ROLLINS CUTS LOOSE

 

PRE-SHOW

The date was Sunday, October 2^nd, 2022 and I was seeing Henry Rollins’ spoken-word show at the Largo @ the Coronet on La Cienega.  My excitement for the gig was starting to boil over.  I splurged for the VIP Pack, which included an autographed backstage pass, photos with Henry and an opportunity to sit for a smaller private discussion after the gig.

Mom and I hit the road at 6:10 pm, the gates at the Largo opened at 7:00.  The parking lot valets couldn’t have been nicer.  They left our car at the curb, right at the front door.  Thus, I decided to forego my wheelchair since not much walking would be necessary.

Mom and I entered the courtyard and sat down at a table in front of Rollins’ merch stand.  Henry had his patented Part Animal/Part Machine t-shirts for sale.  Trying to stay calm, I was right in front of a speaker blasting psychedelic dub.  I wondered whether Rollins had specially chosen the music or if it was a Largo house mix.  Soon, we found our theatre seats, front row on the right side.  I remember a strange Motorhead cover playing.

THE SHOW

Henry took the stage right on time, commenting he respected people who had to go to work early the next morning.  He commanded the mic, talking a mile a minute.  Like usual, he wore all black.  He was perfectly in his element, telling nonstop stories, both serious and funny.  Pulling from a full bag of tricks, he had the audience frequently erupting into laughter. Henry talked about (in no particular order): early morning stalkers from Finland breaking into his compound, Chuck D, Stevie Wonder, Beastie Boys, Ian MacKaye, working at “punk rock” Haagen-Dazs, sudden death at any nanosecond, watching porn in your mother’s basement, The Teen Idles, Lydia Lunch, J Mascis, Husker Du, Greg Ginn, empowered women murdering “rapey” men with measured bursts from a 9mm handgun, the Twin Towers jail in Los Angeles, psychosis, boosting the morale of young gay Stooges fans whose horrible parents force them into conversion therapy, Metallica, how vermin look at the “human hand” as a torture device, his 2.13.61 publishing company, his greatest achievement (long-lasting friendship with Ian MacKaye), ultimate sacrifice, veterans being denied healthcare by corrupt politicians who own 4 houses, suffering women being denied abortions, David Bowie’s “Scary Monsters”, Iggy Pop’s “The Idiot” and Benny Hill.  To top it all off, Henry also did a mean Iggy Pop impersonation!

After the gig, it seemed only 10 or 12 people shelled out for the VIP Pack.  The lucky few gathered right in front of the stage.  When Henry returned, you could feel the electricity in the air.  He seemed relaxed, nevertheless the atmosphere was thick with a psycho-genius fog.

I felt privileged to be able to listen to Henry in such a small group.  During the VIP discussion, he answered questions submitted from the audience.  He talked about Suicide (the band), living and exercising alone, Raymond Pettibon, Joy Division, how to achieve a very deep understanding of Unknown Pleasures, Andrew Weiss, Ween, Flea, Melvin Gibbs, being murdered by Russian soldiers, Road Manager Ward, The Cramps and Frankie Teardrop. 

I brought my old copies of 1000 Ways to Die and Pissing in the Gene Pool for Henry to sign.  He seemed

surprised to see them.  I gave him a pen and he scribbled his name, only able to autograph one of the two.  He called the books “vintage”.  I got a kick out of that.

AFTER THE SHOW

Mom and I returned home around 11:00 pm.  I got undressed, took my pills, watched some TV and went to sleep.  Unfortunately, I woke up a few hours later, crying like crazy, after having the worst nightmare of my life.  Yes, you read that correctly, the worst nightmare of my life.  In tears, I picked up the phone and called my mom, after which she came upstairs to console me. 

The ultra-intense nightmare went as follows: After Rollins’ show, my mom wheeled me out of the Largo theater into the courtyard.  Then, we were magically transported to the Anawalt Lumber stockyard.  The stockyard was very dark and mom continued pushing me around in my wheelchair.  Soon, we were lost and nervous in the pitch black.  I then heard a noise behind me.  I turned my head and saw a dirty, grungy, homeless Black man in tattered clothes.  He was dragging a bag filled with stuff.  Various items were spilling out of the bag, and within a few seconds, he quickly caught up to us.  I told him, “We’re not afraid of you.”  He remained calm and silent.  He just continued walking and was soon past us and out of sight.  Suddenly, mom and I were transported back to the Largo courtyard, but all the people there had now vanished.  Mom pushed my wheelchair outside onto the La Cienega sidewalk.  Then, I asked mom a question (I can’t remember what).  Instead of answering me, mom just spoke nonsense.  At that nanosecond, I realized she had an extreme case of dementia and couldn’t remember a thing.  She was totally confused and helpless.  I then fell out of my wheelchair onto the ground.  I started crying and held mom tight.  Now, I was totally confused and helpless and started to scream.  I spit a big wad of Copenhagen tobacco out of my mouth.  I thought of my friends Damion Romero and Tomas Palermo from the band SLUG.  The last thing I remembered about the nightmare was

that Anna Gunn (Breaking Bad) was in it, but I’m not sure how or in what capacity. 

Awake and no longer crying, I composed myself.  For some unknown reason, I then started thinking about Phil Anselmo and Oteil Burbridge.  My mom kissed my forehead and left my room, after which I fell back asleep.  That concluded my full Henry Rollins experience.  Go Frankie Teardrop!

A Nazi in the White House

           Imagine if FDR was defeated by the paranoid isolationist Charles Lindbergh in his 1940 bid for the Oval Office.  Yes, I’m talking about the “Spirit of St. Louis” American hero Charles Lindbergh.  Now imagine if Lindbergh, riding high on all the glory from his flight and new found political power, came to an “understanding” with Hitler at a discreet meeting in Iceland.  As you can imagine, this ominous “understanding” most certainly would have concerned the fate of the world’s Jews.  Never mind that just two years prior in October of 1938, Lindbergh proudly received the Service Cross of the German Eagle, a gold medallion featuring four small swastikas directly “by order of the Fuhrer.”  It’s no surprise that Lindbergh once wrote of Hitler, “He is undoubtedly a good man.”    

Fact and fiction blur in Pulitzer Prize winner Philip Roth’s historical fiction novel, The Plot Against America.  In a Lindberg administration, anti-semitism builds to a point where Kristallnacht type destruction and frequent pogroms are commonplace and where Walter Winchell gets assassinated along the campaign trail on his own personal bid for the White House.  In Lindbergh’s America, multiple unenthusiastic law enforcement agencies have to collaborate and plot on how to protect America’s Jews from rampaging hordes bent on their destruction.  The big question is, “Will Lindbergh consent to build concentration camps in the USA?

I don’t want to ruin the end of the book for you.  Roth weaves through his story many important characters of the time including Henry Ford, NYC Congressman Fiorello H. La Guardia, J Edgar Hoover, Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis, and a number of high ranking Nazi officials.  There are even bios of many true life characters to help put events into conte

chaoscott

Remember, “The Plot Against America” is not Lindbergh’s evil attempt to control, suppress, and possibly destroy the Jews’ destiny.  No, no, that would be too easy.  “The Plot Against America” is the secret blood sucking networked system the Jews came up with, through their pervasive control of banking and media institutions, to usurp control of nothing less than the entire United States government.  That’s the real plot these greedy bastards have planned for us.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“DEFORMER” Captures Bleak Reality

          Deformer is Ed Templeton’s high quality, smoothly designed coffee table photo book.  The volume also includes random notes, journal entries, and original art.  A former pro skateboarder, Templeton’s bold and intensely personal vision documents his dysfunctional childhood and the dark side of growing up in melancholy Orange County.   Templeton’s is a dark journey, yet one well worth taking.

          Possessing a grotesquely natural eye for the camera lens, Templeton takes photos of a detached pigeon head, a little girl holding a gun, dying handicapped people traveling bare streets on little motorized carts, a dead dog, a punk wearing a germ mouth mask, a homeless person, a white power sign, teenagers smoking, essentially the foreboding, bleak nature of life itself. 

          It seems Catholicism or Christianity or some other religion that worships Christ is scorned and mocked throughout the book.  Templeton’s photos make a striking statement about religion being forced on children, one that can be interpreted in a myriad of ways.  His photos, sometimes subtly, but usually in an in your face manner, have a throbbing energy and distinct ominous cloud aura.

          Templeton’s wife, Deanna, is featured throughout Deformer.  She is thanked at the end of the book as follows, “Finally, I would like to shower adoration on my wonderful wife, Deanna Templeton, whose bravery and constant support are the backbone of this project and my life.”  It’s interesting to see how Templeton documents their strong trusting relationship through images instead of words.

          One of the coolest pages of the book is nothing but ticket stubs.  The names of the different bands that played each show are on every stub.  This page gives rare insight into Ed’s and Deanna’s states of mind.  When you know someone likes a certain band and you like that band too, of course music provides an excellent method of bonding.  I identified with some bands and that made me feel closer to the book, and thus inevitably Ed and Deanna themselves.

          Deformer opens with lyrics to the song “Hidden Wheel” (1986) by the band Rites of Spring. 

chaoscott

Is this the first time I’ve seen the size of these walls?

Is this the first time?

Yes.

Now I’m the angry son-

Everything I’ve learned was wrong

I’m the burning door-

Once I’m opened I can’t be closed.

            The Rites of Spring quote kicks the book off with volcanic message.  At the beginning of Deformer, Templeton explains the book as, “The shaping and misshaping effects of growing up a specimen in the suburban domestic incubator.”  It would be tough to find a more apt description.  Of course Deformer can be interpreted in multiple ways, yet of one fact there remains no debate, Templeton is a survivor.    

Christmas at 3rd and Fairfax

          I must admit, although it may make me look soft in the eyes of many, I’m proud to be a sucker for Christmas, always have been, always will be.  The holidays are definitely my favorite time of year.  In December, when I’m in a car, I always tune the radio to KOST (nonstop Xmas songs) and enjoy the carols sung by Bing Crosby, Michael Buble, Peabo Bryson, Lionel Richie, Mariah Carey, Josh Groban and Whitney Houston, plus many others.  Fact is, being bipolar, I’m pretty much depressed the entire year round, but during the holidays people at least try to be a little nicer to each other and that alone can lift my spirits even just the smallest bit.

          One of my favorite places to go around Xmas time is the Farmers’ Market and adjacent Grove at the corner of 3^rd and Fairfax.  Parking can be a bitch if you go at rush hour, but if you plan for later afternoon things seem to work out alright.  I take pleasure in the little things.  At the back of the Market is Bob’s Coffee & Doughnuts which was voted “Best In The City.”  I’ll order a medium coffee and a cinnamon sugar donut.  Sometimes l take my coffee black, sometimes with cream and sugar.  It just depends on my mood.  If your donuts are crusty and crunchy on the outside with a generous dusting of cinnamon on top, you’re psyched.  Look around, Xmas is everywhere.  Wreaths and toys abound.  There are lights wrapped around the trees.  Bennett’s sells their limited edition pints of Egg Nog ice cream (my favorite). 

          In The Grove, more holiday music plays, there is a decorated trolley that drives the length of the grounds, kids can enter a huge gingerbread house, and a massive beautiful tree towers tall above the entire crazy scene.  People carry shopping bags in every direction, the mood is infectious.  And there is a film Multiplex too, in case you just feel like chillin’ and watching a flick.  Even the most staunch Grinches and Scrooges are forced to crack smiles.   

          One cool thing about The Grove is that there is a Barnes & Noble bookstore.  Amazon has basically killed the freestanding bookstore (except for a few) and now it’s rare to get the opportunity to flip through actual physical volumes.  B&N has an average art/photo book section for a mainstream store.  I’ll normally scan the shelves.  Of course, there’s no way to get a real feel for a book unless you’re holding it in your hands.  However, if I find something I like, I’ll wait until I get home and save big bucks by buying my copy on Amazon just like everyone else.  Oh well, I guess I’m part of the problem.  But really, truth is, I’m just into giving.  I love giving gifts.  I mean I really love giving gifts, especially at Xmas.  I don’t expect anything in return.  Giving gifts is just a way I like to express friendship, and perhaps spread some special holiday cheer. 

          Also, the Farmers’ Market is perfect for people-watching.  Suffice to say, you get a cross section of people from all races and religions, and from extraordinarily different cultural backgrounds, all sitting together in this awesome food village.  There’s holiday spirit in the air, take advantage of it!  Enjoy the food and drink!  There are more smiles on people’s faces now than at any other time of year.  Sounds silly, but it works for me, at least to a certain extent.

Such a Zero



chaoscott



          I looked up the word “stupid” in the dictionary and found a picture of you.  You’re just another piece of driftwood floating along a sea of losers.  You’ve got nothing, such a zero.  Pathetic.  The word has such a harsh bite, but as they say, if the shoe fits.  I simply see you as sad.  Frequently people talk about “unrealized potential.”  They’re not talking about you.  I feel for your mother.  She’s too kind and protective of you to show her true feelings.  Instead, she cries at night in bed alone.

          I read your poor, inadequate screenplays and witness your constant failing attempts to break into Hollywood.  What can I say?  A bad joke!  Bottom line, you simply don’t have the talent.  Maybe you know this, maybe you don’t.  It doesn’t really matter.  You’ll drown either way.  I can’t stand the way you constantly ask me to read your mediocre work.  You always want my feedback.  What an annoyance.  I never knew friendship could be such a burden.

          Ya’ know how some people have mojo and some people don’t?  Guess which category you fall into.  It’s no secret they know you well at Kinko’s.  You’re on a name to name basis with many of the clerks.  They say hello when you arrive.  You reply back politely.  You get the “screenwriter’s discount,” still the charges build up rather quickly.  Ten cents here, ten cents there, again and again, wasted money!

Guess what happens when you send your screenplays out to the agencies.  I often wonder if you know where your scripts end up because, honestly, you seem ignorant to reality.  Check the trash can, the fireplace, the garbage heap at the city dump.  “We don’t accept unsolicited material.”  Don’t you know what that means?  Get a clue!  Even facing all this adversity you keep at it, you keep on keepin’ on.  Like Churchill said, “Never, never, never give up!”  But Churchill never met you.  He might have changed his tune.  Once in a while you, “take a meeting” or “do lunch.”  Your efforts are always meaningless and unproductive.  Deals are never closed because people don’t want to associate themselves with you.  You’re a thief of others’ time.  Wake up! 



chaoscott



          You don’t even dress the part.  A loyal Top Ramen consumer, you sport second hand rags that disqualify you immediately, before you have the opportunity to utter word one.  You can’t hang with the heavies, this is the big time!  You’re strictly minor leagues, a sucker and a chump.  In this town, they do judge books by their covers and yours reads rather boring.  As soon as you show your face, doors slam.  People regret ever having taken your phone call.  You don’t have a warm glowing aura of success, that intangible amorphous quality that attracts.  Instead, you’re coated in mud, emitting the stench of a rabid skunk.

          You’re standing in front of a brick wall, slamming your head against it, one, two, three times, continuously nonstop.  Skin is broken, blood starts flowing, but somehow you still don’t get it.  You seem oblivious to the pain even after you’ve cracked your skull and gray brain matter begins to leak out.  Everyone sees it but you, but nobody wants to tell you for fear of hurting your feelings.   Look at you!  No connections, you forever remain the outsider, desperate for a break, always denied access to the club.  You wonder why, you look for a reason.  Sometimes I think you’re blind.

          You probably never heard the one about Stevie Nicks’ assistant.  Back in the day, Stevie snorted so much coke she fucked up and mangled the inside of her nose until she couldn’t snort any more.  What to do?  I mean, talk about a serious predicament!  So, how did Stevie solve her dilemma?  She had her assistant blow the powder up her ass with a straw.  When I think of Stevie Nicks’ assistant, I think of you. 

Andy Behrman’s “ELECTROBOY” Documents Bipolar Madness

Originally published in 2002, Electroboy documents Andy Behrman’s downward spiral into a bipolar psychosis.  Behrman was born in January 1962, not far from New York City.  Being bipolar myself, I identified closely with his descriptions of various horrible depressions, ecstatic manias, obsessive compulsive and suicidal thinking. 

Behrman attended Wesleyan University and upon graduation went to live in NYC, hoping to start an independent film company.  When that opportunity failed, he went to work for Georgio Armani.  Armani was celebrating his first American flagship store in the heart of Manhattan.  In a world of chaos Andy played a key role in helping to ensure the store opened on time.  He served as a jack of all trades assisting VIPs from around the world or sometimes just going out to pick up lunch.



chaoscott



However, the whole time Behrman was blitzed out of his mind with delusional thoughts dominating his brain.  The bipolar disease had taken over his thought process.  Soon he became a fully nude male performer at a homosexual dive, eventually lapsing into prostitution, becoming a whore himself.  Behrman welcomed every opportunity to do drugs.  Hey, wanna smoke some coke?  Great, bring it on!

PR was always Behrman’s first love, in one form or another, schmoozing at parties and art openings, creating street buzz out of thin air. One day he was scheduled to interview the non-artist Mark Kostabi, notorious for having other people paint his paintings for him, adding nothing more than merely his signature.  Behrman knew Kostabi was the flavor of the month “it” artist and wound up staying on to work in the bizarre “Kostabi World” which put him smack in the middle of the big money international art scene.

Except Behrman got a little too greedy.  He and a co-worker started forging fake Kostabis to be sold in Japan under the radar so nobody would notice.  Behrman loved taking flights to Berlin, flying by the seat of his pants, with no thought of any consequences.  Well, their plan failed and after a trial that made a scandal in the NYC papers, Behrman was sentenced to five months incarceration at a minimum security penitentiary.



chaoscott

            All the while, Andy was juggling various shrinks, multiple mis-diagnosis, and tons of pills every day.  Eventually things got so terrible, the depression, fear and paranoia, it seemed there would be no end to the misery.  Finally, in a last ditch attempt to avoid suicide, Behrman turned to ECT (electroconvulsive therapy).  Behrman had nineteen(!) ECT sessions and now apparently lives mania free in the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

Learn more at www.electroboy.com

Kapuscinski’s “IMPERIUM” exposes Kolyma – Uncle Joe’s Arctic Gulag Death Camp

            Writer/renegade/death defying journalist, Ryszard Kapuscinski took the former Soviet Union by storm, transcribing his adventures in the smart, approachable, and definitely hardcore book, Imperium (1994).  That’s how RK refers to the former Soviet Union, as more than just a mere country, but as the colossal Imperium.  RK made it his mission to travel as far and wide across the Imperium as he could. 

            Starting Imperium are true stories about how RK, as a child, barely avoided being deported to the gulag from Pinsk, Poland, in 1939.  Fast forwarding to1958, RK relates adventures from his trip on the Trans-Siberian railway.  He made a point of personally experiencing almost every city/territory/province/village/mountain range/river/encampment in existence.  He writes of Argun, Unda, Chaychar, Chingan, Ilchuri, Dzagdy, Kilkok, Tungir, Bukachacha, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgystan, Uzbekistan, Chelyabinsk, Novosibirsk, and Krasnoyarsk, to name just a few.  Oh, and Moscow too.  Some people he encountered were Buryats, Kamchadals, Tunguses, Aynovs, Orochans, and Koryats.  Got the picture?



chaoscott



            Kapusinski’s writing is a pleasure to read.  I never thought I’d be interested in a book on Russian history today (although I enjoyed Russian history in college), but RK, by relating his adventures through his grand, lyrical and brutal prose, has a way of making it fresh and new all over again.  He writes with incredible narrative power and evokes spectacularly the essence of Soviet life.  I definitely recommend RK’s Imperium.

            There is so much I could write about Imperium, but my favorite part was RK’s trek out to North Eastern Siberia (1989-1991) to see the former Kolyma death camp.  Stalin’s constant purges (1930s, 1940s) ensured Kolyma always remained full, even though many of the prisoners already at the camp were dying every day.  The lives of the prisoners were pure hell, reminiscent of those at Auschwitz, minus the gas chambers and ovens.

            The slave laborers had to deal with the following:  

            COLD – Clothed in wretched and thin rags it was common for prisoners to freeze to death in the minus thirty degree environment. 

            HUNGER – Often times, meals consisted of a crust of bread the entire day.

            HARD LABOR – Hungry and frozen, prisoners were constantly pushed past the point of endurance, digging ice, carting it off in wheelbarrows, crushing rocks and ice, and chopping down the forest.

            LACK OF SLEEP – Prisoners were afforded only a few bits at a time in icy barracks, on hard boards.

            FILTH – Prisoners were not allowed to wash and therefore were constantly covered in a dirt crust and sweat, stinking unbearably.

            VERMIN - Prisoners were constantly fighting off swarms of bedbugs, mosquitos, and terrible Siberian flies.

            GUARD SADISM – Prisoners were shouted at, punched in the face, beaten, kicked and even murdered for the most minor infractions.

            TERROR OF CRIMINALS – Violent criminal prisoners were constantly taking advantage of the rest of the prisoner population.

            FEELING OF INJUSTICE – The sheer psychological terror of simply being at Kolyma.

            HOMESICKNESS & FEAR – Scared prisoners felt that any day could be their last for any of the above reasons.  Sometimes sentences stretched to 25 years, absolutely crushing any hope of getting out alive. 

            All in all, over 3,000,000 died at Kolyma, so just sit down, shut up, and be thankful Uncle Joe isn’t your travel agent.