as they loved their fucking flag. Every once in awhile I'd spot a horse trailer, empty, no horses, sitting in the driveway of the folks. An empty horse trailer looks a lot like an iron outhouse with no toilet inside.

Another block ahead and the veneer of the area changed completely. Trailer homes gave way to a lush suburb of beautifully manicured lawns with large driveways and luxurious mid-century homes. I felt as if I'd been dropped into an entirely different town within the course of a few blocks.

I came to a full stop when a willowy teenage girl walked her horse across the street in front of me. She glanced at me fro a moment, her chestnut brown hair falling into her bright green eyes as she gave me a small smile. The horse loped slowly as if it were ill.

The path cleared I drove to my delivery. She lived in a home that looked more like Cheviot Hills then Sunland. I pulled into her driveway and parked. I brought out her boutique order and rang her door bell. A very distinguished looking elderly lady opened the door. I saw a very bright chandelier sparkling behind her.

"Yes?"
"Your Oscar De La Renta is here, ma'am".
"Oohhhh...good!" She had a large pile of silver hair piled atop her head, immaculate makeup worn with a magnificent string of pearls adorning her neck.
"Have a great day, ma'am".
I handed her the long black garment bag and returned to my car, the sun baking everything inside my auto. I flipped on the air conditioning and sped back to Santa Monica.

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

Made a delivery at this beautiful park in the Hollywood Hills to this rich Jewish couple. They were putting together this Easter Egg Hunt picnic and screaming at each other while I was dropping their stuff off. It was cool, though, because they tipped me while they were screaming.

"Fearless" - Family (1971)

The first time I heard about Family was when I saw a photograph in Rolling Stone of a scrawny man with wild, stringy hair flying all over the place in shirttails on stage screaming into a microphone. He had a wild, unkempt look that was jarring. It was a picture of singer Roger Chapman, and the music his band Family played was equally jarring.

My interest piqued, my first audio experience with Family was their album Anyway. The cover was a famous sketch by Da Vinci of a cannon, all packaged in a clear vinyl sleeve.

The music contained therein was some of the most violent I’ve ever heard. Chapman sang in a booming rustic bray that was downright scary in conjunction with the violent music. One of the violent performances on Anyway was Strange Band, “Strange looking band were we”. Standing out in contrast to the band’s violence was a bright, pretty vibraphone played by band multi-instrumentalist Poli Palmer.

The vibraphone added a jazzy element to all the sonic ultra-violence. Chiefly notable was Palmer’s pretty vibes solo on Good News Bad News, bringing a lot of texture to the pummeling fisticuffs sound.

Family fully realized their vision in 1971 with the release of their fifth album Fearless, which deftly combined all the anger and beauty in one brilliant package. The album cover shows a clever computerized photo of each band member in a cascade, with the cell of each picture becoming more and more distorted until each member begins to resemble this one face at the bottom.

Fearless shows a wider breadth and scope than many bands’ efforts, as evidence din tracks like Sat’dy Barfly, a bouncy, drunken saloon number complete with barroom piano and a bevy of booming tubas. Chapman gives a Rod Stewart-styled vocal about a pub regular making his big Saturday night appearance, blowing his dough and cadging free drinks, eventually tearing things up. The tubas do a good job of creating images of a drunken man trying to keep his balance walking.

Crinkly Grin is a brief Zappa-influenced instrumental with Poli Palmer playing the lead melody on vibes. I thought it was a little too brief, to be honest with you. I could have listened to a lot more of that cool jazziness. Definitely not a filler track!

Larf And Sing is a jazzy number with an understated blues guitar lead by Charlie Whitney. The chorus is delivered acapella by the band in wonderfully layered harmonies.

Spanish Tide has a great ascending vocal line with the melody moving from gentle to violent, and when it’s Family violent the vibes come out to play a wild, distorted solo. John Wetton does a terrific job on bass and does some singing on this number. When I met him on a Roxy Music tour several years later I asked him to autograph my copy of Fearless, which registered a surprised look from him.

Save Some For Thee is a soul rocker with a punchy horn section. The song ends with a perky marching band playing the melody, years before Fleetwood Mac did that whole thing.

Family had an endless line of bassists and keyboardists coming and going in their band (some of them were John Weider from The Animals, Ric Grech of Blind Faith, John Wetton and Tony Ashton, among others). They released two more albums and right after Chapman and Whitney formed Streetwalkers, a soul/R&B influenced combo. Not quite the manic art school rage of Family, but still a good way to spend a Sat’dy night.

Strokes And Carvings

Welcome to my DIY gallery, works by a largely untotured artist punching his way through arts and crafts! Although I tried my hand at painting in the late Seventies I stopped for awhile and now find myself creating pieces just for fun, which is a nice way of saying I've become more of a hobby painter. The serious art days are far behind me, and that's alright. I like being a Sunday painter.

One of my favorite subjects is glam rock, so painting Seventies style hard rock stars rockin' out makes me happy. Right up above is a favorite of mine. It's a dramatic portrait of my man Desi rocking out some righteous metal a la Poison, Great White, etc. with his band Whiskey Starr circa 1988 at White Trash A Go Go, maybe English Acid, prob not Zombie Zoo.

In front of the stage is his rich Jewish American Princess girlfriend wearing the official band tee getting pissed off at some cheap poodle-haired blonde who's been shaking her shoulders to Desi rocking out. I don't know about you, but I think a catfight is imminent.

Or how about a painting of Iggy based on one of the photos in back of the Raw Power album? I liked doing this one, and took great care in rendering a stylized look to his crazy eyes and lipsticked mouth. I really invested as much glam realness to the image as possible.

At this point it should be pointed out that when I first painted I used oils, giving everything a rough, expressionist look. I used a lot of heavy black lines and really slathered on the paints. It was a really violent look, however, later on when I got back in the game I used acrylics for a smoother, more refined look.

Getting tired of paints, I tried my hand at woodcuts because I liked the raw, violent look it gave, so here's yet another picture of Desi rocking out on stage with a smoke impudently dangling from his lips. I printed it with black ink on colored paper. I thought it turned out rather well.

Here's another woodcut I call King Cactus, showing a very tall, happy cactus rejoicing in his native habitat. I always liked the way large cacti always had long arms reaching out for you, and this guy seems to be having himself a good time in the wild.

Pictured below is Payin' The Bill, a painting of Desi offstge enjoying margaritas and some taco combination plates with the his rich girlfriend paying the bill for her very kept boyfriend. Where are these girls??? I need to find me one, but that's another blog.

(I've Got) The Tinnitus Touch

I love music. I love playing it and I love listening to it. I can't really go out and enjoy it anymore, though. In fact, I've only been to two shows last year and paid dearly for it. You see, I have this terrible problem. I have tinnitus.

Tinnitus is a condition where your ears are always ringing, the end result of too many loud bands, records, etc. creating permanent damage to your ear drums. After playing in bands for over 22 years and attending concerts for longer than that, my hearing is pretty blown out. I'm not alone, either. Pete Townsend, Neil Young and Barbara Streisand, among others, suffer from the same syndrome.

How did I get tinnitus? It comes from years of giving and receiving. Receiving means over 45 years of standing in front of the stage at shows by The Sex Pistols, Roxy Music, Patti Smith, Captain Beefheart, Queen and thousands of other noise addicts. Half these shows had me standing right by the speakers, and if I had to do it all over again, I would.

Giving means playing free jazz sax squall over a bed of not one, not two, but three distorted guitars turned all the way up to 10 and beyond. Wearing earplugs was never an option. I had to feel the vibrations shaking through my bones and tearing out my heart. I wasn’t some Adam Levine careerist dickhead, I was on a suicide mission to get my noise music played.

There are times when I can phase out the ringing, and then there are times when I can't. Sometimes I'll wake up at 3:30 in the morning and the ringing will be in full blast, like I just stepped out of a nightclub. It's pretty strange. My ears are ringing loudly as I’m sitting here writing,. But as I said, I can also ignore it, just as you would any annoying bit of sound.

I've been to the doctor and he said there's nothing wrong with my hearing. “That’ll be $three hundred dollars, thank you". All Western medical solutions are out. I may consider acupuncture if it works, but otherwise it's going to be this high pitched ring for a long time.

So, all you Facebook die-hard rockers, don't get pissed if I pass on invitations to your shows. And by the way, buy my books. Support is a two-way street.

The ability to hear is highly overrated, anyway. I was at the neighborhood laundromat, and it’s a reasonably small, modest one. It has the questionable perk of having not one, but two television sets Both televisions were turned to the same program with the volume turned up very, very loud.

The television show that night was one of those Real Housewives programs where the women scream and bitch-slap each other for the better part of half an hour. It seemed longer than thirty minutes; quite frankly it felt like an eternity. It’s very hard to concentrate on folding your newly dried wash while both your ear canals are being pummeled by the shrill fighting of overly made-up women screaming their heads off.

I quickened the pace of my folding as I heard two, no, maybe three women shrieking and ruining their nails by raking them over each other’s faces, realizing that if I were truly deaf this would just look like inmates from a mental institution having it out. I would just move along, nothing to see here.

Well, the gals were still going at it like a vaginal demolition derby as I marched with my clothes out of the place, making a mental note to never go to the laundromat on a Wednesday night. Wednesday night’s not alright for fighting.

For more information about tinnitus, go to the American Tinnitus Association site at http://www.ata.org/

Spermatozoa, East of Java

I was in Highland Park the other day and I saw a car with one of those old Bad Boy stickers on the window. I mention HP because a sticker like that's still be a big deal over there with the older folks. If you've never seen the Bad Boy stickers before they show some little guy with a Dennis The Menace cowlick peeing on the floor with a sneer on his face (natch), Bad Boy mooning you, etc.

With all this FU sentiment coming out of Bad Boy I then found it rather odd that there was a car sticker showing Bad Boy on his knees intently praying to the Cross. Ah, what goes on here? What does this signify?

What exactly is Bad Boy doing here? I can only surmise it means one of two things, either: (A) If Bad Boy prays to Christ regularly then he thinks it exempts him from sin from giving us the finger and pissing on our lawn, which makes him a typical Republican, or (B) This little cunt is actually repenting for being an irritating sticker icon. What do you people think?

I had another one of my ghastly dreams last night. When I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom to do my business I opened the door, flipped on the light, and what looked like over fifty large cockroaches ran around in circles like madmen all over the floor.

Normally I would run and out my boots on, but time was of the essence so I simply took my stockinged feet and began stomping on these multi-legged vermin like an insane Italian stomping grapes for dry red wine. The roaches squirted open upon impact of my furious stomping, all lying dead and twitching their last few legs and clicking their antennae in entomological agony. After cleaning up the mess I went back to bed.

Two hours later I got up to go to the bathroom again, and once I flipped on the light I heard the hissing and coiling of two dozen snakes all over the floor. I grabbed a safety razor I only use on special dates and severed all of their heads, still spitting venom at me and missing wildly. That was a messy clean-up, but I went back to bed.

Three hours later I got up to go to the bathroom, hesitated opening up the door but duty calls, so I flipped on the light, and twenty one rats ran around the floor. I grabbed the biggest tote bag in the bathroom and threw it over them, tied the ends of the bag and threw it into the bath tub. I turned the hot water spigot all the way up and heard a lot of cute shrieking.

These boys very reluctantly drowned, but a few were still hanging in there, so I pulled the survivors out by their cute pink tails and threw them into the toilet, flushing them down. two of them had their heads halfway stuck down the bowl with their tails and back legs sticking up from the bowl.

Damn. I guess I'm going to have to call the plumber tomorrow.

I have this job on weekends delivering fashion to well-heeled people in Malibu, Bel-Air and all points northward. It's a great job because I get to go to these ridiculously lavish areas with more spectacular homes I've ever seen. It's pretty awesome. It's never boring, and sometimes these people even tip.

So I'm making a drop-off up in the Hollywood Hills and I'm really flustered getting the gown out and all, my ass is hanging out of my pants and my clipboard is falling down, and I turn around and there's this TMZ tour bus with these blonde apple knockers with their fucking cameras and iPhones taking pics of me pulling out a gown with my dick falling out my pants and I got THIS close to screaming, "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"

Pictures At An Exhibitionistic Collection

Well, all the European fashion weeks representing AW16 (Autumn/Winter 2016) seem to be over and the smoke has finally cleared and it was easy to pick the good stuff from the junk. Trying to keep up with all the fashion weeks and the designers that made them so notable would be like counting boxcars from a speeding freight train. Can you blame so many designers for resigning from the well-dressed rat race? I can't.

A few lines caught my eye and I'm going to talk about the ones I rally liked. Attacking the dumber ones would be too easy: let's just say I saw a lot of hokey flower and animal prints, which looked like bad tourist wear.

Dries Van Noten : Cold weather never looked so cool, but DVN rarely disappoints. Beautiful delicate fabrics of silks and velvets in rich colors with dashing old world coats, slickers and dusters, partially recalling Jules Verne's Michael Strogoff and Dr. Zhivago. Very romantic stuff,a nd it didn't hurt that the models all had that Terence Stamp/David Hemmings look. Well done.

Maison Martin Margiela: This was almost approaching Clockwork Orange territory with suspenders holding up mixed fabric trousers and tops, looking very pop art futuristic droog.

The more "subdued" designs were cool waistcoats and jodhpurs, very Rolling Stones pirate with some Sleepy Hollow ghost rider goth chic thrown in. Extrovert or introvert, this one wowed me both ways.

Dior Homme: Dior Homme's AW16 collection was a highly energetic collection of wild suiting utilizing unusual fabrics and beyond elephant flares, the baggiest, widest trousers, phat enough to make Rei Kawakubo jealous. Cartoony bolo ties finished the look, and that was just the formal wear. The sportier styles were asymmetrical wool caps with rich oxblood leather coats. Bravo.

Yves St. Laurent: This show took place two miles away from my house and I could kick myself for missing this great presentation. Following the death of David Bowie, the menswear designs shown at the Hollywood Palladium (!) emulated Bowie during his cocaine fueled Young Americans-Station To Station period, big slouch hats, tightly cut suits with thick, severe sunglasses. Hedi Slimane did a brilliant job. Fashion comes to Hollywood and wakes up all the ghosts of glitz and glam.

Animal Flesh (Hot Wire MY HEART Chapter Two)

Annabelle Blesch was a former parochial school student who moved into the Mission District as soon as she graduated high school. Undecided about whether she wanted to go to college or not, she promised her parents she would consider going to a good art school if they let her get her own apartment near the school of her choice. She never enrolled. She kept the apartment.

In the meantime she made a new set of friends and went to punk shows with them, dyed her hair platinum blonde, and dove into the whole DIY punk lifestyle. Her pale white skin made her look ghostlike. She painted her lips and fingernails and toenails cherry red, the brightest color she could find in the beauty shops. She wanted to date artists. She wanted to date musicians. She ended up with Dante Sterno.

Nobody wants to hang out with a girl named Annabelle Blesch so she changed her name to Animal Flesh. It was neatly shortened to simply Animal, which suited her just fine. Animal stretched out on the Murphy bed they had which lay not too far from the bay window overlooking the street. She had her sketch pad out and was studiously sketching the bum across the street rummaging through a trio of dented garbage cans.

Her tabby cat jumped on the bed and almost toppled over her plastic box of colored pencils.
“Not now, Sketchy! I’m working!” she pushed the cat away by the butt, and Sketchy protested with a growled meow.

Animal was getting some good shading on the bum’s piss stained jeans when she heard the door at the bottom of the stairs slam.
“HELLO?” she bellowed.
“It’s just me!” Dante hollered, his voice rising up the stairs as he walked up and into the bedroom.

“Home already?” she asked, still concentrating on her candid model across the street.
“Fuck it”, Dante grunted. Animal stopped what she was doing and spun around to look at Dante. She frowned at his roughed up, disheveled appearance.

“What the hell happened to you?”
“What the hell happened to me? The Working Class is what happened to me, those sons of bitches. They jumped me right after their set!”
Animal cackled. “You got accosted by those well-bred rich kids? Ho!”
“It’s not funny, you bitch”.
“Was there shin-kicking and a Lacrosse at dawn challenge?”

Dante threw his leather jacket on the bed, which Sketchy turned into a cat bed.
“I was so embarrassed. The girls had to step in and break things up”.
Animal cackled even more. “What did you expect? Their flunky fans aren’t going to stand for yearbook photos of them holding corsages in their powder blue prom suits”.
“It’s my job to deliver the truth! It’s punk rock”.

Animal blew a farting raspberry, turned back to the window and continued her sketching.
“What are you doing?” Dante asked.
“I’m sketching the bum across the street. He’s studying every piece of crap like a gold prospector”, she rubbed her eraser over a flubbed line. “What an asshole!”

“That man’s the real working class”, Dante puffed out his chest.
“That asshole never worked a day in his life. That’s why he’s shopping through everybody’s trash”.

Dante walked out to the kitchen. “I’m getting a beer. Do you want one?”
“Nnnnnope! That guy’s got a trail of piss going from his waist down to the cuff of his leg. How’d he piss all over his waist?” she mused.

Dante took a pull of his beer and collapsed on the bed next to Animal. He leaned over and kissed her pretty blonde hair. “Let’s fuck”, he said.
“No, not now. I’m getting some good shadows and light. This one’s going to be good”, she ran her light pink tongue over her bright red lips, concentrating on the sad tableau outside.

Sketchy jumped up to the bay window and looked out over the street like a gargoyle. Animal pushed him aside lightly with her pencil so he wouldn’t block her view. The cat meowed in protest. Dante jumped off the bed and scanned his records, trying to decide if he was going to listen to The Sex Pistols, The Dead Boys or The Residents.

The following morning, Dante took Animal out to breakfast at Sun Song Cafe, their favorite coffee shop on 16th and Valencia, run by a Chinese family who made the best bacon, eggs and toast specials for under $3.00. After 12 noon they served dim sum for the rest of the day.

Animal guzzled coffee and dipped her bacon piece into her maple syrup and crunched it while running a commentary about the stupid girls who worked at her art supply store.
“Dumb bitches wouldn’t know the difference between poster board and foam board, Jesus, how did they get hired anyway they must have blown Kenny the manager who doesn’t know shit about fauvism or post-modern and –“
Dante nervously drummed on the table with his fork and spoon, his eyes darting around, noticing a few scenesters sitting in a booth by the corner.

It was Megan Trouble and Careless Carlos, popular punks on the scene, both looking disheveled and eating murky oatmeal. Dante’s hearing was directed towards their table as Animal prattled on. He leaned slightly towards the direction of their booth, listening carefully.

“…had to be at least ten in there…it was hard to tell with the red light bulb and nothing else for light…”
“…I know…Can you believe how big his package was? He could choke a horse with it…”
“…I thought she was so political…but look at her…putting out like some Tijuana whore…damn…”
Dante’s eyes lit up over that last one. He fidgeted like crazy.

“So, GULP, this dumb cunt started shading shit with a pastel and said, look, it’s just as good as crayons, BURP! Crayons, shit, what a dumb bitch!”
Dante got up from the table.
“Look, baby, I see some people I know from last night at the show. I’ll be back in a minute!”
Animal frowned. “It’s just that dumb fag Carlos and that skanky Megan. So what?”
“Gimme a minute. I’ll be back, have some more coffee!”

Dante approached the booth, prompting Megan and Careless Carlos to immediately shut up.
“Hey guys, what’s going on? Didn’t see you at The Mab last night”.
Megan eyed him skeptically, tossing her dark, curly hair.
“YEAH, SO?” Careless yowled, the pock marks popping on his jowly face.
“I was invited to this party but I couldn’t make it. Fuck!” Dante used his imagination. “Heard it was down around Guerrero and there was a room just for –“

“Don’t tell him anything, Careless!” Megan sneered. “He’s the snitch who writes for that shitty fanzine!”
“Fuck off, snitch!” Carlos’ weak little mouth twisted in a passive-aggressive way.
“Now, listen, guys, if you don’t tell me about this killer party I missed then I’ll have to tell the cops about a few underage punk girls that had to blow a certain punk singer who was hung like –“
“COME ON, CARELESS!” Megan roared. “LET’S GO! I JUST LOST MY APPETITE!”

The pair got up, shoving their way past Dante to pay the old Chinese cashier by the front door. Dante ran over to his table.
“What was that all about?” Animal complained. “Sit down and finish your breakfast”.
“QUICK!” Dante jumped up and down like a small child. “GIVE ME TWENTY BUCKS!!!”

“Fuck, Dante!” Animal pulled out two tens from her purse. “You’d better pay me back before Friday. And you’d better pay for this, too. You promised!”

Dante scooped the bills from the table and ran out the door after Megan and Careless.
“What’s he doing now?” Animal asked herself, watching Dante stop the sleazy pair by the front window.
With the sounds of dishes and silverware clanging in her ears, she watched Dante pull out the two bills (previously hers) and hand them over to them. Everyone smiled and suddenly looked very chatty through the coffee shop window.

Animal groaned. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. That bastard’s buying shitty gossip with MY MONEY! I worked for that dough – he’s so dead!!!”
Animal felt like tearing her hair out when she saw Dante light Megan’s cigarette for her like a French gigolo. Then Careless Carlos took his two hands and used them to measure something long and big. They all laughed uproariously.

“Yeah”, Animal growled. “Laugh now, asshole, bruise later. You son of a bitch!”
A waitress walked up to her table. “More coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks!” Animal tapped her foot angrily, losing her impatience as the minutes ticked by.

A minute ticked by and finally they waved goodbye to each other like old, beloved friends. Dante entered the coffee shop, his phony smile melting into a stony stare.

“Greatest twenty dollars I ever spent!” he growled.
“MY twenty dollars, Dickhead!” Animal hissed.
“And worth every penny!”
“You’d better pay me back –“
“With interest”, he growled. She didn’t believe him for a minute. “Check, please!”

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

Dante pondered the time he would have to spend waiting for the next issue of Ripoff to reach press, like four weeks since the new one just came out. He thought he was going to burst if he didn’t spit out the new item he just heard from Megan Trouble and her whiny sidekick. Unable to hold it in much longer, he finally grabbed their battered electric typewriter from the closet and plugged it in. The Smith-Corona was fished out of a trash can six months ago and rarely used, chiefly because several of the keys didn’t work.

Dante began pounding away at the keys like a maniac. The time was five pm. Animal would soon be home from her job at Easels Anonymous.

“BAY AREA BURNING AND BANGING!

“Your intre id unk gadfly was at a arty on Guerrero Street thrown by that band known for their shocking songs about heroin and Genet…not only were they cooking u but there was a tiny little Friendship Room where about a dozen o ular and not-so- o ular scenesters got nude and lewd with each other…It was anarchy in the nude cave! Clothes off and laying Twister with each other’s hot & tots… Anna Darkness from The Broken Toys was doing the twist with a anting female fan while taking it from Jimmy Na alm of The Tor edoes…

“That roto-feminist unkette Donna Fillmore of Lady Cyborg barked like a dog while Fill Flames s anked her as she took all ten inches of well-endowed…

“…the dirtiest orgy SF punk ever witnessed”, Careless Carlos laughed. “People getting sweaty and slimy with each other on that banged up queen-sized mattress picked up from God knows where! And oh my God, some of those boys were SO gifted! Who knew???”

“Shut up, Carlos!” Megan whined. “These chicks were dishing out pussy like it was their last fuck on Earth, dyking out and throwing their bullshit feminist attitudes out the window once they saw all those thick cocks shooting off in their faces”.

Carless jumped back in. “That room smelled like a high school locker room with the oldest tuna casserole on the stove. It was so smelly I had to run out periodically to keep from chucking. Are you going to print I was there?”

“That Jimmy Napalm, he had the sweetest basket! I couldn’t get him out of my mouth”.

“All your favorite unk heroes and zeroes were there gro ing and blowing and banging u a storm, changing ositions and artners faster than you can count. I’ll bet there’ll be some good hardcore coming out of this jam session. You heard it here first from your man Dante Sterno”.

Two hours later Animal read Dante’s copy, slowly lowered the paper and frowned.
“This is the filthiest thing I’ve ever read. This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever written. You can’t have this published. Don’t do it”.
“BUT THE PEOPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW!” Dante jumped up proudly.
“THE PEOPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO BREAK YOUR LEGS!” Animal yelled back.

“Warren will publish this in a fucking flash. Think of how many copies we can sell. We can get some of these people to pose naked and shit!”
“Stupid, these guys are going to come banging on our door looking for your ass to kick and I’m going to have to cover for you again”.
Dante just scoffed. Animal threw the article down to the floor.

“Is this the shit my twenty bucks paid for?”
Dante just stared down at the article lying on the floor.
“I paid for your death warrant? These kids are going to come by looking for your neck to break. You’re not publishing that shit!”
“Yes, I am”.
“No, you’re not”.

“Yes, I am”, Dante said, picking up his article from the floor.
“Fuck you, Dante! I’m going for a walk”.

Animal grabbed her coat and purse, storming down the staircase and slammed the door as hard as she could. Once she reached the sidewalk, she felt like flipping a coin. Tails she’d go to a coffee shop, heads she’d give Jimmy Napalm from The Torpedoes a call.

Apologies to Charlotte Free for using her images.

Now Playing ABSOLUTELY FREE on You Tube - Pyromaniacs On Parade

Lately in my sojourns on You Tube I've noticed a few horror=based thrillers that all employ the device of the house fire trauma. This is not an easy trick to pull off, as in they all seem to have the house still standing after the fire and in pretty good shape. The films listed below aren't particularly good, but they're swell trash worth at least one view and definitely chuckle worthy, so let's get started:

Picture Mommy Dead (1966): A teen variant on the old William Castle movies, where the halfway sane person gets bullied into believing they're still crazy and going crazier by the minute (see Strait-Jacket or The Night Walker). Is it as good as Castle? No, but it's still pretty camp.

Susan Shelley (Susan Gordon) returns to the home where she witnessed her mother's fiery death three years earlier, an experience that drove her to madness to a convent-based sanitarium. While she was committed in the institution her father (a buttoned-up Don Ameche) ran off with the governess (Martha Hyer) and married her.

Ameche went bankrupt spending all of his wife's money and has to sell out most of the property at home. Unfortunately he cannot sell the home, as Susan is the legal heir to the property. These details are explained laughably by a highly abrasive Wendell Corey, who speaks in a sort of crotchety William S. Burroughs-style voice.

Susan also happens to know where the late Mrs. Shelley's extremely expensive necklace is hidden, as selling would mean paying off Papa Ameche's extremely sizable debt, but Susan's shock from the fire blacked out her memory of the necklace's whereabouts.

Most of the film is spent with Hyer and brother-in-law Anthony (a hammy Maxwell Reed) scheming on ways to drive poor Susan into mental infirmity so they can have her locked away again and take over the family fortune. There are many scenes involving falcons, phoenixes, and other aviary imagery.

Mommy Dead isn't a great horror film but it's a decent time waster and a genuine oddity. The role of Mommy is played by a silent Zsa Zsa Gabor, who hasn't got any dialogue to utter. It's also funny her hair's dyed red to obviously symbolize fire. And when was the last time you saw a movie featuring the Mattel Scoo-Ba-Doo beatnik doll?

How Awful About Allan (1970): Curtis Harrington directed this Henry Farrell adaptation from his novel. If the name Henry Farrell sounds familiar to you, it should. He's the writer of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, and the next two films with Mr. Harrington, What's The Matter With Helen? and Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?

How Awful About Allan, starring Anthony Perkins, is not as good as any of the films listed above. It's a TV movie and looks it, plus the story isn't terribly involving. It starts with a house fire which killed Allan's father and disfigured his sister, played by Julie Harris. Allan loses most of his eyesight in the fire, with his sanity gone as well, leaving him institutionalized.

Out of the institution and back at home, Perkins is perpetually angry about his blindness, cussing and yelling at Harris in every other scene. It doesn't help that Harris rented out a room to a boarder which Perkins swears is stalking him, a bizarre claim given that Perkins can barely see.

The standout scene in the film is when Perkins loses his shit and steals his sister's car, tearing down the main road, careening wildly all over the place, uprooting trees and knocking over mailboxes with a completely perplexed look on his face. Pretty funny stuff!

It's nice to know that Harrington eventually made better films with Farrell after this one because this film was a hard one to get through. Joan Hackett is the only saving grace in this one. Not one of Perkins' better crazy guy roles!

Cure For Pain: The Mark Sandman Story (2011): No, not another horror thriller, but a film which can be seen in its entirety on You Tube. Directed by Robert Bralver as a labor of love, the film charts the short life of the man behind the legendary band Morphine. Being a major Morphine fan I couldn't wait to see this film.

To those not familiar with the sound of Morphine, they were a three-piece consisting of baritone & tenor saxophones played in tandem, a slide two-string bass guitar and drums. Somehow it worked on a Tom Waits "Swordfishtrombones" level. In fact, it helps a lot to listen to latter day Waits to figure out what Morphine were up to.

Bralver's documentary goes into Sandman's childhood with his troubled siblings, nomadic post-teen years, and going up to his early days playing in Treat Her Right. Both ex-girlfriends and former band mates are interviewed with somewhat less than saintly accounts of the occasionally arrogant musician.

But let's be honest, you're watching it for the great Morphine music and his great singing and playing, which he delivers in spades. The film spends a little too much time recalling his last days playing at an Italian mountainside festival where the air might have been too thin to allow proper breathing for him. A lot of detail is paid to this sad episode.

Again, this is a film that deserves a quick view but isn't terribly gripping, partially hindered by the film's wobbly time line. During the first half of the film it's difficult to figure out what time period people are discussing, because it goes from Treat Her Right days back to his childhood and back again. It can get pretty confusing. Tighter editing and sequencing would have helped.

Still and all, it's pretty great that a Mark Sandman documentary exists, and there are parts that get pretty exciting, but I wonder if that's just something a CD would have accomplished, and a lot quicker, too.

Hot Wire My Heart

Dante got off the street car when it reached the North Beach tourist trap, cough cough, club district. His stomach had trouble adjusting to riding up hills and then dropping down them, no matter how long he haunted the streets of San Francisco. Scaling heights and then down again made him nervous.

Dante Sterno was torn in his feelings towards North Beach; he hated the gaudy night clubs with their blinding neon signs like The Roaring 20's. Big Al's with its ugly Al Capone image looking down, The Condor trumpeting the ancient Carol Doda taking it off for the 3,000th time. On the other hand he never got tired of wasting time at City Lights Book Store, and then there was the Filipino restaurant turned punk club the Mabuhay Gardens.

"STEP RIGHT UP! COME ON IN AND SEE THE SASSIEST AND CLASSIEST LADIES IN THE ENTIIIRE BAY AREA, AND CAN THEY DANCE!!!!"

It was the start of 1978 and punk rock was in the air. San Fran rose to the challenge with bands like The Nuns, Crime, The Avengers and The Mutants, and you could feel the excitement on the streets. Your heels would shoot off sparks on the sidewalks, the electricity was so palpable. Dante was twenty four years old and his youthful ignorance was his ace in the hole.

"TWO DRINKS AND ALL THE GORGEOUS BEAUTY YOUR EYES CAN FEAST ON! THEY'RE BUSTY, THEY'RE LUSTY, THEY NEVER GET RUSTY! THE SHOW BEGINS IN FIFTEEEEN SEXY MINUTES!!!"

He zipped up his leather jacket and walked into the damp foggy air, the moisture visible in the night air like a million fireflies just drifting, illuminated by the lights shining from all the strip clubs down the street. He could feel his chestnut brown hair dampening and cursed quietly to himself. In just a few minutes he'll get to the club.

"GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS, AND MORE GIRLS! ALL SHAPES, COLORS AND SIZES! EYE CANDY AND LOOK MA, NO CAVITIES!!!! STEP RIGHT IN AND SEE THE GIRLS THAT COULD MAKE CLEOPATRA GREEN-EYED WITH JEALOUSY!"

Dante weaved through the crowds on the sidewalk, tourists, Chinese women, Berkeley hippies reeking of pot and patchouli, curiosity seekers all rushing towards him as he threaded through to the club.

Tonight was a special deal: the newest issue of Ripoff was getting passed around Mabuhay and he wanted to get his personal copy. His column The Agony Anarchy Column was going to be read by everyone and he was going to get free drinks, smokes and drugs. He was rough and ready.

"COCKTAILS AND CUTIES!!! WHAT MORE CAN A RED-BLOODED ALL-AMERICAN MAN ASK FOR????? BEAUTIFUL, GORGEOUS, SEXY, WELL-ENDOWED FEMALES FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT, DANCING EVERY DANCE KNOWN TO MODERN MAN, AND THEN SOME!!!! COME ON DOWN!!!"

Dante was feeling mighty chuffed about himself. He wasn't just any run of the mill fanzine writer; he had his own column. No, he wasn't just another typewriter jockey banging out reviews about some dumb fucking rent party on Valencia. He had his own column, a really important one for the zine that everyone in SF read religiously. It made him feel like a big wheel.

"LADIES WHO KNOW HOW TO TEASE, HOW TO PLEASE AND HAVE YOU ON YOUR KNEES THROWING YOUR HOTEL ROOM KEYS! THE SHOW STARTS IN TENNNNN FOXY MINUTES!!!"

His pulse raced faced faster as he got closer and closer to the bamboo draped restaurant. He saw a few punks milling around the sidewalk in front, boys and girls alike swathed in Ramones-style regalia of leather jacket, jeans, tees and high-topped tennies. Some sipped from cans of Royal Crown Cola with bourbon poured in.

There were also several guys dressed in the British style with torn tees held together by safety pins, forked-up hair wearing dog collars and expensive bondage pants they must have mail ordered from the back of the NME or something.

Dante nodded at them like he was The Badass King. It was a futile effort. The punks barely acknowledged him. The doorman apprised Dante and quickly said, "Three fifty admission".
"Three fifty?" Dante howled. "What a ripoff!"

A bookish looking man with a thick thatch of hair standing up high like Eraserhead raced to the door.
"RIPOFF! That's the magic word! You get in free!"

"Warren!" Dante yelled at the man, Warren Arrest, editor of Ripoff Magazine. "Did I really say the magic word?"
"Fuck, no. You're on the guest list, you idiot!" He nudged the door man, who stamped Dante's right hand.

"If you're drinking, pull out your ID", the doorman bawled. Dante complied, but not without the doorman staring at the ID and then back at its owner, studying both like a forensic scientist. After a long beat he relented. "Well, OKAY!"

Dante and Warren strolled through restaurant tables and chairs towards the open dance floor with punks furiously pogoing and jumping about.

"Well, looky here! Right on stage, Fuck Face! The very subjects of your latest column, The Working Class, right on stage", Warren smirked sadistically. "Wonder if they've seen the latest Ripoff Magazine?"
"You didn't show it to them, did you?"
"No, but it's a small scene and word gets around".

The Working Class were a punk rock power trio that played songs about the evils of American Capitalism and the virtues of Communism. They played songs like "Comrade Rocker" and "Rich People Are Wrong". The only good song they had was "Trotsky In Tijuana" because it made him chuckle.

The band was fronted by two absolutely humorless brothers who originally hailed from the highly prosperous suburbs of Del Mar, California, a factoid that Dante was more than helpful to point out in his column. So helpful was he that he managed to contact their former high school and get yearbook photos of them playing badminton, playing golf at their father's country club and going to the prom in their brand new Corvettes.

The Working Class was ripping it up on stage to their new hit "Steal From The Rich And Give To The Poor", banging their guitars like demons while the drummer was doing overtime on the cymbals like a maniac. The kids were going berserk to the ricocheting beat.

"Cracked the piggy bank and robbed the store
We steal from the rich and give to the poor
The people make do but fat cats always want more
We steal from the rich and give to the poor".

The guitars looked like they were thrown out the window of a pawn shop and sounded just as bad. The band wore tee shirts with crudely drawn hammer and sickles on them. Many thought they were one of the worst bands in town.

The guitars never played in sync with the drums, so when the guitar and bass would go into a tempo change, the drummer was still playing the previous part of the song. It was the musical equivalent to a poorly dubbed foreign film where the actor's lips would move and the dialogue would follow a beat after.

Dante looked around the room and the usual suspects were there: scenesters like Keith Crime, the world's biggest Crime fan, a very thin guy with razor sharp cheekbones who resembled a young Richard Widmark; Raggedy Ann, dressed like the children's doll complete with red spotted cheeks, but punked-up with red dreadlocks and ripped up false eyelashes, with her best friend, Just Plain Sally. Just Plain Sally was pretty boring but she was Raggedy's ride to all the shows because Raggedy was too scared to take the BART. Just Plain Sally was a skinny Patti Smith-looking girl who never smiled and stared at you vacantly with her big brown eyes.

They all worked at Ripoff Magazine, either writing the "copy" (Keith Crime and Warren) or stapling the xeroxed behemoth (Raggedy Ann and Just Plain Sally). There were a lot of other club goers, some already with staked out personalities and some as yet undecided what they were. The undecided were dressed kind-of punk but still had hippie hair or they had short punk hair, but wore tie dyed tees or Mill Valley peasant dresses.

The Working Class finally finished their brief set and began packing up their gear and amplifiers. Dirk Dirksen walked out of his office and stared at the crowd milling around the club as the PA blasted out The Damned's first album.

"Heya, Bud!" Raggedy Ann smiled. "How long have you been here?"
"I just came in", Dante shrugged his shoulders. "Is Animal here?"
"I didn't see her. Did you see her, Sally?"
"No".

Dante coughed falsely and said, "I'm getting a beer. You guy's coming?"
Sally stared at Dante, then said, "No".

"RIPOFF MAGAZINE, ALL THE SHIT THAT'S FIT TO PRINT AND ALL THE SHIT THAT'S FIT TO STINK!"
Warren hawked the zine by the bar, a stack tucked under his arm. Boys and girls, mostly girls, were handing him a dollar a copy of the zine. They were going fast, and while the bartender was fixing drinks for the scenesters they were poring through the zine looking at the pictures.

"I'll have a Budweiser. Hey, Warren, where's my copy? I want to see my column".
People were chuckling over the pictures of their punk heroes in their upper class high school yearbook photos.
"Look, ohmygod, is that Biff in a shiny new Vette holding a corsage? Shit, that's too funny!"
"Jesus, what a bunch of spoiled brats!"

"Thanks, Warren", Dante took his copy in his left hand and grabbed his Budweiser in his right. He spotted a short, cute punk girl with a big rack chuckling over his column. "Yup, that's me, Dante Sterno, read all about it, The Working Class' high school pictures".

He walked towards the wall and watched the stage. The Working Class' drummer was gone and the two brothers, Biff and Jimmy, leaped off the stage towards Dante. Dante fidgeted nervously.

"Hey, you little puke, we want to have a word with you", Biff bounded first to the scene. "You think you're pretty fucking funny, do you? Did you have fun posting our school pictures in your shitty rag?"
"Yeah, man!" Jimmy spat, grabbing Dante by the neck, placing him in a head lock (which he probably learned in wrestling class at high school).

"This is what we think of funny guys, asshole!" Biff yanked Dante's beer from his right hand and poured it over his head while Jimmy tightened his choke hold on Dante.
"Yeah, man!" Jimmy spat as Dante tried wriggling free from his grasp, his face getting more and more purple.

"Hey! Let go of him, you assholes!" Raggedy Ann yelled at the two Commie Rockers with Just Plain Sally adding, "Yeah! Let go!"
Embarassed at being caught, the two prom kings turned Communist pitchmen let go of their prey.

"Watch it, you prick!" Biff jabbed a finger in Dante's face before he turned on his heel to leave.
"Yeah, man!" Jimmy spat and stormed away.
"Attacking a reporter!" Dante gasped hoarsely, trying to get his breath back. "I report the news! The people have a right to know!"

Raggedy Ann handed a few cocktail napkins to Dante so he could dry his wet hair.
"Hypocrites! They're totally Commies", Dante bitched bitterly. "They don't want The Fifth Estate to furnish The People with the truth, just like their boyfriend Castro!"

"Who's Castro?" Just Plain Sally stared. "Isn't that a street?"
"I'll tell you about it later, Sally", Raggedy Ann helped Dante up to his feet. "Crime's coming up next, the club's starting to fill up. Is that Jennifer Miro standing in the corner? She's so cool. Jesus".

Dante coughed from the beer trickling down his hair and into his nostrils. He wanted to shake his head like a wet dog, but he was all out of humor. He wanted to go home and hoped Animal would be there to keep him warm. His night was filled with cold beer and cold weather.

in reality, he stayed for the first three Crime songs and then went home, walking by the bar where Warren Arrest was still yelling, "RIPOFF MAGAZINE, ALL THE SHIT THAT'S FIT TO PRINT AND ALL THE SHIT THAT'S FIT TO STINK!"

Christmas Without Schmaltz

I've heard more than a few people complain about Christmas music and how vapid and horrible they find it. Some people hate really religious numbers like "O Holy Night" and others hate pop tunes like "Silver Bells" or that thing about chestnuts roasting. I agree about the overwhelming sentimentality, however there are a few tunes that bring up images of Christmas without broaching upon issues of religion or spending money on presents.

A pretty good example is The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds album, which sounds very Christmas-like, songs like "I Know There's An Answer" or "God Only Knows". You could play Pet Sounds all through Xmas and still get the holiday spirit. And old JC or Saint Nick get no mention anywhere in the lyrics.

At any rate, here are a few of my personal selections of music that could convey the Christmas spirit but don't get enough play.

Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 in D Minor (Ode To Joy) - Wendy Carlos

Taken from the Clockwork Orange soundtrack album, this particular track definitely conjures images of wintertime solstice and Christmas joy, courtesy of the great mind of Ludwig Van Beethoven. I'm not sure the extremely violent footage from the movie accurately conveys that Christmas spirit, but enjoy the music anyway.

By the way, I remember The Beatles singing Beethoven's Song of Joy in the movie Help! to calm down a wild lion from tearing Ringo apart in a German cellar. Great movie!

On The Rolling Sea When Jesus Speak To Me - Van Dyke Parks

While not a Christmas song at all, but still an inspirational tune written by Bahamian guitarist Joseph Spence, Van Dyke Parks' arrangement is one of the most surreal ever recorded. Parks bangs gospel piano sounding more like a roadhouse saloon, all Elmer Gantry grooves galore while a robust choir sunnily chant the lyrics, the volume of their voices going from fortissimo to pianissimo and then back again, the timbre shifting up and down like the waves of the sea. Salvation Army horns blast away with a strong Charles Ives southern gothic flair, and the whole thing is alternately exhilarating and horrifying.

I remember hearing this first on the Warner Brothers Records compilation "Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies" in 1970 and never forgot it, so hearing it again on You Tube is nothing short of great!

The Man With All The Toys - The Beach Boys

The standout track on The Beach Boys' Christmas album is this merry song about Santa Claus, a very perky little number with a light wintry guitar sound. It's funny how they have Santa Claus on the brain, what with this tune and Little Saint Nick also praising the great toy giver.

Jingle Jangle Jump - Dexter Gordon

A pretty jazzy tune about Christmas for hipsters sung by Gladys Bentley and featuring the great tenor sax playing of bebop icon Dexter Gordon. Bentley's definitely no Dinah Washington, but that's okay, this one's strictly for Gordon fans. Another cool Christmas song played by a legendary jazz giant is It's Christmas Time by The Qualities featuring Sun Ra.

Other songs I could mention is Slade's million-selling "Merry Christmas Everybody", Roy Wood's Wizzard's goofy "I Wish It Was Christmas Every Day", and Jethro Tull's dour message tune Christmas Song. No matter what the genre of music there's no shortage of Christmas music that's bound to be halfway fun to listen to without resorting to depressing maudlinity. Yeth!

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Another tiny pleasure is this brilliant Mad Magazine beatnik takeoff on The Night Before Christmas illustrated by Wally Wood. Mad Magazine, beatniks, and Wally Wood; it doesn't get much better than this: