Andy Seven's Blog, page 16

American Biblioteque

It's been years, nay, decades since I really bothered going to the library. Most of the ones in my neighborhood were stuffy and understocked with books and what they had was simply awful. I was pretty disgusted with the Ivar Avenue library in Hollywood, especially since they remodeled it to look like a maximum security prison, and the Gardner library by the old Pan Pacific Park of my childhood looked like an unmade bed, books and videos scattered in a heap all over the book shelves. It was depressing enough to swear off getting a library card forever.

It wasn't until seven years ago that I walked into the Santa Monica Library and it turned my head around about the book lending game. Modern but beautiful, it had a used book store inside as well as its own built in coffee house with lux patio. Even better it had a considerable collection of art books, instructional foreign language CDs (Farsi, Chinese and Russian, get it now), and a great YA selection. I was pretty blown away by the choices. And I haven't even gotten around to the impressive DVD section, large enough to rival any DVD store.

What also killed me about the library was the amazing CD selection they had there. What was the point of listening to Pandora or Spotify if I can rent out any Neil Young or Psychedelic Furs CD or the amazing "Mingus Dynasty" with Cholly all done up on the cover like Po Xiangyang. The amount of rentable music made me crazy, never mind the String Quartets or Baroque Trumpet Sonatas, you could get Public Image Ltd. or the entire David Bowie collection for nothing.

But, alas all good things must come to an end: as of last year, the Santa Monica Library imposed a $25 annual fee for all borrowers not residents of their fair city. Yes, proof of local ID was required. I needed to get my fix of Joe Lansdale and Robert Cormier classics that only (I thought ONLY) was available in Santa Monica so I paid the $25, but that may end next year.

I dropped by my old favorite library of teenage years past, the Beverly Hills Library, next door to the BH Fire Station, BHPD and City Hall, and it's even better than I remembered it. A CD and DVD selection to rival Santa Monica minus the smelly bums hogging up the computers and the men’s bathroom toilets. I even got a card with a pic of the BH Library circa 1964, reminiscent of when I used to go (1968). Good times!

I took out half a dozen Miles Davis classics, the Prestige sides with Milt Jackson on killer vibes and the demented Burt Bacharach autobiography (memoirs?). My head also spun at the sight of their impressive collection of graphic novels, big enough to impress Bill Lebowitz (RIP) and get me to rent out tons of sequential dementia. They also had a pretty good used book store and coffee house, too.

All I need to do now is get a card with the killer downtown Los Angeles Library and my trifecta will be complete!

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The reason most music sucks these days is because its created by people who have fucking headphones on all the time: headphones on when they're walking down the street, working out at the gym, shopping at the supermarket, the headphones/earbuds/whatever are so far up their ears they can wipe their asses with them. What are they listening to? Music, music, music. In doing this they are depriving themselves of some of the most important elements in the development of musical composition: the cadence of people's voices, the rhythm of machines, the timbre of bird’s voices, whether they're chirping or squawking or the reverb of an ocean wave.

If you think I've lost my mind, listen to this: the cadence of a human voice influenced Miles Davis' trumpet playing, the rhythm of machines has influenced bands like The Stooges and Black Sabbath, the timbre of bird's voices influenced Eric Dolphy, and the reverb of ocean waves influenced the sounds of Brian Wilson and surfing music. These examples of sounds are all instrumental to building a musical ear, more instructional than any record anyone could possibly listen to. If you really want to build your ear then you'll never do it listening to nothing but records all day and all night.

Swallow The Sun (Wranglers' Canyon No. 3)

When you hang around somewhere long enough you get to being inquisitive and kinda snoopy and ask a lot of questions about things that you'd normally take for granted. One day after a few drinks Sheriff Frehley told me all about the legend of Sailor Jerry, who was more of a 1st Mate, almost a Captain, and then some gent said no, he wasn't that high up the ladder, he was more of a bosun.

"They don't make niggers 1st mates, Sheriff", Bo, the squarehead blacksmith, grunted.
Frehley frowned. "If they're in international waters they don't give a frig what color you are, just as long as you can set sail, keep a steady course and run the deck with your guts together".
Frehley poked me in the gut, and whispered, "Damn Swedes, they don't like darkies, Protestants or anybody else, for that matter". I threw back a shot of Stallion Sweat and sniffed.

Another thing nobody could agree on was where he came from. Some say he was from Trinidad, but he wasn't sporting no funny Island accent. Someone else said he was Moroccan, and that got shot down faster than a pigeon from a duck blind. Wherever he came from it sure wasn't the deep South because he had sea green ocean water running through his veins. He served behind the bar with sea legs, the kind that tilt every so often so they can handle all that rocking and rolling with the ocean waves.

There were several theories about how he came to sporting that hook for a left hand. Sheriff said it was for stealing a fortune in gold in Persia resulting in his black hand getting chopped off. It's supposed to be sitting in a pickled jar somewhere in Arabia while he buried the treasure in a pile of camel dung which he stumpily smuggled back here and paid for the saloon. The squarehead cut in again - I was getting mighty tired of his mouth - said it wasn't like that at all. He lost it when he got jumped by a bunch of bitter crackers in Mississippi.

Then some fancy blowhard jumped in and said everybody got it all wrong. He was a popular music hall entertainer in Europe and got real cozy with some rich old dowager in Austria who got a crazy mare that went ape shit kicking and whinnying her damn fool horse head off and Jerry tried grabbing the reins, his paw got stuck in the bridle and the damn fool nag ripped his hand off the arm, so he got a handsome reward for saving the old biddy's life. The Sheriff's story was the closest thing to a real one and I had trouble chewing on that one, too.

I nodded my head like a damn fool when the blowhard talked because it turned out he was the Mayor of Jonestown, name of Randall. Mayor Randall. Mayor Randall walked up to Frehley and asked him, kinda confidential, "Any doings over at the Hiss Ranch?"

"No, nothing at all, Mayor", Frehley looked kinda spooked for a second there.

I might want to also mention a few things about the people in Jonestown. I know I'm only generalizing but most of the people who passed me by were awfully pretty, the ladies young and old, even the fellas were right easy to look at. The folk weren't just easy to look at but acted real easy going, too easy going, like they never had anything to worry about, ever.

After a few drinks too many with the big shots I stiffly wobbled out of Sailor Jerry's. I staggered across the road and saw a fella hanging a banner that read: "JONESTOWN CITY FAIR". I almost fell over ass over elbows when I tripped on a bucket of tripe.

"Mr. Walker, are you hokay?" Mr. Butcher looked at me with concern, his apron smeared with pig's blood.
"No problem at all, Butch", I drunkenly smiled. I moseyed over behind the barbershop and fell asleep, flat on my face.

I woke up the next morning bright eyed and bushy tailed, no, just kidding, there were flies hovering all around me and the world's ugliest dog licking my face. The dog had a face so ugly I'd shave his ass and make him walk backwards, plus his dog breath smelled like he'd been working over his balls sun up to sun down before waking me up.

The sun was blasting me in the face and I got up, almost kicking the dog in his chewed up tail but he ran off.
"G'wan, git, Shit Ball!"

I dusted off my chaps and ambled around the corner only to find dozens of folks dancing and a band playing on a tiny stage. There were banners set up and tables with pies and fried chicken and other high stepping viddles. It was a genuine jamboree. I must of slept it off while all this setting up was going on.

The girls that danced with the dudes were real pretty, and clean too, like they never missed a bath. They were all well scrubbed and you could smell them from where I stood, all nice like flowers. I smelled gardenias, camellias, rose, geraniums, you name it.

I even saw Miss Willa dancing with some new beau and old Mumbling Pete standing not far away with a sorrowful look on his kisser. I reckoned the poor corn shucker needed some cheering up.

"Hey, Pete! Some party, eh Hoss?"
"Xcdgfs mkmfk ui edcbnjc po ijn!" Pete started blubbering like a new born babe.
"Oh hell, Pete, they're all whores. When are you going to get wise to yourself?"
"Vb gryt hjhg kiu ryt ckhjj wervn", he moped.
"Well, y'see that's a gal's job", I put my arm around him. "They're supposed to make a dude feel special. Until they find one with more money. Then they toss your ass out. That's how the game's played".
"Baw ahawboohoo bawlbawlbawl", he cried.

I vamoosed off Pete and walked over to a homely looking thing who didn't have Johnny Shit to dance with, so I grabbed her. Her face lit up real bright.
"Say, Miss, how'd you like to do a fancy step or two with me?"
"SURE!" This young spinster looked like she was going to boil in her drawers. Shitfire!

"Good deal, ma'am, but before you we step out you gotta to a few rounds with my amigo here, name's Pete". I practically smacked them into each other like a dry ham sandwich.
"Gc fyt wegn fohubj scg wklhjb!" Pete lit up and smiled.
"Well, go on, Boy. Show her some fancy steps!"

The plain jane's face kinda dropped but before she could run away Pete grabbed her waist and danced in a spin with the rest of the other folks, almost knocking over Miss Willa.
Mr. Butcher was dancing with his big fat wife, Bo the blacksmith did a squarehead waltz with some blonde, Mister Flint the barber danced with his short spinner wife, Shorty from the hotel was dancing with the pretty Mex maid. It was a right jamboree.

But I wasn't having any fun. Something was stuck in my craw, and I didn't know what. I kept staring at the dude Miss Willa was dancing with. He looked a whole lot like the gent named Rance from the swimming pond incident of a week ago. Couldn't be. Rance was dead, but this dude looked a whole lot like him, as if he was kinfolk.

At the end of the last song everyone applauded all nice and fancy. Mayor Randall held his arms out to quell the applause.
"Thank you, one and all, for coming to this year's Jonestown City Fair. Now you know we always welcome our friends and neighbors to come up and sing a little song. Is there anyone here who'd like to come up and sing with the band? And I mean someone who can really sing?"

Everybody got all shy and quiet, but that damn foghorn Mumbling Pete yelled at the Mayor, "Ty ghd bnxzgui iory vbd iojiji!"
Mayor Randall made a face, looked out at me in the crowd and said, "What did he say? What did he say???"
"He said, well, uh -" I stammered, still fighting off my hangover.

Mumbling Pete ran over to me and pushed me towards the stage.
"He said I'm the greatest singer West of the Pecos", I frowned.
"Kli sdgh vbhj wtdci jkks nuuihusj!!!!"
"Aw Pete, I wish you'd shut up for a change!" I protested as he pushed me closer and closer to the stage.

"Well, looky here folks! We got us a brand spanking new singer here, our esteemed visitor - Mister Crash Walker!", Mayor Randall yelled. "Let's see if we can get him to sing us a song. Come on up, Mister Walker!"

I got up on that stage and looked at the band who gave me skeptical looks like I should be shoveling shit instead of talking it. I looked at the drummer and the bull fiddle player and said, "Do you know 'Buffalo Babe'?"
The band picked it up and started playing. I began singing.

"Oh well the skies are dark and wide,
And your teeth are pearly white,
Your lips are ruby red and the hens are all fed,
We're going to bill and coo tonight,
Buffalo Babe, Buh Buh Buh Buh, Buffalo Babe, Buffalo Baby, be mine tonight".

I swung my hips, tossed my jet black hair and cocked my eyebrow rakishly. All the gals ran up to the stage, smiling and swinging their asses. The band looked surprised and picked up the beat, giving the music a little more gumption, especially the bitter faced guitar player.

"We're going to swing and dance by the barn,
Shoe the horses and hold you in my arms,
Drink corn liquor and kiss you a little quicker,
We're going to bill and coo tonight,
Buffalo Babe, Buh Buh Buh Buh, Buffalo Babe, Buffalo Baby, be mine tonight".

The song ended, I swiveled my hips even harder and all the gals shrieked like a bunch of wild turkeys. The gents applauded with bitter, angry looks on their faces. Jealous bastards. Pete had a shit eating grin on his face, though.

"Crash Walker, everybody!!!" Mayor Randall hollered. "Crash Walker!"
The applause doubled in noise. I tried to jump off the stage but the Mayor held my arm.
"Hold it! Now hold it, son!" he admonished.

"Now, you've only been here for a week but I think I speak for all of us here when I say you're our kind of people. You've made quite an impression on us, especially with that last song. So with that in mind, as Mayor of Jonestown..."
An old biddy in a bonnet handed him a big dingus-looking thing.
"...I am pleased to present you with the key to our fair city!"

Everybody applauded, especially the gals. I looked out at the crowd of people, and noticed the dude who danced with Miss Willa was gone. This big clumsy thing which looked like a melted key was shoved my way. I tried to hold it up and smile but it kept falling out of my hands.

"Would you like to say a few words, Mister Walker?"
"Thank you very much. I'd like to sing some more, Mayor", I mumbled. I turned to the drummer and the bull fiddle player and said, "Do you know 'Campfire'?"
The band picked it up and started playing. I began singing.

"Come on pretty buh baby with me to uh cuh cuh cuh campfire,
Kiss me, roast some nuts and build my duh duh duh desire,
I'll tell you I love you and I'm no luh luh luh liar,
Cuh cuh campfire!"

Once again the lasses bailed from their men and wagged their tails like little pups in front of the stage. The drummer hit a rim shot and I swung my hips to the beat. The gents still looked pretty bugged, except for the band, who now mildly tolerated me.

While I sang the rest of "Campfire" I noticed a passel of wagons riding into the town. Some wagons looked like trailers and some looked it carried banners and all sorts of stuff. I was hoping it wasn't the rodeo Sheriff Frehley talked about the other day. I could bluff my way into singing but I wasn't sure I was ready to ride a bunch of surly bulls.

"Come on pretty buh baby with me to uh cuh cuh cuh campfire,
Kiss me, roast some nuts and build my duh duh duh desire,
I'll tell you I love you and I'm no luh luh luh liar,
Cuh cuh cuh campfire!"

What Is And What Should Never Be

"If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that."
-Stephen King

While I understand that a gym isn't a gathering place for all persons and things intellectual there are times when I hear things that are a little too ridiculous to be believed. While I was flapping my pins on the thigh abductor I overheard some young guy talking to an older gent about his college courses.

"Yeah, I'm taking English at UCLA but I really want to write for movies and TV", the 22-year old crowed. "I like all kinds of movies and I know how to write for them". I guess everyone's entitled to their daydreams but nowhere in the conversation did this kid say what kind of books he read and what sort of novels he enjoyed. The entire realm of literature didn't come up once in the conversation. And he talked about becoming a writer.

Let's talk about the guys that wrote for the movies, the greats: Stirling Silliphant, Dalton Trumbo, Robert Towne, Rod Serling, Charles Brackett, to name a few. Did any of them say when they were young, "I want to write for the movies?" No, I'm pretty sure they dreamed of writing brilliant novels but somehow got roped into the screenwriting game. And I'll wager anything they all had extremely prodigious libraries full of books and spent all their leisure time reading them.

The scary part is when you ask a clueless guy like Gym Kid who his favorite writer is and he'll probably say "Hitchcock!" People like this are completely oblivious to the fact that if it weren't for the writing of Cornell Woolrich, Robert Bloch, Patricia Highsmith and Daphne Du Maurier, to name a few, there wouldn't even be anything for Mr. Hitchcock to film at all. He knew it, too: one of the first credits beginning each episode of his TV show names the writer of the story. Hitch even had a mystery magazine back in the day.

I once knew a hammerhead whose favorite mantra was, "I don't read books, I don't need books, I depend on my looks". What an asshole. Needless to say he now works in the motion picture industry.

Here's another story for you: Rebecca met a fast-talking blowhard who kept up about how he was going to write a novel and then write for the movies and went on and on about it and of course didn't divulge about what the hell he was writing.

"I couldn't stand him! You've already written two novels and this guy kept talking like he was King Shit just because he was starting some dumb novel he wouldn't talk about. I just wished he'd shut up!"
"I know how to shut him up", I said.
"How do you do that?"
"Ask him who's his favorite author", I smiled. "That always shuts them up".

One of my favorite mottoes is "In this place called Hell novels are written by people who don't read books". I'm not joking, either: we have friends who say, "I WROTE A BOOK ABOUT MY EXPERIENCES AS A STRIPPER IN SAN FRANCISCO". Okay, even if it's a memoir there needs to be plot development, character development (i.e. someone who started out as a rival becomes your best friend towards the second half of the book), fact checking, so on and so forth. And then what style is the book written in: Will it be funny sleaze like Bukowski, dark decadence like Hubert Selby Jr., erotically charged like Genet, what's your POV?

To say you want to be a writer without reading books is like saying you want to be Governor of California without knowing The Declaration of Independence (um, wait a minute, I just described Arnold Schwarzenegger, scratch that). It's like saying you want to play guitar without knowing who Les Paul, Hubert Sumlin, Chet Atkins or The Ventures are. Without an understanding of the history of your craft you're flying without a pilot's license, which means you'll crash and burn.

It also means your memoir of being a stripper in San Francisco will never be published. Read a fucking book. It'll probably change your life.

Illustrations by Rebecca Seven

The Tubes (1975)

In the early Seventies there were several collectives that combined glam music with theater. In London there was the highly successful Rocky Horror Show, Los Angeles had The Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo (some of whom evolved into the band Oingo Boingo), and San Francisco had The Tubes.

Although Rocky was a musical production, Oingo Boingo was a theater troupe and the latter was a rock band, they all had one thing in common: a talent for blending cabaret, high camp, retro post-modernism with a healthy dose of glam rock in the mix.

What made The Tubes wilder and creepier than the others was the way it took glam rock, North Beach strip club sleaze, video technology, S&M and good old American excess (from both average Americans and decadent rock stars – no one was innocent) and presented it in a flawless stage production with brilliant musicianship.

Released in 1975 and produced by Al Kooper, The Tubes is one of the strangest debut albums ever recorded, a stunning mélange of glam rock, progressive rock interludes, cheesy Broadway showbiz vocals and breathtaking high-tech electronics.

The band’s stage show had them flanked by television monitors, at least twenty in all, hence the band name. Some of the monitors showed the band performing in real time and others showed interactive routines going on as the band played.

The first track on the album is Up From The Deep, sung by Bill Spooner, one of the two guitarists, letting us know that the music can be changed and morphed whenever the spirit moves them. His voice is recorded as if he’s underwater. The melody has an Indian-type wail to it until it goes into a bizarre prog rock interlude that makes several flashy twists and turns.

Guitarists Roger Steen and Bill Spooner played great Alice Cooper-style guitar while Michael Cotton on synthesizer and Vince Welnick on keyboards created brilliant aural soundscapes that set the atmosphere for each track.

When I first saw The Tubes at The Roxy in 1975 (previously home to The Rocky Horror Show) they performed haloes in matching suits a la The Temptations while a pre-recorded track played behind them. No great shakes these days, but in 1975 it was unheard of, but funny.

Space Baby sounds like a retro-Fifties ballad about an intergalactic babe that space traveler Fee Waybill pines for down on Planet Earth. Waybill sings in a wailing David Bowie style. The song also features the aforementioned Broadway choir-type backing vocals with the synth playing as an electronic horn section, all very Bowie meets Flash Gordon.

Mondo Bondage was probably the very first exposure many rock fans had to the world of S&M since most bands never even went there. Fee and show girl Re Styles both donned bondage outfits and masks during this number and it was a pretty intense show stopper. The song was pretty weird, too, with a wild jazz-metal interlude while the two performers went into a creepy session, giving us all a taste of North Beach live sex acts to a rock beat.

What Do You Want From Life? is a Frank Zappa-type parody on super consumerism that’s still powerful today, and even posits that proposition that even if everybody got what they wanted would it still be enough? Really???? The more excessive the needs the faster, quicker and more manic Fee Waybill’s voice gets.

At some point during the show Fee sang Bali Hai from South Pacific – there goes that Broadway shtick again, and then after rips into a manic rendition of Tom Jones’ “It’s Not Unusual” with a quintet of naked girl dancers backing him up.

The finale to the stage show, as well as the album is Boy Crazy and White Punks On Dope. The reason why both songs are lumped together is because they both share the same thing in common. The Tubes turn the spotlight away from themselves and point it at the audience, something most punk bands took credit for a year later. In an era when most bands sang about the pain of being rock stars this approach was highly subversive.

Boy Crazy is about teenage sexual promiscuity – I seem to recall hardcore porn playing on the video monitors while the song was played. Fee, once again, sings it in a decadent David Bowie-style wail. It’s a great track, more direct than the others in spite of the big Broadway treatment. It would be interesting to hear from the band whether the big production was their idea or Al Kooper’s?

White Punks On Dope was The Tubes’ big anthem and told the tale of wasted, wasted youth in the high class suburbs. Once again, it was released one year before punk rock so it’s uncanny how much ground The Tubes broke and received scant credit for their innovations. The blend of ray-gun synthesizer with heavy metal boogie guitar is infectious while Waybill delivers another uncanny David Bowie imitation in his sky-high platform heels and huge platinum blonde fright wig. His Quay Lewd routine was the other show stopper after Mondo Bondage.

Nina Hagen’s highly operatic version of White Punks also has to be heard to be believed. I saw her do it at The Greek Theater – the show with the spaceship and nearly fell on my ass. Good times!

Clocking in at only thirty-seven minutes and some change, The Tubes’ debut album is like the Daffy Duck magic trick where he blows himself up and laments that it’s his “best trick, but he can only do it once”. The Tubes couldn’t really produce anything as powerful as their first album, but in spite of it they managed to rack up several hit singles during the New Wave Eighties – Talk To Ya Later, Monkey Time, and She’s A Beauty. But the debauchery of the stage show never went much further or wilder than that first tour. Perhaps it was just a sign of the times.

The Tubes’ first album is still a crucial work because there’s a timelessness to it, it’s musically challenging, endlessly inventive and the sonic soundscapes are downright creepy at times. Like The Residents, there’s a post-modernism that anticipates the beginning of punk rock and even the dreaded behemoth of New Wave. Like the foreign radio voices that herald and close the album you will be transported to a strange land unlike any other.

Haywire (Wranglers' Canyon No. 2)

I decided to stay a spell in Jonestown, partly because I was worried about running into that drive team I ran out on and partly because, well, for such a small town they had more than a few pretty lookin' gals.

After my regular morning shit and shave I grabbed my stuff and left my room at The Jonestown Hotel. The first person I saw when I entered Sailor Jerry's Schooner was my dear friend Mumblin' Pete, who was holding a mug of beer in one hand and helping himself to the free lunch by the bar.

"Morning, Walker!" Sailor Jerry's dark bronze face cheerfully greeted me, looking dapper in his shirtsleeves and bitty string tie. "What'll it be, Hoss?"
"Shot o' Cactus Piss, Skipper!"
"Aye aye!"

"Mnnnbbgdlogfh!" Mumblin' Pete burbled at me, grabbing endless slices of meats, some reaching his little plate and others hitting his hungry maw before he even had a chance to breathe. What a hungry hombre! And who could blame him?

"Grab a plate and eat up, Mr. Walker, the Real Hungry Boys should be arriving at eight strokes of the bell", Sailor Jerry planted a shot glass in front of me.
"Eight bells of what?"
"That's sailor talk for 12 noon, Mister, uh, Walker was it?" A tall, gray-haired man, somewheres scratching about fifty-five years old with a star on his chest walked up to me, extending his hand.
"Crash Walker at your service", I stammered. I always get nervous when the law wanted to know my name, a fear I've faced since childhood.
"I'm Sheriff Frehley, Elroy Frehley". We shook hands and I hope he didn't feel my hands trembling. "Well, don't stand on ceremony! Eat up!"

We both walked over to the little table with all the pickled eggs, potatoes, chili, bread, beans, and dozens and dozens of meats, all red, pink, gray and brown. We both started picking at all the meats and slapped them onto our plates.

"So tell me, Mister Walker, what business brings you to our modest little town?"
"I'm looking for work, Sheriff Frehley".
"Call me Elroy, son".
"That's quite a handle, Sheriff".

"What kind of work exactly are you looking for, if I may ask?"
"Why, I'm a rodeo rider, bulls a specialty!" I bluffed. Always lie to the authorities. A habit I picked up from when I was a little sprout.
"You don't say? How long have you lasted on a bucking bull?"
"Why, about twenty seconds!" May I not be stricken dead for lying. "I was taught the ancient art of bull riding by a New Zealander of Brazilian ancestry".

Sheriff Frehley grabbed as much meat as he could. We occasionally knocked over Mumblin' Pete out of our way, who kept getting in our way near the delicious looking beefs.
"Why is there so much meat here? This is a real spread", I asked nervously.

Sheriff Frehley told me about the town butcher who had a Polish name nobody could pronounce so they renamed him Mister Butcher. Mr. Butcher slaughtered everything in sight, cows, pigs, lambs, goats, chicken, rabbits, squirrel, the occasional snake and anything else he could get his burly bohunk hands on. All of the meats on the table were dried, smoked, boiled, fried, pulled, or broiled. We ate and we ate heartily, but I wondered what animal I was chawing on each time.

While old Frehley was telling me all this - by this time we were both kinda drunk and getting on just fine - Sailor Jerry got away from the bar and sat down to an old pipe organ and played it with his good hand while he banged his hook on a broken piano next to it. The broken down piano leaned to one side since the leg was broken and some of the keys sounded out of tune, but it didn't matter. He played a bunch of old sea shanties. He sang songs about gals waiting by the harbor for him, his voice rising higher and higher.

Mumblin' Pete cried into his beer, makin' me wonder if Pete ever left a girl high and dry at the altar. I kinda believe he did. That old rascal.

While one man was playing and another man was crying I looked into the mirror of the saloon and saw me, Crash Walker, twenty-five years old staring right back at me. He was about six feet tall, head of black hair, dark blue eyes and a lot of faded blue and gray clothes with a heavy brown leather pair of chaps from my cattle driving. No matter how many times I washed up my face always had dirt lines marking the contours of my face.

I became a ranch hand when I was only sixteen years old (I bluffed to get that job, too) but I was always a restless young buck and ran off to do other jobs whenever the spirit possessed me. I always did a little of everything else. Everything but bull riding.

"Well, Walker", Frehley woke me from my spell, "You're just in luck. My cousin runs a rodeo, a traveling one, and they're fixing to come by these parts within the next few weeks, so I guess we're in for a little treat. Get to see your twenty seconds of power on top of a bucking bull!" He slapped me on the back.
I thought I was about to chuck-a-luck all my greasy meat and rotgut all over the saloon floor.

"If you'll excuse me, Sheriff, I gotta tend to my horse for a spell. I'll be right back!" I waved at Pete, who followed me out of the place.

Things settled down some once Mumblin' Pete and I rode out to the plain, away from town, away from the Sheriff, away from Sailor Jerry, away from Miss Willa and all those dance hall gals and everybody else. All there was the vast expanse of the plain with me and Mumblin' Pete.

Pete set up a line of medicine bottles, whiskey bottles, food tin cans, hair tonic bottles, beer glasses, and other fool things on an old wooden fence for us to shoot at. I had first crack at shooting, and stepped out about ten feet away from the line of bottles and cans.

"Alright, now, Pete, don't get too jealous now when I show you what a great shot I am, but anyhoo, here goes", I went into my best pistol stance, got a good bead on the line of targets, reached for my six-shooter and drew my gun. I fired away and only hit three of the ten objects lined up. My faced turned red as a rooster's butt.

"Mgh wtrerdrgdgf?" Mumblin' Pete cocked his head sideways at me questioningly.
"Hell, I'm just gettin' warmed up!" I snarled. "What the heck!"
"Ghbctou!" Mumblin' Pete cussed.

I put my best shooting face on and aimed at the targets lined up, the sun burning down on me and the white heat lighting everything up until I thought I'd go blind and then a big gust of wind hit me from behind with a loud roar. I turned around and saw five horses race right past us from behind.

They rode right by us, just a bunch of regular hombres riding with rifles hanging from their saddles, all except the dude in the middle, an elderly man dressed all in black who turned to stare at me for a second. I'll never forget his face. It was long, thin and scaly. He had the smallest eyes which looked like tiny pools of black holes. The expression on his face was a mean, bitter, pinched face filled with venomous hatred. He had the face of a mean old rattlesnake. They rode towards Jonestown.

As they rode away, Mumblin' Pete said, "Khgl moubf ervdjy!"
"I don't know what the hell that was all about, Pete. Let sleeping hogs lie, boy!"
I reached and drew my gun, blowing four items off the target line.
"Fiddlesticks! Those bastards just blew my aim!"

"Huh!" Mumblin' Pete waved his hand at me and scoffed. I felt like kicking his old fashioned ass clear across the Pecos for handing me that business.
Pete took my place, stared long and hard at the targets and drew his piece. He blew out every can and bottle off the fence.

He turned to me and smiled.
"Well, alright, Buddy Boy, it's my turn to set everything up, don't get such a big head about it. And, by the way, don't lose your head over Miss Willa spending the night with us. Once she saw that gambler's roll you were flashing you looked prettier than a gold coin piece to her".
"Kitrf dfvjh erwv hjgsi!"
"I'm just telling you for your own good, don't fall in love with her. It's not your good looks she's after".
"Pogh frew miku cfdes".
"I AM NOT jealous".

We both sat down for a spell and I pulled out my makings, filling the tobacco over the paper and rolling the paper and lighting up. Mumblin' Pete pulled out his chaw of tobacco and started chewing away, then spitting up a storm.

"Jhity frop bhij dekoo festry lwep", he grunted and then spat another dark brown missile of spit, splashing against a big rock, making a spotted lizard run away. The lizard probably thought it was raining shit.
"Listen, Pete, you enjoy your tobacco your way and I'll enjoy it my way!"

We both got real quiet for a second and then Pete buzzed.
"Klop fedts jik ubb greft ilhy sdet mkoij quelo ctroiyu ahjty?"
"I don't know who those hombres were but they sure were ornery looking. That old gent had a face like a mean old horny toad".

I pulled on my cigarette and Mumblin' Pete kept spitting away. I often wondered if it was all that chaw in his mouth that made him talk all funny like that. We had a few more hours to kill and then who knows what we were going to do next?

Halloween In August

In the early Seventies when I lived in New York I bought a litho of a creepy painting titled "Masks Fighting For The Body of a Hanged Man" by an artist named James Ensor. Pictured above, it's an illustrations of two skeleton women literally fighting it out with brooms and mops over a hanged man with groups of masked freaks and witches looking on from a doorway. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and it was my entryway into the art of James Ensor.

James Ensor, born in Belgium and creative during the turn of the century , may be one of the most under documented artists ever known. His artwork is an endlessly creative line of grotesque images rendered in a naive art style that can truly elude any easy classification. Sometimes impressionistic, other times expressionistic, yet neither, perhaps his inability to be classified explains his regrettable obscurity after all these years, almost 100 years after his death.

All this "regrettable obscurity" came to a close one afternoon this summer when I drove down Pico Boulevard and saw huge banners of Ensor art hanging from street lamps announcing The Getty Center exhibiting a show called "The Scandalous Art of James Ensor" (June 10-September 7). I could hardly believe my bloodshot eyes!

The Getty Center show is truly a feast to the eyes of any Ensor fan, providing an absolutely comprehensive retrospective this side of Brussels of the great artist's works. I also learned a lot about the great man himself, and was surprised by what I learned. Mr. Ensor may have been The Original Goth Kid. A portrait of his maternal grandmother informs us that she was a seller of grotesque masks which excited and influenced his art in the years to come.

He was also a big fan of Edgar Allen Poe's works and his paintings based on several of his stories, i.e. Hop Frog, including the bizarre "King Pest" were on display at the Getty. He also had a cool harmonium (Nico's keyboard of choice) in his studio that he enjoyed playing. This dude was Goth before Goth got cool!

For all the horror business Ensor served up I don't think it was all gloom and doom. I detected notes of humor in many of his works, and his depiction of government and military officials were reminiscent of George Grosz in the cartoonishness (Ensor predated Grosz so it's presumptuous to say he was an influence on the German expressionist). The subject of death breached a cross between humor and horror, and I liked the party and horror mask paintings the most.

Ensor's wild masterpiece "The Entry of Christ Into Brussels" (1888) was not only displayed in its full splendor but also had a little magnifying glass-style display you could peruse all the details of this unique masterwork. Ensor's mixture of colors and even brush strokes were so erratic which left disturbing hints of a runaway psyche on every piece displayed.

I was happy to see so many people analyzing and enjoying Ensor's works - attendance was pretty robust for such an obscure art star. I also chuckled when I saw an endless line of Ensor souvenirs on sale at the sale counter. I wasn't ready for an Ensor coffee mug, but I got a few magnets and punk rock-style buttons. Now maybe Taschen can put their Ensor retrospective back in print!

Every Bitch For Himself - Punk Rock Crime Novel OUT NOW!!!!

It's 1978, and Hollywood Boulevard is burning with punk rock energy and with it the advent of career criminal Big Jason Gulliver, an amoral monster in silver hair, torn t-shirt and army fatigues. Big Jason plans to knock over Rocket USA, the most popular punk club in town, using his friends who all work on the inside of the club.

Standing in his way are three psychopaths who run Rocket USA: Jack Sterling, owner of the club, a has-been television star with severe OCD; Chuck Steakhouse, punk surfer thug with a capacity for rape and torture; and Miggy Sanchez, a thug every inch the equal of Big Jason in amorality.

Every Bitch For Himself captures all the energy of the 1978 Hollywood punk scene with episodes of violent rock & roll, perverse cult rituals, and nightmarish parties. Just as punk rock bands twisted old songs to fit its explosive style, Every Bitch For Himself corrupts old film noir scenes culled from The Killing, The Asphalt Jungle, Born To Kill and The Killers, to name a few, to create a new punk rock crime novel.

Andy Seven’s previous novel Every Good Boy Dies First captured the fervent pace of the Nineties music scene, drawing on experiences from his music career to craft a chilling novel. Once again Andy draws on his memories of the 1977 Hollywood punk scene to create Every Bitch For Himself.

How and why did punk happen? Popular music split into two factions following the demise of glam rock in the late Seventies: disco and punk. There was disco for the club kids who wanted to keep all the glamour, danceability and sexual decadence of glam alive, and on the other side there was punk, which continued all the outrage and drama of glam. Like two unruly siblings both styles of music hated each other.

In addition to playing in numerous punk bands on the '77 Hollywood scene Andy Seven can also be read discussing the history of 1977 Hollywood Punk in books like We’ve Got The Neutron Bomb by Brendan Mullen and Marc Spitz; Improvisation, Identity and Tradition by Charles Michael Sharp, and Lexicon Devil by Brendan Mullen and Adam Parfrey.

Every Bitch For Himself, after all is said and done, is still a crime novel. It follows the tradition of the standard heist gone wrong story, but how it goes wrong and the disaster that follows it is an exercise in severe karmic payback that needs to be read to be believed. Who gets away with crime and who doesn’t is the real kick of the story. Are there double crosses or are there consequences to everyone’s actions? You’ll have to read it to find out.

Ten things you can count on reading in my latest novel:
1. Drunken punks playing Bologna-Toss on loaded chicks.
2. Has-been TV Western cowboy stars.
3. Mods vs. Punks battle it out on the beach.
4. Squeamish Los Angeles police detectives.
5. Discotheque chase scenes.
6. Blood-drenched performance art rituals.
7. Beauty products weaponry.
8. King Kong scales the Capitol Records building.
9. Miracle Mile shopping sprees, and:
10. The world's greatest shithouse fist fight.
Yep, if it hasn't been written yet, you can count on me to write it for you. May God and Ringo Starr forgive me!

Every Bitch For Himself, Andy Seven’s second punk crime novel is available for $4.99 at all popular eBook retailers, including:

Amazon Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/Every-Bitch-Himself-Andy-Seven-ebook/dp/B00MIBTIAC/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407503272&sr=1-2
iTunes:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/every-bitch-for-himself/id906954217?mt=11
Nook (Barnes & Noble):
COMING SOON!
Scribd:
http://www.scribd.com/book/236143482/Every-Bitch-For-Himself

Each website provides a short sample of the novel for previewing before purchase so you can see what deviltry is brewing on each page.

Every Bitch For Himself combines two violent art forms, punk rock and film noir to create an exciting new hybrid of crime writing. Check out the new novel and experience it for yourself.

Slap Leather (Wranglers' Canyon No. 1)

Maybe I should've stayed but I did what I did and what's done is done. I rode with a crew leading a bunch of steers on a cattle drive across the plains of Arizona. People think Arizona's nothing but desert land but if you get close to the New Mexico border you'll find some fine plains territory. Anyway, we pushed those damn steers for hours, at least twelve under the hot heat and I was plumb tired, hot and exhausted.

Sure we took a couple of breaks but my hindquarters was aching like a newly branded calf's. It was too much work for one man to endure so I dropped out real slow and quiet like so no one would notice. I just kept falling back until they didn't even miss me or notice much.

Me and the horse hung back and hid behind a skinny rock formation, not quite a mesa but something smaller. The horse looked tired, but not as tired as I was.

"I might not be smart and I might be stupid but as sure as my name is Crash Walker I'll be damned if I herd any more cattle in this damn heat, that's for sure", I muttered to my horse while wiping the sweat from my brow.

I watched the cattle drive drift further and further on down the plain until they all looked like a speck of nothing. For a brief glimmer I actually felt hurt that nobody made a fuss out of my disappearing. Were they fed up with me or were they just too tuckered out to even care? Lord only knows.

Seeing as how the coast was clear I trotted the horse away from the rock formation, but it felt more like he was riding me than I was riding him.
"Where are we goin' Clyde?" Clyde's the name of my horse.

Clyde trotted over to a tiny weeded slope that had a small watering hole at the very bottom.
"Well now, that's what I call one resourceful horse", I said to no one in particular. Why not? There was no one else there.

Clyde dipped his head down and drank deeply from the small pool of water. I jumped off my saddle and partaked of the fine water myself. Once I had my fill I took off my hat and dunked my head in to cool down and wetted my bandana and wrung it around my neck. Shitfire!

I sniffed a strong smell and couldn't tell who smelled worse, Clyde or his friend Crash, so I got a great idea. I took off my boots and I pulled off my chaps and I took off my pants, threw of my shirt and slid out of my Union suit and in my man nakedness ride the horse into the water and give us both a bath at the same time.

I climbed the saddle in my bare feet, not so easy and hit the saddle with my balls burning on the hard leather saddle, but not for very long. I kicked my friend Clyde pulled the reins towards the pool, making him jump in as deep as we could get cold and wet.

Clyde didn't seem to mind much for a sweaty spotted Palomino so we both swam around the pool. We were both naked and not ashamed, just like it says in The Bible.

While we were both enjoying our cool and refreshing break I heard a few horses galloping towards the watering hole.
"Horses just don't run around by themselves around these parts", I told Clyde. "There's bound to be a few fellers sitting behind those nags, I'm just willing to bet".

Before I could get a chance to get out of the water and grab my clothes the small gang arrived. There were five fellows siting in their horses at the top of the slope looking down at me. They looked dark and dirty like they should have been bathing in this pool instead of me. The scary part of it all was that some of them were smiling at me. The way a dude smiles at a pretty little thing at a dance.

"Well, how do you like that, Rance?" the fat smelly one asked the tall dirty one. "I don't reckon I ever seen a boy in the altogether this pretty. He hardly even has any hair on his body, like a pretty girl".

Rance glared at the fat smelly guy and then looked down at me. "What are you doing swimming around in our water? Who gave you permission to sit in my lake?"
I straightened my back. "This ain't no lake, sir, and what ranch are you fellas representing?"

"We're from the Hiss Ranch and we don't take to strangers jumping around in our water, see?"
A guy in a black hat with a real long nose and an even longer chin piped in.
"I don't know, Rance, that's a right pretty looking dude right there. I'd like to ride him hard and put him up wet".

"Yeah, Rance", the fat smelly guy chimed in. "Pretty boy I'd sure like to chaw on that tight round little thing of yours".
"And what would that be?"
"He's talking about your ass, Rubberneck", Rance said. "Yeah, that's not such a bad idea. Before we shoot you I'll let the boys ride you around a little bit".

Well, when I was a tadpole I heard in Sunday school about men who favored other menfolk and ended up dying in a hail of fire and brimstone only I doubted the good Lord was going to rain any brimstone today. I knew it and shivered a little. Even the horse looked a little scared for me. That's not good.

The five smelly outlaws had their guns all drawn on me and damn, I had my rifle lying in the scrub with my clothes.

"Okay, let's get this business over and done with", Rance announced to the other four men. "Who wants to go first?"
"Shucks!" the fat smelly guy jumped off his horse and started undoing his belt buckle. "I reckon he's all sweet and tender after that little bath and ready for me!"
"I'll hold him down", the hombre with the big nose jumped off his horse. "He might kick like a chestnut mare with those strong legs of his".

Well, before either of those two man bandits could grab me and take my virtue I heard a loud explosion. The fat smelly guy stopped dead in his tracks and topple over with a big hole in his stomach and blood gushing out quickly out.

The big nosed guy got it next, his black hat flipping off his head and his ear spinning in the air from getting blown off clear from his head. He dropped down the hill and rolled towards the water.

The other three hombres all spun around to where the gunfire erupted from, me too. There was this funny looking thing with a thick handlebar mustache and a huge floppy hat firing two six-guns at the gang.

The gang pulled their guns out, but their eyeballs and faces were shot clean off'n their faces! Before I could count to three the other three men were shot clear off their horses, even the trouble;e making hoss of the bunch, Rance. Dead. All dead.

Their horses screamed and freaked out by all the gun play, they all ran off with their owners lying dead in their blood. I held on to Clyde just to make sure he didn't run off with the rest of them.

The funny looking hombre with the gun went into everyone's pockets and pulled out all their money, grabbing it all and stuffing it into his pockets.
"Don't forget the guns and bullets, too, partner", I helpfully advised.

The funny guy in the floppy clothes walked down the hill with his gun pointing at me. He looked real young, too young to be looking so funny but what the hell. He picked up my clothes lying all over the tall weeds and threw them at me. I quickly put them on. The weird guy then did what I told him to do, grabbing all their guns and stripping them of their bullets and belts.

"I want to thank you for saving my life and y'know, everything that goes with it", I said, most of my clothes now on.
"Knnfnryutguijjuhsuihmlk", he buzzed.
"Say what, partner?"
"Mllllftdvesvhcgcfykvbh".
"Uh huh".

I pulled Clyde out of the water and leapt onto my saddle, almost slipping straight off from the wet leather.
"Well! At any rate, my name is Crash Walker and I sure want to thank you for killing those Sodomites. What they were about to do was an abomination in the eyes of The Lord".>br/>"Bjklemfnsssucgcgcsg".

I rode up the hill towards him, now on his horse. He pointed at me and then pointed towards the horizon, now reaching sunset and impending darkness.
"Y'know, you've got a different way of talking. I reckon I'll call you Mumblin' Pete".
"Mndfgsfstdxfcfcfrgmvgcsgmftft", he smiled and nodded his head.

We both rode a few miles and I noticed a little town coming nearer and nearer in the darkness.
"Pttrsbhshfjscvgcvvbb", he buzzed.
"Jonestown, huh? Don't recall ever laying down my shoes in any Jonestown", I mused.

We both rode into town and I noticed Clyde was well relaxed from his bath and watching all those sidewinders getting killed.
"I just thought of something, Mumblin' Pete. We didn't bury any of those gents, someone's liable to get suspicious".

"Oh, ghfgfsgfttgcvgb!" he buzzed.
"Well, I guess that's okay, then".

We tied our horses up in front of the nearest saloon with the funniest name: SAILOR JERRY'S DANCEHALL SCHOONER.
We both walked in and sidled up to the bar. The place wasn't very crowded and everything looked like it belonged on a ship somewheres on the Pacific Ocean or at least the Gulf of Mexico.

The bartender could have been colored or might not have been colored, who knows? He was a very dark gent, stocky like a bull but dressed very fancy, brass buttons and a purple velvet vest. I couldn't stop looking at his missing hand. He had a hook instead of a left hand but it didn't bother me none.

"How y'all doing? I'm Sailor Jerry and this is my establishment. What's your pleasure, men?"
"I'll have a shot of Kentucky Shitfire and my colleague here'll have a beer", I clanked some coins on the bar top.
"Aye aye", Jerry trotted off to get our drinks.
"Sailor Jerry's got a hook, did you see that? That must get in the way of his chug-a-luggin'".

Mumblin' Pete pushed my hand away with the coins.
"No! Yttfsdxferv vffsc lmlklm", he protested.
"Well, alright, I guess the drinks are on those Sodomites. Sure was nice of them to donate all that money for our entertainment".
"Bgftsr hjhjbns rtvcgh!"

Jerry came back with the drinks and Mumblin' Pete paid him with a few coins. "Fgrrtddxdd!"
"What?"
"Fgrrtddxd!"
"What did he say?"
"He said keep 'em comin', Skipper!"
"Aye aye!"

Mumblin' Pete and I clinked glasses in a toast to our dearly departed assaulters.
"That was some pretty good shootin', Pete. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
"Mg dfstersf".
"Your daddy? Well I'll be dipped in pee".
"Hbvgdrtdtfs".

After a few drinks we bought some for Sailor Jerry, too. I turned to Mumblin' Pete and smiled.
"You know what you are, Mumblin' Pete? You're a spotted zebra, that's what. You're kinda like everybody else only you're a little bit different".
"Vbfgfsdsf uigh?"
"What? What's a zebra? Why, it's like a mule with black prison stripes, and, uh -"
"Bghgd iotyyu srtsfrcf!"
"Yeah! Drink up, partner".

A cute little gal with long blonde hair came right up to us and sat next to me.
"Good evening, boys".
"Hey! Howdy doody. Any place a man can rest around these parts?"
"Why sure, I can show you. And I can show your friend too. My name's Miss Willa".

"Lead on. My name's Crash and my friend's falling asleep".
"Fgvbvbsdutytcs ghghbnbn xnmxnkoiowip".
The three of us walked out of the saloon into the darkness. Sailor Jerry rang the ship's bell.

Menswear Bash & Flogger

Well, it ain't over until the satin bomber jackets get pulled out again, and thanks to Diesel you can relive the magic of bad Seventies fashion even if you were swimming in your Daddy's balls back then. Diesel touts a red satin bomber jacket with "Venice 1978" stenciled in vintage Gothic gang lettering along with am embroidered eagle flying eastward and westward, ho. The advertising copy of this re-animated monstrosity reads thus: "JAPAN BOMBER - Circa 1970's Tokyo served as an inspiration for this collection, hence the Japan Satin Bomber". Actually, that doesn't tell you a whole lot but the fashion world never really has much on its mind, anyway.

So, what's new in the world of fashion? David Lynch launching a line of women's sportswear? No. American Apparel appointing their first female Board Director? Maybe. Paris Fashion Week came and went with the SS15 fashions making their mark. I found most of it underwhelming with designers either stumped for ideas or simply reviving looks every bit as tired as, well, the satin bomber jacket.

Although I wasn't at the shows I gleaned all my information from the awesome website Dazed And Confused, whom you should definitely follow. Anyway, here are my impressions from what showed:

Comme Des Garcons Hommes Plus: Teddy Boy quiffled hair, goofy shoes and man skirts. The hair was a lot worse last year but this year's clothes didn't impress much. Drape jackets in 2015? No.
Anne De Meulemeester: Long, drapey black and white coats and robes. I don't see guys wearing these on the streets except in Tokyo. Maybe.
Balmain: Loud, bright beaded jackets that reminded me a little of Missoni, but still very colorful stuff. A lot of fun.

Bottega Veneta: BV showed weathered, faded resort wear, looking a lot like the unwanted stuff at a vintage clothing store in West Hollywood. They're usually pretty cutting edge so this was a major upset.
Burberry Prorsum: Pastel color blocking on jackets, pants and shirts, looking like everything you can get at H&M but costing way less and lasting just as long.
Raf Simons: Look out world, Raf Simons has discovered color. No black this year. Goth kids mourned the world over, more than they usually do.
Topman: Topman brought back the Nineties Britpop look, Richard Ashcroft mod hair styles on all the models with big Oasis sunglasses. The clothes were kinda lacking but the skull styling was A plus.

Yohji Yamamoto: Kinda cool, avant garde suits with big, floppy hats. Spaghetti Western drag goes to Wall Street.
Rick Owens: Bad, asymmetrical designs with long, draped fabric. Surprise! All austerity and no fun. A Rick Owens and Raf Simons beer bust would be more fun than a barrel of hemorrhoids.
Dries Van Noten: This was interesting: neatly tailored prints, all style, all fashion.
Givenchy: Black and white floral spotted clothes, looking like inkblots. I didn't like it and I think it would probably work better with women than men.
Yves Saint Laurent: Hedi Slimane designed the new collection as a homage to the Seventies, bad Laurel Canyon hippie chic, by bad I mean ponchos, Injun hats, John Phillips velvet corduroy pants. It looked old before it even hit the runway.

Moschino: Colorful Nineties hip hop-style clothes, looking like exploding billboards, very vibrant and colorful. I didn't find the shapes daring enough. It just looked like a lot of well printed fabrics.
Fendi: Well, alright! Nice lines, cool elegance, and nice leather bags modeled by dudes who looked old enough to shave (for a change).
Heider Ackermann: Better retro than YSL because Ackermann served up the shabby Keith Richards on the Riviera look, shabby rocker chic, "I just got out of bed and I still look bitchen". How elegantly wasted! That's fashion!

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

Beverly Center in Los Angeles is preparing for the launch of a gigantic Uniqlo store, and for those who don't know about Uniqlo yet (you will) it's a Japanese fashion premium outlet that's already made a big hit around the rest of the world. I've seen some of the menswear fashions and think it's a little too preppy for me, but it will probably still make a ton of money with the average buyer out there.

Uniqlo will be a big hit because menswear at most premium outlets are stuck in a rut and haven't changed much. Who's the competition, well, we already mentioned American Apparel who have yet to master the art of correct sizing; Urban Outfitters, catering to the slacker college kid from Portland look - schlubby; H&M, still suffering the schizoid dichotomy of deciding whether to rock Casual Resort Guy fashion or the Business Casual guy.

I don't know, but right now my money's on Zara, which lately has been selling Burberry-style menswear at rock bottom prices. Zara might be too radical for the average shopper but as far as I'm concerned they're the only premium fashion line that's delivering exciting designs at affordable prices.

The Rack Jobbers (Robt. Williams title = 12-Inch Plastic Peons Push Vapid Vinyl Thrills Whilst Farting Jive & Junk Food)

Work is a lot like love. People who look for jobs never get them. People who never look or don’t want them in the first place always get hired. I got a job as a rack jobber and I wasn’t even looking for one.

It was 1978 and I was sitting around my friend Donnie Albinoff’s cozy apartment. Cozy because between a plush sofa Donnie laid back on and the easy chair I sat on were book cases filled with tons of albums from every music scene and every era, so many that thaws even a steamer trunk packed to the gills with albums.

We were tapping our feet like a pair of spastics to Donnie’s latest catch, “Unfaithfully Yours” by The Saints, “Know Your Product” blasting through his speakers with the buzzsaw guitar ripping our dear drums out and a knife edge horn section ripping out punk rock soul.

“Fuck, this is great. Did you say this is so new it’s not even in the stores yet?” I sipped a beer he handed me.
“Yeah, and I also got this great Sham 69 album, too. We got a shipment from Sire today”, Donnie sipped his beer and got ready to light a roach. He showed me the roach and I did the “No thanks” wave.

“You’ve got the greatest job, getting all these cool new records even before the stores get them”, I gushed while Donnie sucked some weed smoke into his hipster lungs. Donnie paused for a moment and gave me a blank stare.

“You know, Sevrin”, Donnie talked while a gusher of lung clouds flew out. “You’re always making noises about needing a job to pay for rent and records and shit. Why don’t you come down to Spin Central and join the team? They’re always looking for new guys. I think I can get you in as long as you’re willing to work and don’t make me look stupid for getting you in. It pays okay and you get a discount on all the records you want”.

I mulled the offer over while The Saints were blasting in my face. “Okay!” I swigged my beer and tapped my feet harder.
“Good. I’ll put in a word for you tomorrow and with their okay you can come down later in the week and fill out a bunch of paperwork”.
“Great. Put on that Sham 69 album nobody’s heard yet”.

WEEK ONE: Spin Central One-Stop Distributors was a record distribution center in the Pico-Union district – corner of Venice Boulevard and Normandie Avenue. There was a cemetery around the block with a crematorium you could smell as you walked down the street towards work. It was a good appetite killer if you were too short to buy lunch.

My boss was Stan, heavy set in a dress shirt with slacks who was balding but wore the rest of his long hair in a pony tail. I never saw him smile. He seemed conflicted between looking hip and acting overly serious. It was a serious conflict for him. The only bands he swore by were Gentle Giant, The Dixie Dregs and PFM.

“Sevrin!” Stan barked. “Go to the loading dock with the dolly and pick up the new product and replace the pallet, let’s see replace that Steely Dan with the new product. Take Freddy with you. Go now!”
Freddy was a morbidly obese man with short hair, a peach fuzz moustache and stained clothes who didn’t even look like he cared about music.
“Are you sure the boss asked for me?” He whined quietly.
“Yes, let’s get going! The truck’s here!” I insisted. Freddy trailed reluctantly behind me.

Freddy threw several boxes angrily while I held the dolly and held my breath. The burning dead were really pumping it out today. Freddy cursed under his breath, sweating through his Hagar executive shirt, pit stains spreading like a busted levee.
“Sevrin, I’m thinking of having Chinese for lunch. Are you in, man?”

I raced into the warehouse with the dolly, escaping the corpse stench.
“Cigarette break. Back in five!”
Freddy wandered off to smoke, leaving me alone to move the gigantic stack of Steely Dan albums off the pallet. The really big sellers were usually displayed in stacks on the pallets while the medium sellers or loss leaders were stocked in much smaller numbers on the shelves. It was my turn to grunt and sweat. Finally I got around to tearing the cardboard boxes open and loading the new albums on the pallet. Expecting the new Dead Boys album I was crushed to see hundreds upon thousands of Linda Ronstadt albums.

“LINDA RONSTADT LIVING IN THE USA”. Linda Ronstadt in rocking a secretary bob clad in satin shorts and roller skates singing the oldies. Boxes and boxes of Linda Ronstadt in roller skates. I felt my back almost going out humping all this vinyl product out. Freddy’s five minutes were way past over but he was still out somewhere.

I ran back out to get more product to stack on the pallets and instead of feasting my eyes on the new Captain Beefheart masterpiece I ripped open the boxes to find copies of “BOZ SCAGGS SILK DEGREES” to stack. A million seller in 1976, people still clamored for more Boz Scaggs two years later. I had to take a back break before my back broke.

“Are you having fun yet?” Donnie walked by, joking in his deadpan voice.

WEEK TWO: After buying records for five years at Morty’s Records it was wild to see the man himself, Morty Simon plucking albums from the racks to sell at his store. His face was set with steely determination picking out which albums he would retail that week. He pulled two copies out of the four Ramones albums we had in stock.

While he pulled a few copies of the new Kraftwerk album – too cool to be stacked on pallets, I made a fool out of myself and approached Morty.

“Hey Morty, how’s it going, man? It’s Andy, I come into your store all the time to buy your stuff. What’s happening?”
“Yeah”, Morty mumbled, just looking through me. What a dick.

When I ran into Donnie I said, “Hey, that guy from Morty’s Records just snubbed me. What a dick!”
“He doesn’t talk to anybody”.
“That’s a hell of a sales approach”.
“I’m getting Mexican for lunch. I keep smelling enchiladas”.

WEEK THREE: One night after work I was back sitting and drinking at Donnie’s apartment. “So, how’s Freddy working out in the warehouse?” Donnie sipped his beer.
“Oh, that fat fuck’s useless. He takes a lot of long cigarette breaks whenever shit gets too busy”.
Donnie chortled. “He doesn’t even smoke that much. He just camps out in the john either taking long, smelly shits or he’s busy playing with his tiny needle dick”.

“Stan really stuck it to me”.
“Freddy really hates you, too. He told me, ‘I hate Sevrin. He’s always shuffling his feet’”.
“He said that? Are you kidding? What’s wrong with shuffling your feet?”
“Nothing, he’s a big, fat idiot. I had to kick him out of here once when he came over. Check this out, as soon as I left the room to take a piss he made a pass at Dora”. Dora was Donnie’s girlfriend. “He actually said, ‘What are you doing with a loser like Albinoff’?”
“Shit! In your own house”, I popped open another beer.
“On my property!” Donnie yelled, fired up a bomber and I gave the “No thanks” wave again.

WEEK FOUR: Stan ordered me to sit in a little room upstairs with a turntable on a desk, a relief to be off my feet from stocking records on pallets and on increasingly shrinking space on the racks.

Stan raced in with a stack of Al Dimeola and Neil Diamond records almost spilling over on the floor.
“Okay, Sevrin, I’ve gotta special job for you”, he dropped the stack of heavy albums on the floor. “I want you to slit open every album, take out each disc and put each one on the turntable. You see those magic markers next to the turntable?”
“Oh!” I pulled one out of the box. “Yeah, sure!”

“Play the record on the turntable and take one of these markers and very carefully black out the Columbia Records emblem that’s circled around the label. Can you do that? Let me see you do that with this Al Dimeola album!”
I spun the disc and very simply took the marker and dragged it around the circular Columbia Records emblem on the label.

“Great! Perfect! We have an important shipment going out to Bangkok tomorrow. Get going. Oh, and keep the door locked!”
Stan slammed the door shut and I got busy, wondering when my employee discount would kick in so I could buy the new Johnny Thunders album. Otherwise I’d have to go to Morty’s Records.

I spun disc after disc on the turntable studiously blacking out the Columbia Records logo ring on each disc, just thinking about all those Neil Diamond albums being sold in Thailand. I was known around the warehouse as being pretty quiet, quiet enough not to squeal that Spin Central was selling albums on the black market in Bangkok and all points east. Well, it was alright. I was getting off on the fumes from the magic marker.

WEEK FIVE: I was back in the Private Room. There were no magic markers on the desk but a pair of headphones and a stack of Waylon Jennings albums.
“Okay, Sevrin, we’ve been getting a lot of complaints about this inferior RCA Records product. I want you to open all these Waylon Jennings albums and play the first track and let me know how many of them skip and how many pop. Leave the albums in three stacks: The Ones That Skip, The Ones That Pop, And The Perfectly Good Ones”.
“Okay, no problem”.
“And keep the door locked!” He slammed the door shut.

I pulled the first disc out of the cover and immediately noticed how thin and light the vinyl felt in my hand. The disc even felt kind of hollow. I put on the first disc and adjusted my headphones.
Waylon sang:
“I've always been crazy and the trouble that it's put me through, I’ve been busted INTENTIONALLY HURT ANYONE One foot over the line I SHOULDN’T COMPLAIN Going insane”. Whoah. I tossed that one in The Skip Stack.

I pulled out the next disc and it was warped to hell. It felt more flaccid than a flat tire. I didn’t even bother playing that one. I simply threw it into The Skip Stack.

I put the next disc on, and listened intently: “I’ve always been crazy and the trouble INTENTIONALLY HURT ANYONE One foot COMPLAIN insane”. I threw that one in the ever- growing Skip Stack. Jesus, all this vinyl sucks. It feels cheap and it doesn’t play for shit.

I took my headphones off for a second and heard a bunch of yelling downstairs. I opened the door and looked down from the stairs over the warehouse and saw the a seeping flood of water coming from the bathroom.

Stan was yelling at Donnie.
“YOU’RE FIRED, YOU SON OF A BITCH! GET YOUR SHIT AND GET OUT OF HERE!!!!”
“FUCK YOU! I’M NOT A FUCKING JANITOR, ASSHOLE!” Donnie yelled back. “I DON’T CLEAN TOILETS!”
“YOU’LL DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO DO IF YOU WANT A JOB HERE!”
“YOU CAN’T FIRE ME!!! I QUIT!!! YOU CAN STICK THIS JOB AND THIS JOHNNY BRUSH UP YOUR ASS, MAN!” Donnie stormed off.

I walked back into The Private Room and locked the door. I thought about all these albums maybe making their way straight to Bangkok. I opened up the rest of the Waylon Jennings albums, put two in The Pop Stack, three in The Skip Stack and the rest in The Perfectly Good Ones stack.

I quietly left the job after two weeks’ notice and three weeks later got a job at an adult book store in Silver Lake. I used my stocking clerk experience from Spin Central in order to score a gig selling dildos and butyl nitrate poppers to terrified stockbrokers. Weeks later I worked at the Rexall Drugs on Hollywood & Highland, across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theater. It’s all show business!

c 1978, “I’ve Always Been Crazy”, written by Waylon Jennings. All rights reserved.