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



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          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! 



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          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.



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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.



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            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?



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            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. 

J.K.’s Scrumpy is Hardcore Hard Cider

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“He that drinks his cyder alone, let him catch his horse alone” - Benjamin Franklin.

          Coming out of the Koan Family Almar Orchard in Michigan is delicious J.K.’s Scrumpy Hard Cider.  Scrumpy has been grown, pressed and fermented in Michigan since the 1860s.  Distributed in a twenty-two ounce bottle, the cider is the same traditional recipe that saved the family farm during the Great Depression.  Scrumpy is USDA organic and unfiltered, also gluten free with no sulfites added.  There can be slight variations in taste from batch to batch, just as nature makes no two apples alike.  However the ingredients still remain simple, only juice and yeast. 

          I found Scrumpy for sale at the restaurant supply store SURFAS in Culver City (8777 W. Washington Blvd.).  What’s not to love about Scrumpy?  The price, $8/bottle.  That’s a little pricey for me to become a regular nightly Scrumpy drinker, but make no mistake, this stuff is good, real good, gulping it cold, the sweet/bitter taste and then the slight kick at the end as it slides down your throat.  Scrumpy is 6% ALC/VOL.  I imagine it’s pretty easy to become addicted to Scrumpy, so be careful.  It’s no wonder the family orchards have been around for over 150 years.  With a product as fresh and thirst quenching as an ice cold Scrumpy, they couldn’t lose. 

Lots of interesting info can be found at http://www.organicscrumpy.com/

"Under and Alone” Rides Deep Into Heart of Savage Mongol Nation

We are Mongol Raiders / We’re raiders of the night / We’re dirty sons of bitches / We’d rather fuck and fight / HOOAH! / We castrate the sheriffs with a dirty piece of glass / And shove our rusty Buck knives up their fuckin’ ass / HOOAH! / Hidy Hidy Christ Almighty / Who the fuck are we? / Shit Fuck Cunt Suck / Mongols M.C. / HOOAH!

Such is the Mongols OMG (Outlaw Motorcycle Gang) fight song. 

“Under and Alone” is the story of William Queen, the undercover ATF agent who, over a two year period, infiltrated and became a “full patch” member of the Mongols under the alias “Billy St. John,” in the largest most widespread operation ever taken against an OMG.

Just like traditional Cosa Nostra, The Mongols have a hierarchy of national officers, a constitution, bylaws, and monthly dues.  Just like FBI Undercover Agent Joe Pistone infiltrated the Mafia under the alias “Donnie Brasco,” ATF officer William Queen lived life on the razor’s edge.  Assignments just don’t get any more dangerous than his operation.  The background check on Billy St. John was extremely extensive, as the Mongols have numerous lawyers, private dicks, and corrupt cops on their payroll.  In light of all that scrutiny, not only did Billy St. John succeed in becoming a full patch member of The Mongols Club (after rising through the ranks as a “hanger on” and then a “prospect”) they named Billy Secretary/Treasurer of the San Fernando Valley Chapter.  Billy was often in positions where he had to drug up or gang rape or he might be killed, it’s amazing how Billy responded to direct orders to do drugs by other members of the gang.



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The Mongols OMG is the most savage in the world.  They hang scalps from trees.  Although they might not boast as many fully patched members when compared to other OMGs, the Mongols have never lost a fight, not even to The Hells Angels.  Originally the Angels forbid other OMGs from wearing the “California lower rocker” on their leather jackets, but after a twenty year war, the Mongols defeated the Angels through a series of deadly brawls, thus earning themselves the right. 

The Mongols motto is, “Respect Few, Fear None.”  Their lifestyle includes rampant drug dealing, gang rape, gun running, assault and battery, larceny, extortion, blackmail, numerous bike thefts, prostitution and various other criminal conspiracies.  The Mongols took their name from Ghengis Khan’s band of savages, no surprise.  Welcome to the world of “one percenters.” 

 What’s a one percenter you ask?  A one percenter is a badass who you want to stay as far away from as possible.  The term “one percenter” was born out of the 1947 Hollister, CA, motorcycle riot that inspired the film, “The Wild One” starring Marlon Brando.  As a result, motorcycle riders and even the American Motorcycle Association denounced the bikers who were ruining the reputation of “99%” of average American riders.  The OMGs were delighted having been singled out and have worn a 1% patch on their jackets ever since.

               Once while I was working the door at a strip club, two Mongols walked in.  One was a big burly white guy with a moustache, the other a wrinkly older Latino, both covered in tattoos.  I didn’t even think to ask them for money.  I just told them, “Enjoy the show,” and let them stroll right in, no doubt the safe and prudent move.

 “Under and Alone” will introduce you to characters like Evel, Crazy Craig, Little Dave, Rocky, Rancid, Domingo, and the most savage of them all, the swastika tattooed Red Dog.  Red Dog once told Billy, “If you turn out to be a problem, I’ll cut your motherfuckin’ throat.”  The Mongols are always drunk and smashed on crank and coke.  My favorite story of an OMG is when a certain member’s “ol’ lady” showed disrespect, she was crucified with a hammer and nails to a tree and hours later when she was let down, she crafted a necklace of the nails and wore it with a sense of new pride and devotion.

When Mongols go on a run one hundred strong, they truly live beyond the law.  “Under and Alone” is a real page turner, if you can devote a little time, you might be able to read it over the weekend.  I won’t ruin the end for you, but trust me, it’s intense.  HOOAH!

"Rise Above" CD Produced by Rollins to Benefit WM3

Check out this list of vocalists performing Black Flag songs backed by the Rollins Band.

WM3 Finally Released!

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Big congrats to the WM3 on their new found freedom!  We all know their incarceration was a travesty based on the chaos resulting from a stupid “Satanic Panic.” Of course the WM3’s convictions were falsely based and blind to the facts, now hopefully the truth of their innocence will spread like wildfire.  For more info about the case check www.wm3.org.  And remember, everyone needs to own the WM3 fundraising CD that Rollins produced way back in 2002.  The appropriately named Rise Above contains a wide variety of all-star vocalists covering a multitude of Black Flag songs.  

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Bogosian’s "Wasted Beauty" Clashes Jet Setting Model With Desperate Doctor

Wasted Beauty, the second novel by master satirist Eric Bogosian, tells the story of Reba, a lonely farm girl who barely scrapes by selling apples at a farmers’ market until she catches the eye of a shady photographer from New York City.  Reba is quickly lured to the sprawling urban metropolis by his rather unsavory charm.  Soon Reba changes her name to Rena and becomes involved in the world of high fashion modeling and is subsequently dragged down into the surrounding scum and muck, overabundance of drugs, and obsessive competitiveness for glory.

            Simultaneously, Rick, a doctor with a thriving practice, can’t stop fantasizing about his secretary.  Rick is caught up in a marriage so boring it practically stuns him comatose, making him an everyday walking zombie.  From the moment he wakes up in the morning to the moment he lies down at night, Rick remains desperately unsatisfied, yearning for any spark of vibrant life to light his extinguished flame.  Seemingly, Rick has everything he could ever want, money, a family, security, the American Dream, yet still he feels empty as a bottomless well. 

By sheer chance, while working one of his infrequent mandatory night shifts (which are always boring as a corporate tax law seminar) at the hospital, Rick meets Rena when she comes in looking for her renegade, racist brother who recently got slashed down the face in a street fight.   When Rick and Rena cross paths sparks fly.  It’s like the Macy’s fireworks show on the 4^th of July.  Both of them are so desperate to transform their lives into something more vital and soul satisfying, they’re willing to push themselves to the brink of insanity.

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As Rena and Rick’s relationship develops a time bomb is set into motion.  Will Rena get used and abused or will Rick swoop in and rescue her from impending doom?  Will the fashion industry chew Rena up or is she on a collision course with dirty needles and an overdose?  Is Rick ready to abandon his entire family on what essentially could wind up as a mere fling born out of confusion?  Could Rick escape with Rena to a tropical island or are they both just fooling themselves on what is surely recognizable to a clear thinking person as nothing but a complete and total fantasy?   

Throughout Wasted Beauty, Bogosian writes with such a sharp eye for detail and with such a precise sardonic wit, the pages of my book became razor sharp, so sharp at times it was almost dangerous just to handle them.  Bogosian’s ability to pick up and absorb the everyday patterns and routines of certain people’s lives and then transform them into literary visions for his audience is extraordinary.  It’s like when you read something and then say, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”  At times Bogosian’s sense of perception and communication through language is so acute I’m reminded of Fitzgerald, although coming from a much more lurid, seedy angle.

If you’re familiar at all with Bogosian’s one man live performance shows then you’ll have a little bit of an advantage ahead of time when it comes to recognizing his brand of comedy and tragedy.  For new initiates to Bogosian’s twisted universe, it won’t take long to pick up on and become ensnared by Wasted Beauty’s story of two individuals standing at the edge of a cliff, about to fall off, performing a high wire act without a net.

           

American Master Abstract Expressionist Cy Twombly Dies at 83

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            Cy Twombly, the internationally renowned American abstract expressionist who favored living abroad in Italy, just died from cancer and various other ailments.  Twombly was my favorite of all the American abstract expressionists.  His ability to “blur the boundaries of painting, drawing, and handwritten poetry” was the closest artistic visual approximation of my manic bipolar mind state that I could find over years spent exploring the many various facets of the art world.  His work may seem random and childish to some, as many have accused in the past, however Twombly’s creations transcend these shallow critiques.  He succeeded in creating no less than a subliminal language all his own.  His acclaimed works included The Italians, Leda and the Swan, the Ferragosto series, and multiple works using historical Roman and Greek imagery.

            Rather than rehash Twombly’s career I will tell a story to illustrate his importance in the history of 20^th century art.  Years ago I was completely manic at the bookstore Book Soup on Sunset Blvd. across the street from Tower Records (when Tower still existed).  Out of my mind, I was buying books up right and left, hundreds of dollars worth.  Up in the art section I saw a Twombly box set, the awe inspiring four-volume Catalogue Raisonne.  I forget whether or not you could buy the books individually or if you had to buy the entire box set as a whole.

Like I said, at the time I was completely manic and buying up everything in sight.  Twombly, along with Pettibon and Basquiat, were my favorite artists, so I debated the purchase heavily in my mind back and forth for a good while, but in the end I had enough sense to realize that $400 was a lot of money to spend on art books, so I passed them up.  Unbelievably, I probably bought $1,000 worth of books that day and left the Twombly Catalog Raisonne sitting up there on the shelf.  I think I even asked a clerk to bring it down so I could thumb through it.

           
             Ever since that day I have regretted not purchasing those books, not only because they are the ultimate Twombly books, but because today you can’t find a complete set of them on sale for any less than $2,500.  And those are usually the German versions.  Now that Twombly’s died you can bet the prices will shoot up even more.  Talk about passing up a great investment.  Every now and then I even have a bad dream about my mistake and the lucky people who had the clear vision to fork over the $400 to make the art book purchase of a lifetime.

            “The marvelous thing about having lived so long is to have been recognized along with Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg as one of the three most important American artists to emerge in the 1950s,” Paul Schimmel, chief curator of Los Angeles’ MOCA said of Twombly.  In a New Yorker review of an exhibition of drawings at the Whitney Museum of American Art, Peter Schjeldahl observed, “Twombly’s best art entails an odd transaction: confessing fundamental bewilderment in return for being granted a flare of exaltation.”  I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Alcoholic Insanity Permeates Fitzgerald’s "The Beautiful & Damned"

            I love the doomed portrayal of the reckless alcoholic downfall of Anthony Patch in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful & Damned.  In my opinion, Fitzgerald’s knack for turning an exquisite lyrical phrase and his keen eye for social observation are incredible. His stylistic expertise makes for a more beautiful and challenging read when compared to some of today’s mainstream tabloid flavor of the month authors looking to turn a quick buck and capitalize on some free publicity.  You truly feel like you’ve learned something upon finishing TB&D.   

Soaking in the drama as you read, you feel you’re getting smarter page by page.  The story’s conclusion is no let down either.  It’s absolutely hardcore, building to a monstrous climax, while spanning an entire rainbow of emotions all the while.  Part of me was sorry when the book ended.  If anybody out there is thinking about becoming an alcoholic, reading TB&D might change your mind. 

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Lazy Anthony Patch and his flighty wife Gloria live the high life, at the beginning of the novel, with no financial worries, partying every night, pouring numerous highballs down their throats, all in the company of their A-list friends.  After all, they have Anthony’s grandfather, Adam Patch, and his millions, to fall back on.  Fooling themselves without a care, Anthony and Gloria bank their future on Adam’s inheritance and continue on with their carefree way of life.  As the overblown and unnecessary parties gradually continue to turn into embarrassing drunken fiascoes, Adam Patch, disappointed with Anthony’s lack of ambition, decides for the most part to cut him out of his substantial will.

As their funds continue to deplete, Anthony and Gloria engage in a myriad of loud intense arguments.  Were the story to take place today you’d think the couple would have divorced on numerous occasions.  The couple’s simultaneous great passion and scorn for each other makes their downfall all the more destructive.  Fitzgerald does a masterful job of depicting the roller coaster ups and downs of the Patches relationship and his dialogue is so spot on it’s scary.

At its heart TB&D is a comment on entitlement, as Anthony mistakenly feels he was born with the innate right to live life without having to lift a finger to earn a legitimate living.  He always talks about becoming a writer but never really seems to follow through on any of his ideas.  His grandfather even suggests he become a war correspondent, a suggestion Anthony basically brushes off without much consideration.  Similarly, Gloria somehow thinks a future acting in motion pictures is going to magically materialize at her feet.  She soon realizes nothing could be further from the truth.

TB&D is a perfectly drawn portrait of the downfall of one of high society’s most privileged couples.  In the end, Anthony winds up punched out and bleeding in the gutter before going completely insane.  Of course Fitzgerald wouldn’t have it any other way.  TB&D may not include any cell phones or i-pads, nevertheless Anthony Patch’s final devastation is no less powerful than anything today’s 21^st century computerized machines could devise.

"The Last Book Store" Saves LA From Amazon

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            I am so sick that bookstores keep going out of business and people now instead make their purchases over the internet, usually through Amazon, where most of the time you have to pay a $3.95 shipping charge, or worse just upload their books to a kindle or an ipad. 

            A few weeks ago in the LA Times I read an article about a new used bookstore located downtown called The Last Book Store and I finally made time to go check it out for myself.  It was great, totally awesome and the prices can’t be beat.  It’s located right at the northwest corner of Spring Street and 5^th Street (enter off of 5^th). 

            The store is beautiful.  Upon entering you walk through a room packed with books, everything on the shelves priced to go at $1.  It’s an original old “downtown” building with tiled floors and very high ceilings so there’s plenty of breathing room, no stuffy feeling at all.  Overall the store has all the different sections you’d expect to find at any normal bookstore, although some extra specific genre titles might be tough to find.  No matter, there’s a “wanted” list where you can make requests and an email bulletin you can sign up for.

            It seemed like every title I picked up only cost $5.  I’m talking $25 hard covers in perfect condition.  Of course art and design books were a little more expensive but for the most part bargains were plentiful.  And if you’re having a hard time making up your mind, take a seat on the comfortable couch or one of the few chairs scattered around to peruse your selections.

I picked up all for $5 each, Dr. Keith Black’s hard cover memoir Brain Surgeon, Lenny Bruce’s memoir How To Talk Dirty And Influence People (intro by Eric Bogosian), Thomas Wolfe’s paperback Look Homeward, Angel (intro by Maxwell Perkins), and Philip Roth’s hard cover The Plot Against America.

The store even has a section for CDs and DVDs.

Remember, The Last Book Store is a used bookstore and will be happy to consider purchasing old volumes you have in your collection should you wish to sell them, assuming they are in decent condition.  That’s the primary reason its shelves are packed with so many gems.  Take a look at its website http://www.lastbookstorela.com/ for further info.

D. C. Man Claims To Be First White Male East Coast Rapper

            It’s entirely possible and in fact probable that you’ve never heard of Craig Rosen and the Static Disruptors, and that would be a crime because you most definitely should have.  The little known D.C. Go-Go Funk outfit released what arguably could be called the first East Coast white boy rap song, D.C. Groove, in 1982.  While hardcore contemporaries like Minor Threat and Bad Brains set the tone, dominating the D.C. scene with hardcore punk, Rosen took his crew in an entirely different direction, favoring the wild sounds of outlandish black outfits like Trouble Funk and Chuck E Brown. 

As far as D.C. Groove is concerned, Rosen may be a little quirky on the mic, and his lyrics a little bit corny, nevertheless vocally he perpetrates a quick, flowing, rhyming style a full year before the Beastie Boys released Cooky Puss, a song that often receives credit for being the first NYC white boy sort of rap song set to a certain beat.  If you want to claim Bob Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues or Aerosmith’s Walk This Way as the first white rap song, that’s a tough point to argue that we’ll save for another day.  The only earlier use of hip hop style elements used by an East Coast white person in a recorded song were by a woman, Blondie, in her song Rapture, where she references rap icon Fab Five Freddy.  Working his vocal skills as early as 1981, West Coast DJ Flash seems to be the only other previous legit white male MC at the time.

            Album cover art often starts the story of the music long before any needle hits vinyl and it seems the cover of D.C. Groove bears out this frequent trend.  Rosen is pictured holding an old school ghetto blaster standing in front of a Blowfly / Rudy Ray Moore poster.  It doesn’t get much more nasty than that.

           

Chaoscott

As for the song itself, D.C. Groove opens with a drum roll followed by undeniably deep power chords that resonate perfectly for this racially integrated band.  All the while it sounds like there’s a party going on in the background, well attended by D.C.’s African American population.  They had a full horn section including sax, trumpet, and trombone, and at times reminded me of a B-grade Fishbone.  It’s great when they launch into the celebratory refrain, “It’s the D.C. Groove!”

            Make no mistake, for all his beginner flaws, MC Rosen let it flow sure and mighty for someone breaking a new genre and when he asks, “Who’s the baddest?” it’s no surprise the rest of the eight person band yells back, “STATIC Ds!”  After the standard punchy mid-song horn breakdown, Rosen asks, “Is the DC Groove here to stay?”  I think history clearly answered that one for us.

As for the B-Side Feed The Fire, a sly, funky synth intro leads into what might be mistaken for a Talking Heads cover with Rosen doing his best David Byrne impersonation.  Also, there’s a line where he utters, “Can’t touch your fire…” possibly even reminiscent of The Doors.  At moments a sparse, spacey arrangement gives way to light yet precise guitar slices, Overall, I didn’t find anything here “burnin’ down my house,” so to speak.  However a chorus of “burn the cage” seems to permeate the song on a hypnotic level throughout.

Summarily, if you happen (possibly by sheer luck or chance) to possess the Static Disruptors’ D.C. Groove 7” count yourself lucky.  Recorded in Room 10 at B.I.D. Studio, produced by Rosen, engineered by Tom McCarthy, and released by WASP Record & Tape Xchange, it’s a lil’ piece of important cultural and musical history, gone tragically unnoticed for the most part.  It’s too bad the Static Disruptors never got their act together enough to put out a full length.  In that case, history may have looked back on Rosen’s crew as more than just a footnote in the annals of D.C.’s Go-Go Funk past.

Chaoscott

OFF!  Compared To What / Rotten Apple 7” review

By Chaoscott  June 2011

Like the explosiveness of a hand grenade minus its pin, OFF!’s latest 7” is a seething havoc wrought cover of Gene McDaniels’ civil rights era classic, Compared To What, accompanied by a rusty razor slashing B Side cover of Rotten Apple, an original from San Diego’s old school 60s teen garage rabble-rousers, The Id.  Surely the legacies of both songs will now be made all the richer considering the especially aggravated and aggressive contemporary takes OFF! has relentlessly pummeled us with. 

Produced by OFF! guitarist Dimitri Coats and recorded and mixed at Kingsize Soundlabs by OFF! bassist Steven McDonald, the record’s story starts long before your needle hits vinyl.  Right off the bat, you immediately know you’re in for an extreme encounter, the record having been released on the ultra-dark Southern Lord label whose releases are known for having a rather ominous doom-laden vision to say the least.  The record’s power is felt immediately with abrasive visual impact, its cover art an aerial shot taken during certain LA riots.  Staring at the record cover, I thought I was looking at the burnt out bowl of a crack pipe, it sent shivers up my spine.  OFF! is known for challenging the system (offering to perform Fuck People on the White House lawn), so it makes perfect sense the band would produce a psychotic version of what would eventually become among the most important resistance anthems of certainly one of the most turbulent times in all American history.

Before examining OFF!’s unforgiving eye of the hurricane renditions, perhaps a quick reminder about Compared To What and the suspicious jagged world of The Id might be useful.  Pissed off by the assassination of Martin Luther King and other fragmenting slights and injustices, McDaniels penned a scorching indictment of the white power structure and all the hypocrisy that came along with it.  Compared To What was initially recorded and released by Roberta Flack, serving as the opening track on her debut, First Take.  Soon after, the song was again recorded, this time by pianist Les McCann and saxophonist Eddie Harris for their album, Swiss Movement, live from the Montreux Jazz Festival.  The jazz masters’ version of the hit subsequently became an international phenomenon selling over a million copies worldwide. 

To say Compared To What shook things up is a vast understatement.  As actual riots were breaking out in the streets with racist pigs wielding billy clubs and guns, Compared To What took aim at the President, the Church, “poor dumb rednecks,” “tired old ladies,” and the Vietnam War.  McDaniels’ lyrics pulled no punches, took no prisoners, and resonate more loudly than ever today in light of the current US military presence in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Keith Morris’ vocals on Compared To What are completely demented, which should come as a surprise to nobody.  It’s tough not to love it when Keith screams, “I CAN’T USE IT!” and “SOCK IT TO ME!”  You simply can’t help but feel the sheer power of OFF!’s fanatical force.  Some lyrics from McDaniels’ original version have been omitted, but the message is far from lost as Keith screams and riffs on Capitalism, treason, and abortion using a balance of seriousness and sarcasm so sharp it could slice through red bricks.

Not to be outdone, Dimitri has a kick ass guitar solo between verses.  He gets a great tweaked tone from his instrument that triggers a certain twitchy clanging prong in the back of your brain. 

When Keith screams, “We always end up in a RUT!” I’m reminded of Rollins’ great admiration for the legendary band The Ruts and the sheer futility of life in general.  It reminds me how my own life is really nothing more than a personal rut I can’t escape.  Living in a rut is no way to live at all.  Hmmm, after thinking about it, maybe I should just throw in the towel and end it all (a bottle of pills would do the trick), or maybe not, but either way, I love the incredible power a great song can have over someone to swirl their emotions like they’re caught up in a tornado.  Compared To What really makes one stop, think, and reflect on the things that truly matter in life, such as not keeping up with the Joneses.  Even the mere title of the song poses a question, a question whose answer may differ for each individual listener.  OFF!’s Compared To What sends the message that if the public doesn’t support and actively pursue a common sense vision for the future, many Americans will continue going insane, spinning on hamster wheels as the entire country slides down into the gutter on the world’s stage for all to see. 

               OFF!’s interpretation of Compared To What, and specifically Keith’s vocal style in particular, reminded me of the James Byrd dragging.  That comparison may be a little extreme, but pushing the envelope is exactly what OFF! is all about.  As Steven and Mario hold it down powerful and steady, Keith ends the song screaming, “I CAN’T USE IT!” again.  As the song quickly faded out, I thought of my neurosis meds and how often they’re practically useless to help prevent my frequent panic attacks.  From a certain perspective, it could be said that OFF!’s version of CTW is blood drenched.  I was just waiting for Samuel L. Jackson to jump out of the speaker spraying bullets like in A Time To Kill.

Rotten Apple takes a different approach altogether reaching a towering peak of loud, in your face, bird flippin’,white teen 60s garage rock.  The name of the band The Id came from the classic Johnny Hart comic strip The Wizard of Id.  The Id strip, which started in 1964, dealt with a medieval kingdom called “Id,” where the king at times called his subjects idiots.  The name of the strip was a merger of The Wizard of Oz and the Id, a Freudian term used to describe the part of the brain responsible for primal reactions.  Keith Morris and primal reactions?  Do I see a connection here?  The cover photo of the original Rotten Apple 7” is excellent, the entire band pictured morose and reflective next to a grave at the Grant School Cemetery. 

Keith opens the song by screaming, “I remember you and you remember me!”  That pronouncement angered and frightened me.  Dreading inexcusable regrets and unbelievably stupid personal insecurities, I envisioned all the people who I know think I’m an idiot, screaming in my face those same exact words,  “I remember you and you remember me!”  The shame and pity of it is I can’t seem to let go and remain forever haunted by the past, unable to escape sour memories, my mind remaining in a state of permanent manic bipolar turmoil.  You remember me?  Damn, I was trying to forget! 

Keith’s firebomb vocals set the tone for an incredibly bitter, spiteful, venomous verbal thrashing full of scorn.  And don’t forget to throw in a healthy dose of personal jealousy for good measure.  I’ve no doubt that when he spits/utters, “I’ve caught on to all your little tricks,” he’s talking specifically to me and that I’m about to be exposed for the fake poser I am.  The lines about being “above reproach” and an “expensive car” absolutely kill.  I can totally relate and it makes me sick, but for some reason I’m a glutton for punishment.  The music is that good. 

           OFF! fans have come to expect their members’ agonizingly precise musicianship to yield merciless sledgehammer tracks and the Compared To What / Rotten Apple 7” is no let down.  In fact, it’s the opposite, pure punk fury that I’m sure would make the tracks’ original creators proud as a punch in the face.  Currently, no band I can think of is more vital or important or that inspires me more than OFF!  So go buy the 7” if you haven’t already, it’s time for you to turn on, tune in, and get OFF!