Andy Seven's Blog, page 19

The Big Dust-Up (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 6ix)

Friday. 11 PM. Artist's District, Downtown Los Angeles. For one night only a dingy warehouse turned into a loft party called The Inflated Tear. The cheap xerox flyers distributed around Hollywood was an offer no scenester could refuse: for only three dollars you could drink all the keg beer or Bargain Circus wine your stomach could hold until you blow chunks plus three performers, performance artist Myra Wreck the Fridge, pop-punk heartthrobs The Forever Boys, and CBGB darlings Magic Lantern, all the way from the Bowery. All ages admitted, no bouncers, no rules, no shit.

Magic Lantern was a precious band of New York musicians who named themselves after French poets and artists, there was Johnny Baudelaire, the mysterious one on vocals and guitar, Doug Cezanne his junkie foil on bass and the ever popular Freddie Robespierre on drums. Little did their loyal following know that their appearance was canceled by the temperamental and powerful Jack Sterling of Rocket USA.

Tipped off on the cancellation by a friend of a friend, Big Jason Gulliver and his pals planned on crashing the loft party with their impromptu band The Chop Shop.

The loft building was pretty dark and cold and one had to enter a narrow passageway to get in, where a quick $3 and a Santa Claus rubber stamp on the hand got you in. There you would be assaulted by a wall of noise and dim lights around the "stage": two banquet tables raised a few feet for the performer to be marginally seen. A crowd was already assembled in the dark, drafty hall.

"Let's hit the keg!" Raquel Tequila nudged her friend Lily Electric. Together they comprised The Ghost Sisters, named so for their strange hair and even stranger eye colors that seemed to look through you.

"Did you bring your flask?" Lily asked, her green eyes scanning the room for friends.
"Of course. I don't go anywhere without my tequila", Raquel smiled, her hazel eyes lighting the room. Both girls wore dark purple lipstick and dark green eye shadow and dressed in ripped up dresses with splattered house paint all over them.

"Tell me when that hag's done screaming!" Lily yelled, her fingers planted in her ears. She was referring to Myra Wreck The Fridge who was on stage screaming and pouring Heinz Baked Beans all over her naked body to an audio tape of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries.
"WHAT???" Raquel yelled back, her ears plugged, too.

"Wait a minute!" They both stopped walking. Lily pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took two smokes out and tore the filters off both of them. She put both filters in her ears as ear plugs and handed Raquel one smoke and treated herself to the other. She lit her smoke and lit Raquel's also.
"Thanks, babe!" Raquel smiled, puffing away. The continued brushing through the crowd to the beer keg.
"Fuck! Move, Fatso!" Lily shoved a fat punk in a dog collar and greasy spiked hair.

"Oh, fuck, great, just great!" Raquel groaned with irritability.
"Shit, what are they doing here?" Lily yelled over Myra's noisy caterwauling.

Standing around the keg like a pack of hippos were The "atrocious" Fliplets, Filipino punk triplets who dressed in corny Poseur bondage punk attire a la Sue Catwoman. Unfortunately their bondage outfits were three sizes too small so latticed flesh poked through their leather gear. There was Pinkie, Rose and Ginger, and they considered every punk girl to be competition for the men they desired, which was ALL OF THEM.

The Fliplets hated The Ghost Sisters and vice versa so they were giving each other eye daggers.
"Well, look who just rolled in from The Free Clinic", Rose sneered.
"Your mother gives her best regards", Lily pushed her way through the triplets. "Move over".
"Pinky, Rose, Ginger", Raquel greeted, taking a drag from her smoke as Lily filled her plastic cup with beer. "Nice fit. How's the bondage world? Still tying up your men like rodeo clowns?"
Lily cackled. Ginger spat her gum on the floor.

"Yeah, uh, nice fit", Lily guzzled beer and dragged on her smoke. Raquel took the cup from her and drank. "But next time I'd buy something in my size".
Pinkie blushed in her curly blonde flat top. "They don't sell anything in concentration camp size".
Rose laughed, beer coming out of her nostrils. "Yeah, you guys are so skinny I'd use your legs for a toothpick!"
"Why?", Raquel's eyes narrowed, "Did the string in your tampon break?"
"FUCK YOU, LEZ!" Rose screamed, ready to fight.

"Hey, Raquel, how's it goin'?" Flix Butler stepped in between them, grinning his handsome, winning smile. Butler wore lime green Fiorucci pants and had forked up red Crazy Color hair imported from Manic Panic. The lead singer of The Forever Boys, he had a very wholesome face which drove the girls all wild.
Lily couldn't stand him. "Oh, Electric, you're here, too".

"Hi, Flix, what's on your mind, Glamour Puss?" Raquel puffed nervously.
"Nuffin', I was just thinking, you know, I'm not doing anything after the show, and ya know", he rakishly winked at Lily, "if you ever get tired of the taste of fish I got some fine meat in the -"
"FUCK YOU, FLIX!" Lily threw her cigarette in his face.

"Aw, fuck you, dykes, your pussy probably smells like a run-down StarKist factory", he wiped his perfect face with a tissue, and then turned around to walk away, but ran straight into Jason Gulliver.
"Hey, Butler", Jason deadpanned.
"Gulliver!" Butler looked nervous. "What are you doing here? I thought you were selling it to homos in Frisco!"
"I had to leave. Your dad wouldn't take no for an answer". Raquel and Lily laughed behind him. "You trying to make my girl, you pussy-assed fuck?"
"The hell I am. After I'm done playing tonight I'm going to kick your ass".
"Is that right, chump? Don't write a check your ass can't cash".
"Hnfh!" Fix Butler snorted, pushing by Jason who was trying to crowd him.

Dahlia Doll entered the warehouse, appraising the room, flipping her freshly-cut black hair and wearing a very low cut black tank top with dark blue suspenders holding her leather mini-skirt. A former Ghost Sister who turned on Raquel and Lily, she saw a very furious Flix Butler storm across the room.

"Flix!" Dahlia waved at him. "Oh, Flix! It's Dahlia!"
"Hey, Doll!" Flix stopped and brightened up, running over to her while all the girls leered at him.
"Light my smoke, will ya?" She posed with her hand on her hips and a cig dangling from her lips.
"Sure, baby. Is your stupid boyfriend here tonight?"
"Yeah. It's the reason I'm here, he's playing in a few minutes, I think. Why? Are you playing tonight?"

Friday. 12 Midnight. Sally Garfield, the artist who leased the loft and threw the party had the mike.
"MAY I HAVE EVERYONE'S ATTENTION. CHECK, CHECK, WELCOME TO THE INFLATED TEAR! EVERYBODY HAVING A GOOD TIME? THANKS FOR NOT TRASHING THE BATHROOMS OR PUKING IN THE ALLEY...I THINK...ANYWAY, HERE'S THE DEAL. MAGIC LANTERN WERE GOING TO PLAY TONIGHT BUT THE GUYS IN THE BAND GOT SICK, I THINK IT'S THE SINGER -"
"Fuck New York assholes!" some punk yelled.
"Art fags suck!"
"HEY, I'M KIND OF AN ART FAG SO COOL IT, DICK!"
"CBGB queers! Get out of Hollywood!"
"Yankees suck!"

"ANYWAYS, INSTEAD OF MAGIC LANTERN WE GOT SOME LOCAL PUNKS TO PLAY A FEW BITS FOR US. THEY'RE CALLED THE CHOP SHOP, THEY'RE GONNA RIP YOUR HEADS OFF! WOOOOOO!" Sally Garfield jumped off the jerry-built stage.

The Chop Shop was King Steve on a blue Mosrite guitar, Robotman on Slingerland drums, Jason on Farfisa organ, and The Fireball Kid on vocals, with Allen Wrench looking busy adjusting mikes and resetting amplifier levels.

"Kick ass, Jimi Hendrix!"
King Steve pulled the mike away from The Fireball Kid. "Hold it! You say that to every nigger with a guitar? Fuck you, you cracker asshole!"
Everybody cheered. Some people in the audience threw ice cubes at the band. The Fireball Kid grabbed the mike back.
"Okay, jerk-offs this one's called MY LOVE DIED IN YOUR MOUTH 1-2-3-4!"

The band ripped into it and the crowd and smashed into each other and twisted and flowed into a wild circle of chaos. Robotman pounded his drums with locomotive ferocity while Jason banged on the keys of his organ with his fists, occasionally hitting the right notes.

The song ended with the audience cheering. Flix Butler and the members of his band were laughing at The Chop Shop like they were some bad cartoon.
"THIS ONE'S CALLED BLITZ AND PIECES!" The Fireball Kid yelled, tossing his flaming red hair around.
The band played a furiously sped-up version of the Dave Clark Five's "Bits and Pieces". The Fireball Kid picked up a bullhorn and sang.

"ALL THE PIECES, BLITZ AND PIECES, AND NIGHT IS DAY AND DAY IS NIGHT!"
King Steve strangled tortured feedback out of his guitar.Jason banged all the wrong chords on his Farfisa, creating a wash of dissonance over King's guitarisms.
A torrent of spit flew at the band as they played.
"BOOOOO!" Flix and his band yelled at The Chop Shop.

Before the next song started, Jason grabbed the mike from The Fireball Kid.
"Okay, that's it, the next dickhead that gobs on me is gonna be spitting out teeth and blood instead!"
"YAY, JASON!" Everybody cheered.
"I'm serious, you fuckin' assholes".

"This one's for all you Jesus Freaks", Fireball yelled into the mike. "It's called GIVE MY RETARDS TO BROADWAY!"
The band tore into their last number and all was well until Robotman caught Dahlia Doll fondling Flix Butler's dick and then he started smashing the rack tom. Then he smashed the snare drum. Then he kicked over the bass drum. Then he threw the cymbals across the stage. People applauded, thinking it was part of the act. The band kept playing.

Dahlia, sensing trouble, slipped away from Flix and The Forever Boys into the darkness. The Fireball Kid turned around to see his drummer was gone, so he tossed his mike into the air and walked off. King Steve took off his guitar and rested it against the amp, emitting squeals of feedback, which Allen Wrench quickly turned off. Jason, left alone, began playing the LA Dodgers organ fanfare, and then walked off the stage. "Fuck it, we're done!"

Friday. 1 AM. The Forever Boys took the stage and launched into their big hit The Bride Wore Day-Glo. And what a band they were, all dressed in Fiorucci day-glo clothes and Crazy Color dyed hair, one blue, one green, one orange and the other in skunky stripes.

Flix Butler sang and spun his hips for all the girls in the audience, progressively shoving their way to the front of the stage. Jason looked on in disgust. Allen Wrench nudged him.
"Jace, are we going to Atomic Cafe?"
"Not just yet. I have an idea. Follow me!"

Raquel and Lily stopped Jason on the way out.
"Are we going to Atomic Cafe?" Raquel asked.
"Go on ahead. We'll be there in an hour, my treat."
"YES!!!!!" Raquel grabbed Jason and kissed him on the cheek.

Friday. 1:30 AM. The Chop Shop hung out in the alley behind the warehouse. Allen Wrench sucked a tube attached to the gas tank of a blindingly bright green VW Bus.
Jason pulled out a stiletto and gutted the tires of the VW. The bus began sagging to the left, then to the right.
"THAT'S COLD, JASON!" King Steve giggled.
"Hold it down, dick, you want everybody to hear? Are you sure this is their ride?"
"Are you kidding? Look at all these fuckin' Forever Boys stickers".
Robotman scratched his ass, "Yeah, it's a goddamn shrine to themselves".

"They'll never fall in love with their fans 'cause...the can's almost full, man...keep sucking...they love themselves too much". Jason put away his knife.

"You're not gonna believe this", Robotman's chest swelled up, "but fuckin' Shaun Guerin from The Deadbeats saw us play and said my drumming was fuckin' amazing, can you top that?"
"Yeah, I can top that", The Fireball Kid groused, "How about finishing a set without pitching a fit over your fuckin' girlfriend. I was just getting warmed up when you threw your stupid temper tantrum, numb nuts".
"Hold it down, you ass clowns", Jason hissed, "we're committing a major felony, so shut up!"

"So like I was saying, I", Flix Butler, carrying his guitar out the back door, stopped what he was saying in shock. "HEY!!!!!"
The Forever Boys dropped their instrument cases and charged at Jason and The Chop Shop.
"Just what the fuck do you assholes think you're doing?" Butler shoved Jason.
"We just boosted your gas and trashed your wimp wagon, scumbag".
"I'm gonna kill you, fucker!"

Jason grabbed Flix by the neck and pulled him down, smashing his head into the VW bus fender and Robotman rabbit punched Duggie Prescott to fuck and The Fireball Kid bitch slapped the shit out of Slim Kessel and Allen Wrench field-goal kicked Turk Paley in the balls. King Steve held on to the gas can and jumped from victim to victim, pulling wallets out of their back pockets.

"Busting crimes, stealing dimes", King Steve chortled. Jason held onto Flix's arms while Robotman punched him like a punching bag.
"Try to make my girlfriend, will you, Parrot Puss?" Pow! Pow!
"She's nothing but a whore, asshole", Flix groaned,spitting out blood.
"He's got a point there", Jason added. "But a man's property is a man's property".

Duggie Prescott, Slim Kessel, Turk Paley and Flix Butler penniless and beaten to fuck in a glamorous day-glo semi-comatose state by their trashed VW bus as The Chop Shop marched away having completed their brutal task. The darkness in the alley was quickly violated by the screaming of ear-splitting sirens wailing from three fire trucks arriving to stop the party. The alley was illuminated by flickering red lights strobing from the trucks stopping by the entrance of the warehouse.

"Atomic Cafe, guys, my treat! Steve, how much money did we get from those pricks?"

COMING UP: Chapter Seven - F-R-I-C-T-I-O-N, the gang gets closer and closer to The Big Smash and Grab. The swag in the bag is just a drag away. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.</>

Shut Up And Deal (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 5ive)

Wednesday, 5 PM. Rocket USA. A large night club with two large showrooms and a large lounge in between. One showroom was for concerts and the other was a dance club with a DJ booth and dance floor.

Rocket USA was the most popular club in town next to The Whiskey and The Roxy in Hollywood with the advantage of being on Santa Monica Boulevard, keeping it out of cutthroat competition with the Sunset Strip and Hollywood Boulevard clubs. It was smack dab in the middle of Hollywood without any of the headache. Club owner Jack Sterling liked it that way.

Jack Sterling packed in his acting career when TV westerns went out as quickly as his rugged boyish looks did. What a show that was: "Longhorn" was almost even more popular than "Wrangler's Canyon", until Archie Bunker and his urban pals rendered everything on a horse obsolete. Oh, he tried his hand at a situation comedy after "Longhorn" got canceled, a show called "That Invisible Guy" about a gym teacher with powers of invisibility. The only problem was you couldn't see him for half the show so people began forgetting who he was. Frustrated, the show was mercifully canceled after half a season.

Sterling invested in a decaying night club that was once the toast of the supper club scene when Trini Lopez and Johnny Rivers ripped it up. With a bank loan he built up the huge club and modernized it to modern glam rock standards by calling it "Rocket USA" and then riding the crest of the punk wave.

Not only was the club a hit with the kids but he made sure he asserted himself as the figurehead of the scene by dressing as eccentrically as he could, like a bizarre dandy straddling several eras at once: he brandished a walking stick, wore a straw boater for a hat - sometimes traded in for an old style English derby and only the finest velvet three-piece suits, complete with chained pocket watch and tiny snuff tin.

Sterling sat in his office scratching his ears as he heard the band banging downstairs moving in their equipment into the concert room for sound check. On the other end of his office he could hear dance records played loudly below testing the sound system in the dance club section.

For a brief moment he wished he was still astride a horse in front of a camera, but the feeling quickly left.

6 PM. Downstairs at the bar of the concert hall a very short, delicate girl was rinsing shot glasses. Her once-blonde hair was now dyed violet. Her name was Lily Electric, she had cold gray eyes and spent a lot of time with Raquel Tequila. Since Raquel had hazel eyes when they went to punk shows together they were known as The Ghost Sisters. If Raquel was fire then Lily was ice.

Jack Sterling liked having King Steve, a black guy with blue eyes working alongside a weird punk girl like Lily mixing drinks at the bar. It sold a lot of drinks having these two weird kids mixing cocktails, almost bringing a little carny spirit to a rock club. Other clubs were jealous.

Big Jason walked into the club, stared at the band beginning their sound check and quickly walked over to the bar. Lily looked up from her rinsing and smiled.
"Big Jason Gulliver, back in town. Raquel said Godzilla returned to Tokyo, I wondered how soon you'd drop by here".
"Front me a soda, Lily. How's the night club racket?" Jason barked over the noisy band.
"Guys still hitting on me including your stupid friend King Steve", Lily shot a jet of soda pop from her beverage gun into a water glass.
Jason chortled. "He's slow on the draw. You're a fuckin' dyke but a cool fuckin' dyke. I don't even care if you sleep with my girl".
"Why thank you, Caveman", Lily smiled, handing him the soda with a cherry on top.

"Let's skip the formalities, dyke. You know I'm pulling a job and you're getting a sweet cut in the action".
"You can count on me. I keep everything under the wire", Lily added another cherry on top of Jason's drink.
"Good, that's cool. Is Sterling in today?"
"Yeah and you'd better make tracks. His OCD's really kicking up worse than ever. He was scratching on walls and nodding his head so much I-"

Sterling walked towards them from the darkness, nervously twisting his neck and staring right at Jason. Jason returned his stare.
Still staring at Jason, he said, "Lily, can I see you in my office in ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes coming up!"
"Bye, Lily", Jason left half his drink unfinished, avoiding any more recognition from the man he planned to steal thousands of dollars stashed in his office safe.

7 :15 PM. Book Soup, Sunset Boulevard. Jason walked into the book store and smiled at his friend Carlos working behind the counter. Carlos was a tall, thin, bespectacled dark young man dressed in white. The store was jammed with endless shelves of books lined from the floor to the ceiling and looked like something out of a German Expressionist movie.

"Jason! Where've you been? I've been holding that special order of Corso for you. I thought you'd never come back".
"I have returned, Carlos. How's the literary world?"
"Chevy Chase came in last week. No sense of humor", Carlos handed over the book to Jason.
"I'm shocked".

"Oh!" Jason handed over a ten-dollar bill. "Keep the fuckin' change."
"I can't do that".
"Fine, give it to the starving Bolivians in China", Jason said as he leafed through the book. "Elegiac Feelings American. Do you know how hard it is to find a book of poetry with a title like that?"
Carlos laughed.

"You know what I like about a guy like Gregory Corso? He'll write a poem about Greek gods on one page and then on the next one he'll have one about baseball. Yeah! I want to write poetry like that. Go from the ancient Greeks to shit like the Dodgers killing the New York Mets. I think I can write prose like that".
Carlos smiled. "Jason, if anyone can write poetry like that, you can. By the way, how did you get that silver hair?"
"My hairdresser. Sherwin-Williams".

Fifteen minutes earlier. 7 PM. Lily Electric sliced up limes and lemons thinking about the colossal waste of time Jack Sterling put her through making her sit in his office. First she had to watch him scratch his phone ten times, rub his hands six times, etc. The OCD was really in full force. She wanted to roll her eyes but instead stared at his framed memorabilia on the walls: a TV Guide cover, cutting the tape at a Hughes Market, shaking hands with Casey Kasem.

"Yeah, okay, Lily, I know I can trust you. You never rock the boat, you just do your job and clock out. You don't hang out and start shit like the other staff".
"Thanks, Jack".
"We're going to make some big changes around here soon. I'm going to get serious state of the art security sensors installed into the club. Some asshole's been stealing from the club and I need to start monitoring the staff. I hate to do it, you understand, but..."
"Oh, uhm, well. Do you have anyone you suspect?"

Sterling scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, how well do you know Bobby Mann that meat head bouncer? He's always hovering around the cash register".
"I don't think so, Chief. He does that to hide the fact he uses an inhaler. Nobody's going to be scared of a bouncer who uses an inhaler".
"Oh, I didn't know that. How awful".
She lied.

"Well, when are you planning on getting this equipment installed, anyway?"
"Sometime in the middle of next-" the phone ringing interrupted him. He picked it up.
"Hello? What?" His voice rising. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? THEY CAN'T PLAY SOME LOFT PARTY THE NIGHT BEFORE THEIR ENGAGEMENT AT MY CLUB! I'LL TEAR UP THE CONTRACT AND PISS IN YOUR FACE!" His face turned from beet red to deep purple, his eyes squinting with ferocity.
"DON'T YOU FUCKIN' INTERRUPT ME!!!! TELL THE BAND TO EITHER FORGET THE STUPID FUCKIN' PARTY OR THEY CAN FORGET ROCKET USA! GUESS WHO'LL PAY BETTER MONEY??? IDIOT!" He slammed down the phone. Lily paled at the sound of him screaming.

Jack Sterling quietly looked down at his desk, and then slowly spoke. "Rocket USA is the finest showcase for any rock band in the country, perhaps the world, and these small timers want to play a stinking loft party in the rat-infested arts district. Bands that play dumpy lofts DO NOT PLAY at Rocket USA. Ugh!"
Lily squirmed in her chair a bit.
"Lily, you can leave now, and please ask Steve to come in. I have something very important to tell him".
Lily Electric got out of the chair, happy to be relieved of the neurotic display just witnessed.
"Okay, no problem".

8 PM. Dahlia Doll adjusted her bra strap and got up from Franco Mann's bed. He was lying back staring at her. He dragged his right hand across his pasty, thick and hairy chest.
"Admit it, baby, I'm still the best fuck you ever had. You enjoyed every second of it".
"Of course, hon. I'm going to run right home and write six pages about it in my diary".
"Nah, seriously. You were loving it. I saw you!"

Dahlia pulled a brush out of her handbag and brushed her jet black hair. "Did you get those guns to Bobby yet?"
"Yeah, but not without hearing him brag his stupid ass off about what a hot shot he was at the LA Gun Club. What a dork".
She stopped her brushing. "He's practicing shooting a gun?"
"Yeah, but he sucks. Don't worry about it".
"I won't, but it won't be me he'll be shooting at".

"If I know my brother he'll probably shoot himself in the foot".
Dahlia pulled out her lipstick, removing the cap. "Don't underestimate him. He's not so dumb about everything, okay? I'm going to have to talk to him about cutting down on the target practice".
"You're wasting your time worrying about it. Besides I've got my guys ready to blow these assholes away".

Tamping her lips with a napkin, she threw it down on the floor. "Look, I gotta take off. When he gets home tonight I gotta pump some more info out of him. He's been getting pretty cagey lately".
"No fucking, alright?"
"Don't worry about i-"
Franco leapt out of bed and grabbed Dahlia's left arm, twisting it behind her back.

"STOP THAT GODDAMMIT! LET GO ASSHOLE!"
Franco pressed his face close to hers and hissed, "If I find out you're still fucking him, I'm going to break both your arms and you're going to have to give him hand jobs with your smelly fuckin' feet, understand, Bitch?"
He pressed his lips into hers smearing her newly applied lipstick. Tears of pain rolled down her eyes.
Franco finally let go and she rubbed her left arm over and over.

"Let that be a lesson to you. Poppa don't play that mess".
"Yeah, I get it, Franco. In black and blue".
"Hey, that's funny, babe. See ya".

Dahlia cussed under her breath, threw on her leather jacket and stormed out, slamming the door. Five different dogs in the apartment building barked in protest like a demented Greek chorus.

NEXT WEEK: Chapter Six - The Big Dust Up, when Big Jason Gulliver and the boys play a punk rock loft party in the Gallery District downtown and create more mayhem. Nothing but trouble from these guys! Guaranteed!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Tom of Finland Does WeHo, Again

I can't think of a more fitting location for a Tom of Finland art exhibit than the Museum of Contemporary Arts (MOCA) in West Hollywood. West Hollywood, known around town as the abbreviated WeHo, is the Christopher Street of Los Angeles where gays, lesbians and like-minded folk can co-exist freely without societal constraints and pressure. Being a big Tom of Finland fan, I attended the newly opened show that he shared with beefcake king Bob Mizer.

For those not familiar with Tom of Finland, my best description of him would be to call him the gay Bill Ward. His erotic illustrations of sexually virile men is comparable to Ward's depiction of his sexually aroused vixens: both are depicted as enormously attractive individuals with grotesquely enormous genitalia sending them in a constant state of sexual ardor.

A Tom of Finland male proudly and even defiantly wears only the most fetishistic clothes: Navy uniforms, cowboy clothes, motorcycle leathers, police uniforms and denim trousers so tight they almost seem painted on. Bulging, nay, practically fighting its way out of every pair of trousers are biologically impossible swollen pair of testes and endlessly long penises in the history of art. Interestingly enough, the comparison to Ward continues in the way Tom shades his figures in the same style as Ward.

Tom's depiction of sexual situations always maintain a bizarrely cheerful air about them, even when men are being tied up or gang-banged. There's never a display of brutality or even aggression a la John Willie in his erotica. It's as if Tom of Finland's pictures are having a party and it's freaking everybody out!

Tom's artwork graced the covers of a digest-sized magazine for men called "Physique Pictorial" which also employed the brilliant paintings of George Quaintance, another artist who depicted homosexuality as an erotic happyland Utopia, as well. Another regular to the gay digest was popular beefcake photographer Bob Mizer, co-billed with Tom at MOCA.

How can I describe Bob Mizer? If the straights had Bunny Yeager then the gays had Bob Mizer. It is estimated that Mizer shot over a million beefcake shots in his legendary career. Mizer's photography is as meat and potatoes man love as it gets, with a few twists along the way: one naked model is dressed like an Aztec god, another in Superman drag, and of course the mandatory cowboys, sailors and motorcycle boys. Guaranteed crowd pleasers, of course.

To see more of Mizer's work, check out the massive collection "Bob's World", available from Taschen Books. I liked his fantasy photography more than his more static shots, but then again he knew his audience and they wanted, well, you know. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the show, which opened on November 2, 2013 and will run until January 26, 2014.

Happy Birthday Grace Slick

For this year's annual tribute to Scorpio birthdays I'd like to talk about the brilliant tornado that is Grace Slick, just turned 74 years old on October 30th this past week. A fearless, foolish, frequently outrageous artist always willing to take risks and in the process influence tens of thousands of female rock singers during and after her fame, she is a rock icon like no other.

There has never been a female artist as irrepressible as Grace Slick prior to her arrival on the music scene. In the mid-Sixties female artists were delicate, controlled, and easily led, but with genius, beauty and style Grace Slick arrived and changed the way women performed and appeared in the public eye. Artists like Patti Smith, Courtney Love and an endless conveyor belt of Diva of the Weeks owe her a tremendous debt of gratitude.

Grace's first band was in 1964 with her husband Jerry Slick (her name was originally Grace Wing) and his brother Darby named The Great Society. In 1966 they recorded what was to be her most memorable songs, "Somebody To Love" and "White Rabbit". One year later she left the band to replace Signe Anderson in Jefferson Airplane. With her pin-up model looks and intense beatnik style the Jefferson Airplane acquired a distinctive image to compliment their excellent musicianship.

Grace Slick's intense vocals in Jefferson Airplane were virtually unheard of in rock music up to that point and were the most intense female vocals heard at the time. Beginning with "Surrealistic Pillow" Grace forged a new sound in rock, combining beat poetry with vocals that effortlessly blended jazz ala Carmen McRae with then-popular folk rock melodiousness.

While Paul Kantner and Marty Balin wrote excellent folk tunes and Jorma Kaukonen wrote tough blues songs, a Grace Slick song promised a sophisticated, jazzy melody with a powder keg of lyrics about to explode. Her songs were works to be reckoned with.

Whether it was singing about a boy with arrested development in "Lather" or a filthy, polluted planet on "Eskimo Blue Day", no other female vocalist tore away at pompous masculine pride with feminist rage as she did with songs like "Two Heads", "Greasy Heart" or "Hey Frederick". And just as you're about to dismiss her as a bull-busting bitch she slips in a song as cool and surrealistic as "reJoyce", a gorgeous jazz piece based on the writings of James Joyce. Very, very bohemian.

Grace kept up with her male peers like Jim Morrison in the outrage department, too: performing in blackface on The Smothers Brothers Show, naming her publicly born-out-of-wedlock daughter "god", flashing her breasts onstage so many times it became shock-less, acts simultaneously outrageous and feminist setting new standards.

She can be forgiven her many excesses, alcoholism, fighting with countless boyfriends and policemen, and the crass, milquetoast New Wave band Starship whom boiled down their name from Kantner's original combo "Jefferson Starship". She can even be forgiven for making certain remarks that were bound to offend just about anyone with a pair of ears, but like all outlaws she probably wouldn't give a shit, anyway. That's punk as fuck.

Nice behavior or not, there's the records, some of the most unforgettable I've ever heard. It's amazing that almost forty five years after the release of her records Grace Slick's lyrics and vocals can still send chills through me. And look beautiful doing it, too.

Suggested Reading:

Somebody To Love? A Rock and Roll Memoir
Grace Slick (with Andrea Cragan)
Warner Books

The Jefferson Airplane and the San Francisco Sound
Ralph J. Gleason
Ballantine Books

Wreck Creation (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 4our)

11:45 AM. Downtown Los Angeles. Jason had some concerns about the boys’ lack of experience in handling firearms, so he called Robotman and asked him to get the gang together and engage in some target practice at the Los Angeles Gun Club downtown. The five of them converged in the parking lot.

“Now remember, you fuckin’ knuckleheads, this isn’t a bowling alley or some shit like that”, Jason advised. “There's some pretty heavy fucks in here so let’s go a little light on the clownabilly shit”.
“Sure, Jason, don’t blow a gasket”, King Steve said, looking visibly hurt at being admonished in advance.

The five yobs of varying hair and skin colors entered and immediately got the fish eye from a heavy set middle-aged man with cop hair and a handlebar moustache wearing a stained, khaki green polo shirt.

“Can I help you boys?” he blurted slowly as he chewed on a thick chaw of tobacco.
"We're here to partake of your quality firearms and your savage shooting range", Jason bullshitted.
The desk clerk sized them up sideways. "Do you guys even have any money? You all look like you don't have two pennies to rub together".
Big Jason pulled out a healthy wad of cold cash. Everybody, especially the desk flunky's eyes widened.
"Read the green - we came to shoot - are we locked and loaded?"
He nervously licked his fat, purple lips. "Pull out your ID's and they better be real. I don't want no monkey business from you fellas, either!"
Jason pulled the most serious face of his life. "My word is my bond, my man".

Four firing booths were taken: Big Jason squeezing off a Colt .45, Robotman blasting off a ridiculously long-barreled .357 Magnum, almost spending as much time posing as he did shooting, Allen Wrench slowly popping shots off with a .38 Special, and King Steve and The Fireball Kid sharing a booth alternating shots with a Baretta PX4 Storm as nervously as two grown men can possibly be.

Jason took a break from shooting and strolled behind his men watching their gun work, nodding his head at the mutilated targets across the range, appraising their gun play, correcting the way Allen held his .38, kicking King Steve's legs further out so the stance was better planted for gunfire.
"Good, good, very good", he mumbled as he strolled by the, inspecting their work, all to deaf ears since they had earplugs on.

Every once in a while someone would blow their cool and holler. "WHOOOO!" firing like crazy and posing like a badass cowboy.
When Allen Wrench got his spent target back he draped it around his chest proudly.
"Now this would make a totally killer t-shirt. I'm gonna wear this fuckin' target at the next Skulls show".
"Fuck yeah!" King Steve hollered.

"Nice work, you guys. You make me proud!" Jason snorted. He spun towards his target and ripped four rapid shots that tore up the bulls eye and left the paper hanging in half. He took out his ear plugs and decided to leave them out because he loved the noise of guns popping off.

"Say that's some mighty good shootin' you got there, brother", A policeman beamed, dressed in blues and a badge put his hand on Jason's shoulder. "Have you ever considered a promising career in The Force?"
"Fuck no, I don't want to be some fuckin' pig".

In less than five minutes all five punks were tossed out of The Gun Club.
"God, Jason. What the fuck did you have to pop off like that for? I was squeezing off some sweet shots!" The Fireball Kid whined.
"Bullshit, you and Steve were shooting like a coupl'a chicks at The County Fair. You pussies were jumping like the gun was gonna bite your dick off".
"That pig could'a run us in".
"I gotta call it like I see it. Fuck him".

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

12:55 PM. Marina Del Rey. Just to ensure the day wasn't a total washout they went to Dockweiler Beach. The afternoon was unusually cold so the usually crowded beach was empty. The guys sat by a fire pit roasting frankfurters and marshmallows together and drinking tequila.

A bomber joint passed hands and everyone took turns dragging on the thing, looking at each other and smiling big. They chortled and made fun of each other and occasionally screamed when a low flying airplane zoomed above them with its supersonic rumble and tail of burning smoke leaving its monstrous trail in the sky.

"It won't be long, guys. All that money, all ours. This I promise", Jason vowed.
King Steve shoved some batteries into his cassette player and turned it on, blasting some 999, The Adverts, Ramones, The Damned, Devo, The Zeros and tons more.
The Fireball Kid was lying back and fading fast from all the food and booze. "Ah, this is too good".
Voices started fading into the distance for him.

"There's some good fishing in Frisco...."
"My dad was a Petty Officer in the Navy...even has a Jap flag to show for it..."
"I saw this film where piranhas tore up this cow...it was brutal...."
Ocean waves crashing in the background. A low-flying TWA jet rumbling and whistling so you can barely hear their voices. The Fireball Kid lifted his head up and Robotman smiled at him.

"X, The Controllers and The Alleycats...I got a ride to The Fleetwood but my ride left me high and dry...I had to fuck this fat girl to get a ride back home...I never sweated so much in my life..."
"Is that the girl who wears that smelly Cramps t-shirt to every show..."
"We should just move to Alcatraz Island, bro..."
Ocean waves crashing in the background. A Cessna 182 Skylane grumbling above loudly. The Fireball Kid's eyes shut lightly and the voices were now gone.

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

The Fireball Kid stirred quickly when he felt his face feeling heat as if it were catching fire. Opening his eyes slowly he saw lit matches being thrown in his face. The next thing he knew someone was kicking him in the ribs, hard.

"I heard these punks like getting spit on".
"Hey, Punk, you like being spit on?"
"Hahahahah".
Sitting more upright, The Fireball Kid noticed his friends were all gone and in their place was four guys, three white, one black. One wore an old vintage Sixties suit, another wore a parka with a hairy sweater and the other two wore Fred Perry white tennis sweaters. They all wore Ben Sherman pegged trousers and Hush Puppies. They wore their hair cropped short. They were four Mods and surrounded him, hating the sight of him.

The black guy got in his face. "Hey boy, yeah you boy, get up. Punk white boy! You Darby Vicious, you fuck?"
"You Arthur Ashe with your faggot tennis outfit?"
"FUCK YOU, WHITE BOY! Get up!"
"Tell him, Warren", the Mod in the parka chewed on some gum, grinning from ear to ear.
The Fireball Kid got up nervously, considering his options. How do I get out of this? Fuck!

"Hey Bruce, I heard these punks like to choke each other when they dance", the Mod in the suit re-adjusted his tinted glasses.
"Let's choke him. On the count of four, ha! One..."
"Today's your big day, Punk!"
"...Two..." The Mods edged in closer.
"You wanna be a Dead Kennedy, White Boy?"
"...Three..."
BOOOM!!!!!!!

The Mods turned around to see Big Jason, Robotman, King Steve and Allen Wrench standing behind them. Wrench had a Colt .45 in his right hand held up in the air.

"I'm sorry", Big Jason fluttered his eyelashes. "Are we interrupting something?"
"Let's get these fucks, boys", Warren growled. "I'll take the big guy".
"You take them, Warren", Bruce stammered, "They're packing heat".

And they were. All four of the yobs pulled out guns from the back of their jeans and aimed them at the Mods.
"Very observant, and by the way, there's four of you and five of us. That's what's called a math problem. A BIG problem".

"I like these boys, Jason", Allen Wrench grinned. "They dress real cute. Like a barbershop quartet".
"Hush Puppies, huh?" Jason smiled. "How menacing! What's it say on that button, Andy Williams?"
The Mod in the parka said, "Secret Affair, asshole, what's it to you?"
"Secret Affair?" King Steve chuckled. "Shit, is that what all you boys are having with each other?" The punks all chortled at the joke.

"We are the Mods, fuck you punks!"
"These guys are like bad comic books, Jason", Allen Wrench revolved his aim from Mod to Mod.
Jason scratched his chin, thinking. "Okay, here's what we'll do, since you love our friend so much. All of you, take your clothes off. C'mon, MOVE IT! You, Secret Affair, take that snow plow tuxedo off. Off with the pants, too!"

"What are you gonna do, kill us?" The Mod in the suit gave his best angry look, tears welling up in his eyes behind the tinted shades.
"They're gonna rape us. These punks are gay and they're gonna pull a train on all of us", the white Mod in the tennis sweater whined, trembling.
"Nothing like that, Perry Como", Jason waved his Luger at the stripping Mods. "Step it up, you preppy fucks".

All of the Mods were stripped down to their boxers and shivering save Warren who stood tall, black and defiant to Jason.
"Alright, Johnny Mathis, what's the problem? I told you strip".
"FUCK YOU, WHITE MOTHERFUCK!" Warren spit on Jason.
"Okay, okay", Jason wiped the spittle off and stared hard at Warren. "Allen, remember those scooters we saw on top of the hill?"
"I can see them right here, Jason", Allen smiled, knowing what was going to happen next.

"You see that pretty fucking purple scooter with all those fruity little mirrors? I'll bet that's Johnny Mathis' circus spinner. Isn't that right, Johnny Mathis?"
"Fuck you!"
Allen turned towards the hill and fired off two shots, one at the rear tire of the purple Vespa, flattening it, and the other bullet shattering the windshield.
"Missed!" Allen gritted his teeth. "Fuckin' queer scooters!"
He squeezed off another shot at the rear of the bike, hitting the gas tank, and the scooter blew up, smoke billowing out fro the hill. BOOOOOOM!

The explosion terrified the Mods so much they took off all their clothes and stood before the punks naked. Warren came unglued, his face twitching uncontrollably and began stripping.
"You see how it is now, don't you?" Jason smiled. "Take it all off, boys. Now throw all of your pants here or you'll get the same treatment Johnny Mathis' scooter got".
The pants thrown at Jason's feet, King Steve jumped over and grabbed all the wallets and pocketed them.

"Oh my God, look at their dark, deformed dicks! HOHOHOHOHOO!" Ther Fireball Kid and the other guys laughed.
"We're going to play a game, it's called The Shrinking Violet, it's a game you're gonna love, I want you all to run into the ocean and go as far as you can. Move, Perry Como, you too, Andy Williams".
Robotman started shooting in the air, screaming. The naked Mods all ran into the ocean fearing for their lives and shivering from the cold water.
"Farther!" Allen shot out the other three scooters on the hill, watching them topple over one by one.

"Jesus, Jason", King Steve grabbed the rest of their clothes and threw into a waste can. "These guys are stupider than I thought".
"You don't know the half of it, kid. They're all huddled by the sewage pipe. They'll be shitting mildew for the next six months!"

And indeed, the four naked Mods were shivering in the water right by the sewage pipe that drained out into the ocean.

The sun finally setting, Big Jason and his henchmen walked up the hill with Allen Wrench holding up the rear with his gun still trained on the Mods as they left the beach with their new found swag.

COMING UP: Chapter Five - Shut Up And Deal, the inside skinny on Rocket USA and just what it's gonna take to pull a heist in this crooked of all punk rock clubs. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.</>

Goof Proof (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 3)

9 AM. Raquel Tequila arose from her bed with the sunlight streaming through her bedroom window, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts to cover her long slender nakedness, when an arm pulled her back down to the bed.

"Hey", Big Jason groaned, "where do you think you're going?"
"Going to make some coffee, Big Shot", she kissed him, ruffling his silver hair. "Do you mind?"
"Fuck yeah. Who turned on the spotlights?"
"It's morning in Hollywood. Are you still used to those gloomy Frisco mornings?"
"I guess", he blinked his eyes, trying to wake up, stretching his thick arms. "Are you going to the Las Palmas newsstand today? Can you front me a Chronicle?"
"Sure. You want to read about your criminal exploits?"
"Maybe...just want to make sure my face isn't spread all over town, because if it's news up there they're going to be looking for me down here".

"Then stay in bed. By the way, isn't this better than the sofa?" Raquel challenged with her hands on her hips, her tight, round. dark breasts gleaming against the sunlight.
"Yeah, but the sofa doesn't snore and fart at 3 AM. Come back to bed".
"Not after that last crack, asshole!"

10:15 AM. The Whitley Apartments, Hollywood. King Steve laid in his bed listening to Magazine playing "The Light Pours Out Of Me" and reading the latest New Musical Express with The Damned on the cover. This was a good issue, he thought, it had 999, X Ray Spex and The Adverts in it. He looked across the room at his new imported bondage trousers from Poseur and remembered the sales clerk telling him it was a Chelsea original.

King Steve's big dream was firmly within his grasp: once The Big Job was done he would have enough loot to move to England where everybody was cool and dressed punk and went to punk rock shows every night and cute punk chicks didn't look twice at a black boy with platinum blonde hair. His dream was about to come true, thanks to Big Jason and his friends.

"Where will I move to? Will it be Knightsbridge? Too snooty. Manchester? KInda poor. Chelsea? KInda touristy, trendy as fuck. Islington's kinda down home, not too fancy or run down. The Sex Pistols played that movie theatre there with The Clash and The Buzzcocks so there's some punk cred, yeah, Islington it is. Smaller and a little quieter than downtown London. Fuck yeah".

11:30 AM. The Villa Elaine Apartments, Hollywood. Robotman piled up an unholy heap of scrambled eggs, hash browns and sausage patties and then mashed them on his plate and proceeded to shovel the mess into his mouth. His girlfriend, Dahlia Doll looked on disgusted.

"Look at you, just look at you, Robot", Dahlia stared through her cigarette smoke. "Still eating like a four-year old. All that's missing are the Underoos. I thought I was getting a man but I got stuck with a messy little boy. And when was the last time you washed that sleeveless leopard spot shirt of yours? I can smell it from a mile away".

"Then smell this instead", Robotman stopped eating and ripped out a belch so loud and strong Dahlia smelled it clear across the table.
"OH! GROSS! ROBOT YOU FUCKIN' PIG! GAWDDIGGITY DAMMIT! I'm going to kick your smelly ass out!"
"I don't know what you're so pissed off about. I'm only the toughest bouncer on the Hollywood club scene".
"And the deadest dick and smelliest ass in town!"

"You know, Dahlia sometimes I think you don't deserve the best".
Dahlia frowned angrily. "Scoff all you want but I've got some fresh talent waiting in the wings for me. What's that boy's name, the one that works the door of the club? The cute red-headed boy?"
"That's my friend, you fuckin' bitch, don't you dare mess around-"
"Yeah well goodbye old news it's time for some fresh ink -"
"You wouldn't dare, Dahlia, DAMN IT!"
"Sure I would. I pay for everything around here. The apartment, it's in my name. The car, it's in my name. The phone, it's in my name. Don't bother shaping up cause you'll be shipping out soon".

"Alright...well, I didn't want to say anything about this too soon, but pretty soon we're going to be rich", Robotman nervously fidgeted, pushing his plate away. " Like really rich. Like so rich we're gonna run out of things to fight about".
"Bullshit, what a joke. You, rich?"
"So rich you'll never look at another guy again", he fidgeted.
"Unless you mugged a leprechaun you're just talking your usual Robotman shit. Just pack your shit and go".

"Just hear me out, okay? Me, Jason and some of the other guys are gonna do this job, a big one. We're gonna hit a big club in town. There's gonna be guns and it's gonna be quick and fast and I've got a nice cut of the action".
"Is this one of your jokes, Robert?" She called him "Robert" whenever she went into punishment mode.
"Fuck no. Franco's supplying the weapons and we have the whole plan laid out. Just be patient and once it's over we'll be totally fuckin' rich".

Dahlia stared at Robotman, the contempt gone. "Robert, I've never seen you this serious. I almost believe you're telling the truth".
"Bet your ass I am. I was sworn to secrecy. This job is a sure thing, it's goof proof".
"Jason's a pretty tough customer. You might just get lucky this time". She calmed down.
Robotman grabbed Dahlia in his arms, and grunted, "Kiss me, baby".

1 PM. Tiny Naylor's. Sunset and La Brea. Allen Wrench sat at the counter looking out at all the flashy cars parked in front getting parking lot service. He admired the sporty Porsche convertibles and the fully loaded Mercedes, sleek Corvettes and exotic Ferraris, wishing at least one of them could be driven by him.

"More coffee, hon?" the waitress smiled, filling his cup. Wrench scratched nervously. A long-haired guy with frosted hair in aviator shades and a handlebar moustache entered the restaurant. He had a satin bomber jacket with a roaring tiger on the back with the word "KOREA" stenciled under it. He slid into the chair next to him.

"Not so fast", he mumbled to Wrench, "where's the money?"
"I won't get paid till next week".
"Are you fuckin' kidding me? I don't deal dope on credit. I'm walking, punk". He got up.
"No! Wait. I swear to God I'll pay you everything in two weeks. Serious. I'm coming into some big money, man".

The dealer, whose name was simply Manning, hesitated quietly, then got up. "Fuck it, I don't sell on credit. You're making fun of me".
"No, I'm coming into some major scratch. I swear I'll pay double just front me the crystal".
"Just this time, douchebag", Manning pointed his finger at Wrench's face, trying not to arouse suspicion with the waitress walking around nearby. "Burn me and you're totally fucked. Remember, I've been to your house. I know where you live".

"Yeah, yeah, okay. We have a deal, now hand me the sparkle, man", Allen Wrench looked greedily.
"Here, put it away, don't stare at it or make a big noise, dick head. I'm so close to being through with you".
"I swear on my mother you're gonna get your fair share. Times ten".
"Yeah, right. Just scrape up the cash...pronto". Manning stormed out, thinking he should have demanded at least a watch or a ring as a deposit. The kid probably didn't have anything that could be hocked. Fuck it.

2:30 PM. Sunset and Heliotrope. Silver Lake. The Fireball Kid was being shown a huge warehouse with two tiny bathrooms set off in opposite corners. A real estate broker with long sideburns and polyester slacks walked around the space.

"Well, this it", the broker flipped on the light and walked around, "one big slab of property for you to do as you wish, which is?"
"Oh, uh, rehearsal studios for rock bands".
"Oh, yeah? How many units did you have in mind for this space?"
The Fireball Kid frowned and stuck out his lower lip, trying to look business like. "At least, say , four for a start".

The broker scratched his chin. "So you plan on installing some walls, doors, partitions, and of course, uh, sound proofing for the ceiling and the walls, as well, are you?"
Fireball froze at the mention of such provisions. "Yes, well, my, uh partner, my SILENT partner will be involved in all the construction aspects of the, uh rehearsal studio".
"I see", the broker smiled and thought, "Does this kid know what he's doing?"

The Fireball Kid tossed his bright red hair and thought how great it'll be when he gets his own rehearsal studio with every cool band in Hollywood playing night after night at his place. He'll get to enjoy listening to bands play and on top of it THEY'LL pay HIM for the privilege. And in addition they'll kick him down some dope and he can party with their girlfriends. It's a no-lose situation. For him.

4:00 PM. Back at the Villa Elaine Apartments, Vine Street and Fountain. With Robotman finally gone, Dahlia washed up, disgusted with the sweat he rubbed off on her after the make-up sex they had. She sprayed herself with some Nate and sprinkled talcum powder to sweeten herself some more.

Dahlia Doll picked up the bright red telephone and dialed carefully.
"Hello, Franco? It's me, yeah. No, he's off to the club. Listen, he's up to his tricks again. He's going to call you, no listen to me, he's going to call you about getting some of your guns for this "Big Job" him and his dumb punk buddies are going to be pulling off".
"How did you find out all this?" Franco hissed on the other end.
"What do you think? I had to fuck all the details out of him, yuck".

"I don't like you fucking my brother, baby. I'm man enough for you, how many times do I have to tell you that?"
"I know, stud. Find out everything you can about this job. We can make a lot of fuckin' cash from these idiots".
"Sure. I'll loan him my guns".
"Then you can rip off your stupid brother".
"Then I'll kill him. Slowly".
"And then we'll fuck like crazy on top of his dead body".
"It's a done deal. Signed, sealed and delivered with my big dick".
"It's goof proof". Click.

NEXT WEEK: Chapter Four - Wreck Creation, when Big Jason Gulliver and the boys spend a little down time before the big job and find themselves in even bigger trouble than before. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.

Needles and Thread and The Whole Damn Thing

Well, Autumn's here and a young man's fancy turns to tops, warmer, stretchy tops. Pictured above is a quick black and blue top I made with a low scoop neck and chunky cuffs, just the way I like it. The quasi-femininity of the pattern is offset by a more masculine color palette. The end result is a top that surfs between both genders but in the long run exudes a mod look that's appealing for both boys and girls alike.

Another project that's been floating my boat are shoe bags, and lots of them. Disgusted with clunky shoe boxes that allow cockroaches to move into and better than those shoe trees with their tiny pockets that won't accommodate your chunkier boots, your best bet is to simply sew a few awesome shoe bags. I like really radiant material that gleams as much as the boots inside.

Pictured are three bags in particular: the glam bag with black stars is the bag I keep my Fluevog Prince George high heels in; the blue op art bag keeps my Doc Martens Langston petrol patent boots, and the gold paisley bag holds my gorgeous H by Hudson Alaska boots. Let them wear boots, but cover them in fabrics as exciting as the kinky kicks themselves!

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

One of the more peculiar pleasures to be had driving around West Los Angeles is the bizarre double-billboard spectacle on the corner of Santa Monica and Sepulveda Blvds. monopolized by the now deceased clothes designer Bijan Pakzad, known more commonly as simply "Bijan". A Persian emigre who became the toast of Eighties Beverly Hills, his entire style was one of obscene opulence - my first exposure to him was three-page ads in Vanity Fair every month (!) espousing The Bijan Philosophy. Some of his remarks were lame ("There's no sight more beautiful than a pregnant woman") while others were kind of funny ("Wisdom's a gift but you'd trade it for youth").

He drove around in a bright yellow Rolls Royce, yes the big vintage ones and even designed a Limited Edition Bugatti, also bright yellow. Yes, Bijan had made it into fashion history, even garnering a mention in none other than the movie American Psycho - "Not the Bijan!" Patrick Bateman firmly commands Sabrina the hooker.

Bijan was the ultimate Beverly Hills Persian made good and lived large, well, up until 2011, when he suffered a fatal stroke. But even his tragic passing could not forestall the continuous flow of billboards showing his deliriously happy smiling face. After his passing the billboard on the western side of SM and Sepulveda announced "The Legend...BIJAN!" with Mr. Pakzad smiling from the beyond, letting us know he's still keeping tabs on things in West LA. Now the billboard on the eastern side announced, "The Legacy...BIJAN!" with his young heir Nicolas cracking a similar goofy smile.

Several months passed by and Nicolas seemed rather shy by posting new billboards that displayed the luxe line that captivated Beverly Hills. No pictures of Dad or himself, at all. Will this be the new standard? No more smiley faces? Could this be the future of Bijan???

Hell, no! Two months passed by and the new billboards are out with the newer, au courant Bijan smiling reassuringly at us from both billboards, proclaiming, "BIJAN...Designer For Men!" Hope has returned to the Westside. Take that, Ralph Lauren!

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

If there's anything more exciting than fashion magazines it's stumbling upon some great books about fashion, and I've reecntly hd the pleasure of enjoying two great ones.

The first book is "Bespoke: Savile Row Ripped And Smoothed" by tailor extraordinaire Richard Anderson. Bespoke is one of the best books written about menswear and is absolutely mandatory reading for anyone involved in the craft of tailoring at all.

Anderson goes into great instructional detail all through the book on how to best fit a suit or pants on someone with an uneven body - like 99% of us out there. He explains how to even out a higher shoulder or a lower leg and make everything perfectly fitted. There's a wealth of information in his book that you'll find indispensable, complete with an excellent glossary of tailoring terms. There's also a fairly amusing back story on Abercrombie & Fitch that has to be read to be believed!

The other gem is "Couture Hats" by Louis Bou. Couture Hats has page after page of avant garde hats that stand somewhere between the corner of Alexander McQueen and Paco Rabanne. Even if you're not crazy about hats in general this is still an excellent standalone fashion photography book.

Part of the enjoyment of Couture Hats is picking your favorite designer. My favorite milliner is Stephen Jones for his broad scope of versatility. His designs run the gamut from classic Forties Black Widow noir chapeaux to demented Mardi Gras nightmare chapeaus and beyond.

Both books are available wherever good books are sold and Couture Hats is available on Kindle, too. Both books are highly recommended by me, the man in the polka dot top and silver biker jeans. Aloha.

The International Morphine Variations

I have a tendency to connect certain areas to events in my life, so whenever I'm in the Miracle Mile District I think of Morphine. This is due to the unforgettable show they played at the El Rey Theater on Wilshire Blvd.

Supporting their "Like Swimming" album (1995), it was one of their last L.A. performances before band leader Mark Sandman's untimely death. The show was a colossal feast of wild and raucous sounds, hitting every nerve in my body and reminding me why music changed my life forever.

A power trio consisting of an explosive drummer, a fiery baritone saxophonist who literally doubled on tenor sax a la Roland Kirk and a cool singer who looked more like Richard Hell than Hell himself and played a grungy slide bass. Morphine's eccentric musicianship perfectly suited a bizarre repertoire of dark but highly melodic blues songs.

Their sound had a simultaneously urban and rural style that I found uncanny, the slide bass dredging images of murky Southern swamps and the growly sax bursting out cinematic scenes of psychotic detectives shooting guns at brick-lined housing projects.

When I had my band Cockfight I tried to get my bassist to play with a slide in tribute to Mr. Sandman, but the resident jughead couldn't appreciate the concept and refused. Opting instead for a lousy chorus pedal - how Goth - I unplugged it and told him to expand his horizons.

Anyway, posted here for your entertainment are a few covers of Morphine songs from various bands. Whether you like the way they're covered or not doesn't matter; the point is that Mark Sandman wrote a lot of songs that people to this day love listening and playing, the mark of a truly great artist.

Night Shark are a Morphine tribute band from Amsterdam, Holland and play a pretty faithful version of "Thursday" complete with slide bass and growly bari sax. Good work.

Indie & The Jones do a damned wicked hard rock cover of "Honey White" with a wah-wah pedal guitar doing all the sax lines. The harmonies on the chorus sound surprisingly cool and add to the song. I think they added a good spin to the original. Very acid rock and audacious enough to be fun.

Then we have a Morphine cover band from Bulgaria (!) doing "Super Sex" and playing it with an almost wholesome Gerry & The Pacemakers luvvability. Weird! As weird as that scary Italian cover of Sonic Youth's "Starpower" that sounded just like Journey!

The last video on this blog comes from post-Morphine band Twinemen which had Dana Colley and Billy Conway playing with bassist/singer Laurie Sargeant. "Spinner" is a great song and compliments Mark Sandman's oeuvre just fine. Long live the Sandman.

Cleaner Than A Broke Dick Dog

Miles Davis, in his autobiography refers several times to anyone with badass-cum-suave style as someone who's "cleaner than a broke dick dog". While most jazz musicians of the Fifties and Sixties had crazy cool style a few really stand out for me, the reason being that in addition to being terrific players they had wicked sartorial style going on that complemented their music. While everyone knows Miles was legendary for being a fashion plate with his beautifully tailored Italian suits there were some other guys that were equally as slick.

One jazz icon who instantly comes to mind for his great fashion style is legendary pianist Hampton Hawes. A bebop and post-bop artist with male model looks, Hawes was always pictured wearing the smartest tailored suits and striking the most smoldering looks at the camera.

There was always something haunting about Hawes and his troubled life which he documented in his memoir, "Raise Up Off Me", co-written with jazz writer Gary Giddins. In addition to being one of the sharpest dressed musicians in jazz he bears the distinction of having his prison term pardoned by President John F. Kennedy in his last year as President. Legendary stuff.

Another legendary player who filled out his threads with crazy cool was pianist Horace Silver, one of MIles' favorite pianists. Silver is best known for his immortal recording "Song For My Father", one of the ten most popular jazz compositions of all time. A funky blues-style player who could finesse any style of music, Silver's image is that of a hipster with neatly processed hair wildly tousled as he intensely attacks his keyboard. With his clothes still neatly pressed! That's crazy cool.

Like Hawes, many of Silver's albums shows him resplendent in a beautifully tailored suit and tie, bespoke probably - the fit's just too good. Nowadays Silver dresses more casually but still looks neat as a pin. As I get older, I find this look much more admirable than the" heroin-chic I just fell out of bed" type look. It gives me hope. Despair doesn't win the day anymore.

Illinois Jacquet was arguably the founding father of R&B saxophone, born from his wildly honking tenor sax solo on Lionel Hampton's record "Flying Home". Jacquet, who shares the same birthday as me (10/31, different year) always counterbalanced his raw, abrasive saxophone playing with the some of the sharpest suits worn in jazz.

Like Horace Silver he also had smooth hair - his mother was Native American - and also was a pioneer for being the first jazz musician to be artist-in-residence at Harvard University in 1983. He also jammed saxes with President Bill Clinton at his inaugural ball at the White House in 1993. Now that's crazy cool.

While I don't seriously expect every musician to bust out a Brooks Brothers suit and Florsheim shoes to rock the room the point I'm really trying to make is that fashion and a clear sense of personal style can be the greatest compliment to whatever music you choose to play. Because long after the music's over everyone will remember the way you looked, and you only have one chance to make it count.

Money Doesn't Talk It Swears (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 2)

9:45 PM. Big Jason Gulliver woke up from the sofa all covered in freshly washed t-shirts and socks. He scratched his short silver hair while he watched Allen Wrench walk across the room drinking soda from a straw in huge thermos.

"Fuck! I just don't get it. You play drums, you're a fuckin' mechanic and you're still skinny as fuck. How do you manage not to put on any muscle?"
"Beats me, Jason", Wrench sipped manically from the straw with an intense stare through glassy eyes.
"Ready?"
"Yeah, got the car all warmed up. Called all the guys, we're meeting at the shop".

Jason got up and punched his chest three times like a gorilla. "Solid".

10:00 PM. Three punk guys milled around the front of a garage gate , two smoking and the other kicking cans around the sidewalk as Wrench and Jason pulled up in front. The sign behind the gate read, "MOTOR MAGIC - FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC AUTO REPAIR".

"Hey, hey!" a thin guy in sharkskin pants and brightly painted shoes with a black tank top raised his arms up and smiled.
"Big guy!" a redhead with a floppy horse's mane of hair running down the center of his head flicked his cigarette into the gutter and lifted his leg like a dog trying to pee on Jason.
"Don't pee on me, fucker!" Jason threatened.

Allen Wrench carried his car keys over and unlocked a bog, cartoon padlock which kept the gate locked. He threw open the gate and a German Shepherd bounded out from a sea of sick cars, some old, some new, some dirty, some spotless, the dog barking his head off and charging like a bat out of hell.
"BOWOWOW BOWOWOW BOWOWOWOW!"

"Stand back, you guys. I'll put Turdbreath away in the ladies' room", Allen lead the dog away by the neck, the dog turning his head periodically growing at the boys and belching out a short bark to let them know he means business.

"You hear that, boys? Stay out of the Powder Room or Turdbreath'll bite off your balls".
"Where you been hiding, Jace?" The red head asked. He was known around town as The Fireball Kid and gained his notoriety working the door of Rocket USA, one of the most popular clubs in Hollywood. He usually let girls in free and waved a lot of underage guys through, as long as they promised not to tear shit up.
"Been hiding at your momma's house, ya fuck, and thank God her cooking's better than her-"
"Shut up, asshole!"

"Is that fucking dog gone?" The thin guy craned his head towards the rest rooms behind the garage. "Christ, I hate dogs. Got bit when I was a kid. Hate em!" The thin guy in the sharkskin pants was half-cast with clear blue eyes and had a short cropped head of curly hair dyed platinum blonde, almost white, that made him look like a black Paul Newman. His name was King Steve. Of course his looks drove the girls wild.

His real name was Steve King, but when everybody found out he hated being called King Steve it sort of stuck on him. He also worked at Rocket USA as a bartender. It wasn't a hard job because the club only served beer and wine and didn't want to pay for a full-blown liquor license. All King Steve had to do was pour wine from a jug - cheap generic crap, of course, or pop open bottles of beer. A very easy gig for any young man to handle.

Robotman also had his name messed with, it was really Bobby Mann, revamped to Robert Mann to Robotman, also because of his jerky, twitchy movements. He didn't disappoint, jerking his legs quickly into the garage grounds.

"C'mon, that dog's gotta be gone by now", Robotman scratched his armpits and marched in. The rest of the guys feel in and followed. Jason had The Fireball Kid's head in a Full Nelson headlock and rapped noogies on his skull, laughing like a maniac.

Wrench came around the garage and unlocked the office, turned on the fluorescent light in the garage and pulled out a twelve pack of Budweiser and threw them to his friends. Everybody sat back on stools and barrels and guzzled away. Jason sat in the center of the shop. Their nostrils burned with the strong, pungent odor of motor oil and burned rubber where dead fan belts and water pumps laid on the ground. The cheap florescent light made everyone look like a 3D picture and their faces like skulls.

"Three of you guys work at Rocket USA. How are you guys getting by there?"
King Steve looked down sheepishly. "Well, you know, we get our fair share of beers, scammable chicks, shit like that".
"No, I mean how are you guys really getting by there? Fair share, fuck. Are you getting your fair share of scratch there?"
Robotman laughed. "Fuck no, you know that".
"Jack Sterling pays us every two weeks. Sometimes the checks even bounce", The Fireball Kid banged his beer can against a case of 10w-40 Valvoline oil.

"How about that shit. Steve, what's the take on a weekend at the club?"
"Club capacity's about 1,600 to 2,000 kids on a good night. Cover's about $7.00 on a weekend. Fridays and Saturdays usually sell out, all the Valley and Orange County fucks move in to score. Even Thursday nights do killer business if the bands are happening".
"I'm not big on math but what do you suppose 2,000 times 7 for three nights a week equals?"
"A lot", Robotman belched through his beer.
"And the bands get stiffed a lot, too, so they're not seeing shit, either", Steve added.

Jason chuckled to himself. "Well, how do you like that shit? And you guys are getting bounced checks? Where the fuck's that money going to, any guesses?"
"Not to us".
"You know the layout of the club, right?"
"Of course I do. I'm the fuckin' bouncer there, remember?" Robotman scratched the shaved whiskers of hair under his black thatch of hair on top.

"That's good, that's good. Can you get some guns from your brother?"
"Whoah, whoah, whoah, hold on there a minute. Guns? What the fuck are you telling us. Are we robbing our own club?" Steve blanched nervously.
"Just getting back what's owed to you, that's all. It'll be awesome".

"I don't know, man. I'm no robber".
"Leave it to me. I'll do all the robbing, you guys just stick to your jobs and keep the coast clear while I boost your boss's office".
The room got quiet, and then everybody roared laughing.
"JASON, YOU'RE INSANE!"
"YEAH, YOU'RE CRAZY!"

"No, it's cool, I kind of pulled a few jobs up North just for practice. I'm tanned rested and ready for The Big Job".
"Jack Sterling's bad news, man", The Fireball Kid warned. "I heard he's got some mob shit going on. You don't want to cross him. Really". Jack Sterling was the owner, promoter and manager of Rocket USA.
"I'll make it a five-part split. Twenty percent for all of us. I do all the heavy lifting. You guys just keep doing what you always do at the club. Just watch my ass".

King Steve pointed his beer can at Allen. "What about Wrench? He doesn't work at the club. What's he getting a split for?"
Jason turned to Allen Wrench, still nervously guzzling his soda pop in lieu of a can of beer.
"He's my fuckin' wheel man, what do you think - I'm going to sit at the fuckin' bus stop after knocking off the most popular rock club in Hollywood?"

Steve, Fireball and Robotman burst out laughing. "What, you're going to jet away in that shitty Chevy Vega? The one that smells like rotting bacon?"
"Fuck y'all", Wrench spat, looking hurt, "Got a sweet Mustang here with a rebuilt engine I'm grabbing for the job". This shut everyone up.

Jason smiled. "Don't you have something else to tell the guys, Wrench?"
"Lily told me some deep shit about Sterling, cold, ugly bullshit".
"Yeah, ha ha, it seems your boss is sitting pretty with the Hollywood Fire Marshall. Yeah, when you guys go off blabbing about the hot punk gigs at Baces Hall or Larchmont Hall or some other tinker toy loft he drops the dime on them and the next thing you know the Fire Department's closing the gig faster than you can piss. Sometimes they also bring the pigs, too".
"Fuck!"
"Yeah, you see, all these independent shows are busting into his fucking bread and butter and probably making more dough than his damn club. He's not going to sit by and watch that shit go down. What do you think?"

"Is this straight shit? How does Lily know?"
"Lily knows everything about the club. She hears him on the phone all the time so it's not just bullshit".
"I guess not".
"Sack Face did three days at County for spitting on a cop at the Veterans Hall riot".
"That's right, pals. All because of that dick Jackoff Sterling. Let's do this for Sack Face".
"For Sack Face!" Everyone lifted their beer cans together as a toast like The Three Musketeers.

"Fuck, I gotta go pee", The Fireball Kid excused himself and went outside and walked around to use the rest room. Unfortunately he was too drunk to notice that rather than open the Mens Room door he opened the Ladies Room door. Just in time to catch a huge German Shepherd named Turdbreath lunge right at him.

"BOWOWOW BOWOWOW BOWOW!"
"SHIT!"
The Fireball Kid slammed the door catching the dog's head between the door jamb, booting the dog's face so hard that it stunned the dog and he fell backwards, enabling Fireball to slam the door shut.

"Jesus, that's the last time I'll drink a damn beer around a stupid fuckin' attack dog again". Shaken and momentarily sober by the attempted attack, he ambled over in between an immaculately polished and waxed Cadillac Seville and a Buick Electra 225. He pulled down his zipper, pulled out his pud and let it go all over their newly waxed chassis.
The Fireball Kid burped and mused aloud.
"A dog isn't man's best friend. No way. A car's a man's best friend. Everybody knows that. Shit".

COMING UP: Chapter Three - Goof Proof, the guys all discuss what they're going to do with all that swag once it gets into their hot little hands. Don't miss it!

(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.</>