my girl

Not to sound chauvinistic, but I was ready to go to San Francisco at 7pm on a Friday night while she was hardly packed. But it really wasn't her fault: she had an unexpected visit from a friend of hers.

A tall, skinny guy named Gibby showed up out of the blue, bemoaning his lot in life: the place he'd been staying had been raided, and although his father had recently passed away and left him a sizable inheritance, he had no means to cash his check. He was also trying to kick a bad glass-smoking addiction.

Gibby looked me over jealously. He didn't know she'd been seeing me. I, in turn, sized him up and down and got a decidedly bad vibe from him. There's an old saying: "You can't con a con man." However, I didn't say anything because I knew it would sound as if I were merely jealous instead of aware of this guy's bullshit.

We finally got on the road close to midnight. I had to call Rose, my friend up north, and tell her that we would probably make it into town by the morning. This gave us time to drive at a leisurely pace, stopping every now and then to eat, use the restroom, and gaze at the night stars as we made our journey to the Bay Area, a part of California that my girl had never been to before.

We arrived around El Cerrito by the sunrise. She and I were so excited to be out of Los Angeles that when Rose gave us a bed to rest, we only slept for two hours.


*/*


Over breakfast, she and I were loopy and delirious. Rose was as accommodating as she could be but I could tell she was sort of put-off by my girl's distracted manner of conversation.

As we waited for my girl to finish up in the restroom, Rose (whom I'd had a short-lived crush on when I first met her the previous August) said to me with a brave face, "She's... nice."

"I know she seems a bit odd," I said, "but I really dig her."

"Have you two... you know... have you--"

"No, not yet. And to be honest, I'm in no hurry."

"Wow, I guess you do dig her then!"

"Absolutely."

After breakfast, we all took the BART out to the city. We had lunch near the Embarcadero at a diner named Fog City. Then Rose took us to the COIT Tower by way of The Steps, a long and circuitous stairway with quite a scenic view of the Bay. We marveled at the mural painted along the inside of the tower, and it was while I was taking photographs for posterity that I noticed Rose and my girl were getting along, having a normal conversation based on art and beauty.

We made out way to City Lights, the famed Beat bookstore formerly owned by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I was astonished that, in all my past visits to SF, I had never paid a visit to this remarkable historical monument: after all, this was the location of the first public reading of Allen Ginsberg's legendary epic poem "Howl".

I looked all over for a book by Alfred Jarry-- not a play or a biography, but a work of fiction, something very rare by my normally obscure standards. Just when I had exhausted all hope of finding one, I spied a column of books in the "Surrealism" section that I had not perused. Sure enough, there within its volumes was a slender tome by Jarry entitled The Supermale, a richly comic science-fantasy concerning Perpetual Motion Food, bicycle racing and alcohol imbibing.

To celebrate, we stopped in at Spec's, a hip bar across the way from City Lights. The atmosphere was downright "writerly": An argument between the barkeep and a patron was the first thing I noticed when we walked in; a man looking like a cross between Guns 'N' Roses guitarist Slash and Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (top hat and all) sat by himself in the far back, nursing an ungodly concoction; an old bluesman played for tips outside the front of the establishment, hitting every note and making his axe cry with ecstatic tremolo.

I bought the ladies a round and poked my nose into the Jarry book, as Rose and my girl giggled at my boyish enthusiasm for my rather extraordinary find.

Before we ventured back to Rose's place, we stopped off in Chinatown and ate a sumptuous meal. It was a bit on the expensive side, but we were all feeling very decadent and figured that life was too short to squabble over petty monetary restrictions.


*/*


The next morning, my girl and I joined Rose for one last breakfast before we made the trip back to Los Angeles. I dropped her off in time to get to work, then I went home and slept.

The following week was filled with passion and intimacy, fueled on by the success of our SF getaway. Before the end of the week, she and I consummated our love with an evening spent at my flat. We painted on a canvas and smoked and drank and I wrote some of my novel as she washed loads of her laundry for free in my washroom.

Then she spent the night with me, and it was everything I ever hoped and expected.


*/*


Gibby, meanwhile, was trying to weasel his way back into her graces. But she had already caught him in two lies: one, his father had not really passed away; two, his former home had not been raided. By the time she figured these out, however, he absconded off with her Mac laptop computer.

This would not stand, not with me nor her roommate Mitch nor Brotherman, who immediately accompanied Mitch and I as we made a trek to retrieve the laptop from the place he was staying at in the hills of Los Feliz.

We didn't get the laptop back that night, but we put such a scare into the owner of the place that he contacted Gibby and urged him to return the computer to its rightful owner.

Within 24 hours, the laptop was back in her possession.

My girl could not thank the three of us enough. She had learned a hard lesson, but it was something she had to find out for herself. It would have made no difference had Mitch and I voiced our opinions to her, because she would've merely dismissed them as overprotective ramblings from the two most important men in her life.

I have to always remember that she is ten years younger than me, and although she possess much wisdom she is also headstrong and fiercely independent. I have to learn to be patient, and to not judge her or make her feel badly when she uses bad judgment, such as in the case of Gibby.


*/*


Last night, as I held her in my arms and watched A Clockwork Orange on DVD with her in her bed, I told my girl that I loved her and she told me that she loved me too.

We marveled at the short time we've known each other.

It is marvelous because we feel like we have known each other all of our respective lives.

I feel like I have waited for this girl to arrive ever since I was a young boy.

She said to me that I make her feel like a young girl again.

Never in my life have I felt such passion, and yet I also know that she is my best friend, and my partner in crime, and my perfect mate.

She is my girl. I am her man.

We are going to be together for as long as it takes.

I have a feeling it will be something close to forever.

Or am I just being silly?

Whatever. All I know is how she makes me feel, and how I make her feel.

That is all I want to know.

partner in crime

We're getting out of this city for the weekend.

I proposed San Francisco a few weeks back. She asked me why and I replied, "Just for the fuck of it."

Likewise, when I asked her earlier today if there was anything in particular she wanted to see or do in SF (a city to which she, a D.C. transplant, has never been) her reply was, "Yeah. Get the fuck out of L.A. for a few days."

I nodded in agreement.


*/*


You know that annoying little thing that couples always bring up about how they finish each other's sentences and think each other's thoughts at the same time?

Well, I'm afraid that she and I are a part of that annoying club. I noticed it from the first few multi-hour phone conversations we had after we first really met and chatted. I didn't want to say anything about it at the time, but she ended up bring that fact to the light after the first phone talk anyway.

Her comment on the phenomenon was one of surprise and astonishment. It wasn't a cheesy observation but rather a stark matter of fact. We both acknowledged the weirdness of it all, but we didn't let it dictate our budding friendship.

I love talking to her. One on one, our talks are easy and simple and yet disarmingly ornate. When the two of us start talking with others, though, we tend to get more intense: we laugh too much, or skip tangents too much, or rant too much. We end up scaring people. This makes us smile at each other because we both see it in the other and instead of letting it overwhelm us we decide that it would be better if it exhilarated us.

I can see how this would seem annoying to outsiders. But I don't care. Neither does she. And that settles it.


*/*


The truck I am driving belonged to my father before it ended up in my care. It's great, except the stereo needs to be swapped out. Right now only the radio tuner works. It used to have a working tape player but that is busted.

Music is a big factor for me as a driver. Hell, the only thing that kept me attached to my old car was that, despite its age and condition, the stereo kicked ass. Towards the end, though, the speakers blew and the CD player started to skip my albums more frequently. But it was loud, and I had a choice of what to listen to, so it made up for its drawbacks in spades.

As she and I planned our upcoming trip, she asked if we were taking the truck. When I confirmed it, she stared off into space for a second then said, "I'm bringing my boombox." I nodded in agreement, as I often do in her presence.

She looked at me again and said, "Sorry, I know you're a fabulous conversationalist, but after a while we're gonna need some fresh tunes. No offense."

I grinned. "None taken. It's an excellent idea. I would've done it had you not just pointed it out. You're on top of it, kid."

She smiled. She likes it when I think her ideas are sound. And I like her ideas because most of the time they are sane and sensible.

And the times when her ideas are totally insane and nonsensical? I like those too.


*/*


She was the one who coined the phrase "partner in crime".

Obviously, I don't mean that she was the first ever person in the history of persons to use that terminology. Rather, I mean that (in regards to what it is that we have) she was the first of us to say that designation out loud.

I thought about it often, but she gave voice to it first. And once again, I'm nodding that big ol' head of mine like a worn-out Bobble Head. But that analogy paints a despairing picture, when the reality is that I'm more than happy to go along with what she says. She doesn't boss me around or force it on me. I accept it all because (as she stated a while back) I am finally ready for all of it.

So that's what we are: partners in crime. And sometimes we kiss and snuggle, but mostly we just make each other laugh and seek out adventures.

That's cool with me.

I'm nodding in agreement as I type this.

And that settles it.

how we met (a blurry remembrance)

The end of February. No leap year this time around-- the 28th would be the final act, not only for the second month but for the club that became a home away from home for me and my band.

Talk about a low point: Eve was gone and her memory lingered everywhere; my desperate attempts to replace her with other women sank like stones in a river; and now the establishment that let us play anytime we wanted was going the way of the do-do bird...

When remembering it, I told her that I was in a drunken haze, surveying the room, and my eyes stopped and focused on her as she sat next to me in a booth. The way she recalls it, the guitarist introduced me to her in a tone of voice that expressed a quiet urgency, as if it were vital that we meet. I don't remember the introduction, but it's just as well because we talked and we talked and we talked and we talked...

And by the time I was having to get up and drive to work, I resolved to obtain her phone number. As I asked her for the number, I told her how much I enjoyed the talk, and apologized if she was already taken by someone else but I just had to speak to her again...

Eve and the club are long gone, but the girl I met that night is still around, and I am still amazed that it happened the way it did. I will never stop marveling at it.

peacock gothic chic

Grey overcast clouds
gather and form
a billowy sash pillowcase...

Shadows chase the light rays away...

A sleepy Monday buried deep
beneath the L.A. fog..

I'm trying to jog my memory
and recall if I ever felt
this way
about anyone else at all...

Too good to be true?

That's the only label
I can apply to you
since you defy all definitions
and fill me with strange premonitions
of what is meant to happen
and the reasons which madden and
sadden me...

Your style is peacock Gothic chic
chock full of locks with no keys
so low-key and with a
smoky antique vintage technique...

Where in your world is a place
for a poor boy who succumbs
to the whirlpool pearls of
every girl he surveys?

I'm tired of letting myself be
led on and tread upon
so from now on until
the dead of dawn
I won't dwell upon how long
the others have been gone
and I will get on with living
this ladyluck life of mine...

But still
I feel a chill
trilling its tendrils tenderly and
gently up and down my spine...

Is it a thrilling sign?
Or am I just killing time?

I'm diligently hoping
that it will all be fine...


--from April 2007

murphy lawless

Talk to the majority of working (or practicing) musicians today and 9 times out of 10 you'll hear them voice their opinion on how terrible modern music is, and how "bubble-gum" the content of mainstream Top 40 pop charts can be, and how the LCD (Lowest Common Denominator) prevails over quality and craftmanship in today's music scene.

I sometimes agree with those musicians. But then there are times when I revel in the crass kitsch, the vapid garbage and pap of an LCD culture, where only the catchiest and stupidest hooks are remembered and honored. These songs happen to be my guilty pleasures: a tune like N'Sync's "It's Gonna Be Me" or S Club 7's "Never Had A Dream Come True" are embarrassing and potentially cred-wrecking, but I know and recognize a well-written pop confection when I hear it.

Maybe nowadays such songs are completely lacking in meaning and purpose, but the test of time is the ultimate arbiter of how long their impact will last... which is why I find myself reveling even more in the pop cultural trash of yesteryear.

Tommy James and the Shondells' "Monie Monie" was pop bubblegum crap. So was The Toys' "Lover's Concerto" and half of The Supremes' (and all of Phil Spector's) output. But in my opinion, the greatest of all of these teeny-bopper phenoms was from a band that didn't even exist when their first-- and best known --single was released.

The band was eventually called Steam, and they hit the top of the charts with a little ditty you might recognize as "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye".


*/*


Another thing that musicians will tell you is that the song the band hates the most or views as having the least potential is usually the one that will bring said band its greatest success and longest lasting rewards.

Every band I've been in had that one song that none of us could really stomach. Of course, because of my compassionate nature I often was the only person in a group who'd even give a certain tune a chance, to which the others responded by accusing me of having a crack habit or having no real mental capacity of my own.

The irony of this situation was that no one had a problem with the song when it was first composed and rehearsed. The resentment towards any given song was acquired through repeated performances.

We'd go out on stage and play, and various members of the crowd familiar with our music (calling them fans is grossly inaccurate) would request the very song or songs that we found to be laughable. And if we were in a good mood and feeling adventurous, we'd comply... and the crowd would go nuts every time.

Seriously. I ain't bullshittin'.


*/*


Anyway, back to a band called Steam for a minute:

There was once a group called The Chateaus who were signed for a hot minute to Warner Bros in the early '60s. Their album sunk like a stone and none of their singles made a dent in the Top 100, so they were unceremoniously dropped from the label.

Years passed, and one of the guys from The Chateaus, Paul Leka, made it semi-big while working as a producer for a subsidiary of Mercury Records. As a favor to his old friend Gary De Carlo, The Chateau's old singer, Leka landed DeCarlo a contract with Mercury and soon the two recruited a third holdover from the Chateau days, session musician Dale Frashuer, to work on some singles for DeCarlo, who changed his name to Garrett Scott.

(Personally, I think Gary DeCarlo is a better stage name than Garrett Scott, but then again what did these guys know in the first place? But before I get ahead of myself...)

To make a long story short, after the singles were cut the trio felt they needed some B-side material. They didn't want to create more songs of equal caliber to the A-sides; they didn't want the throwaways competing with the songs they worked hardest on, so they pulled an all-nighter, put some coffee on the burner, and dug up a song from their days as The Chateaus called "Kiss Him Goodbye".

The production was slapdash and lacking in any real artistic intention, the product of considerable neglect: the drum track was lifted from a completely different song on a separate master tape; no other musicians were brought in to freshen up the song other than Paul Leka and Dale Frashuer's musical contributions, Garrett Scott's vocals, and group handclaps/chanting; due to a paucity of lyrics, the now-legendary "na na na na, hey hey, good-bye" was tacked on as an afterthought because they needed the song to be longer; and basically the three men made every conscious effort to make it as "inferior" to the proposed A-side single as possible, going so far as to call themselves Steam in order to distance themselves from their Frankenstein monster/redheaded stepchild of a song... Funny, though, how their names were clearly listed on the songwriting credits-- they weren't that stupid...

The three ex-Chateaus truly felt that the four songs they crafted for Garrett Scott were far superior to "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". Imagine their shock and chagrin when the A&R guys at Mercury chose it to be the lead single. And also imagine how crazy it must've seemed when the single went to Number One in December of 1969, at the height of the hippie Flower Power movement.

Eventually, Garrett Scott bailed on plans to create a real band named Steam that would tour the world in support of this fluke of a hit record; most likely he was disgusted at the fact that the other four tracks they'd concocted under his stage name didn't even chart. Still, those royalty payments must've made some difference, because he contributed to a full-length Steam album to capitalize on the success of "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye". It was the type of album where every other song has "na na na na hey hey" automatically written into its hook somewhere.


*/*


I read about this story online recently, and it made me laugh to no end. I love stories like this, which is why I was such a sucker for VH1's Behind The Music series. And as much as I am all for artistic integrity, at the same time you have to hand it to the business end of the music industry: while it is true that there is no real formula for repeated hit-making success, the moneymen usually have a great ear for what's going to sell and not necessarily what is great art.

We must learn to forgive the schlockmeisters when they have the gall and hubris to tell the Bob Dylans and Bruce Springsteens and Peter Gabriels of the world how to market and record their records-- these men (and many others like them) need no interference from A&R people to make both their fans happy and their money back at the same time. However, let's not forget that the schlockmeisters also manage to get at least one hit out of it all, and that's plenty enough for some people... especially if your old band failed and you received a second chance to find glory and riches like Paul Leka and company.

After all, as much as I enjoy quality music and artists with great talent and skill, I also enjoy mindless pop songs like "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" because they aren't pretentious in the slightest. When I'm at a sporting event or in a crowd of people, who wants to chant "Like A Rolling Stone"? Hell, how many people other than me even know all the words to that one?

I've got the Steam song on an endless loop on my computer as I write this. I will never tire of it. It's a classic tune, and those three guys from Bridgeport, Connecticut who pulled it out their asses one night in 1969 should be proud of themselves.

Indeed, if I ever got the chance to meet them, I'd love to shake their hands and buy them each a beer.

fondness

Friday night: She accompanied me to my friend's home studio, where she was inspired by my slap-happy rapping over sinister-sounding hip-hop beats to write a rap of her own. It was a cute and sincere gesture. She ended up on the chorus of the song before the upstairs neighbor complained about the noise, promptly ending the session at 3 AM. She and I ended up at Sitton's in North Hollywood, talking over coffee and breakfast.


Saturday morning: We had plans to visit Griffith Observatory, leftover form the date date two weeks ago. I didn't sleep at all, catching a catnap here and there before making my way out her. We ate Fruity Pebbles cereal, watched Chappelle's Show on DVD, and caught the Metro Rail from Santa Monica & Vermont to Hollywood & Highland where the Observatory Shuttle Depot was located. Once we made the arduous, winding trek up the mountains to the top of the hill where the Observatory resided lazily like a bloated king teetering on his dilapidated throne, we bought tickets for the Planetarium show and smoked our cigarettes with style.

The docent narrating the Planetarium show was unintentionally funny, her radio-savvy voice lacing the properly enunciated program text with not-so-subtle passages of melodramatic overacting. This caused us to laugh mischievously, like disobedient children snickering in church.

But the show was marvelous. We left shortly afterward.


Saturday afternoon: We returned to her house. I napped some more as she draped fabrics over a mannequin. Then, she asked me if I wanted to go to Goodwill and shop for vintage/used clothing. I consented. It turned out that there was a three-day sale on all clothing items: $3 each, a price you couldn't beat even at Goodwill. Neither of us had known about the sale in advance, so it was a pleasant surprise. She chose jeans for me to try on, and I trusted her taste (being that she works in the fashion industry) and what's more: I did not resent her for it. Later on she told me that the reason why I listened to her was because I was finally ready for what she had to offer, which made me wonder how she knew that I was not ready in the past, well before I ever met her.

As the day began to fade, she took me to an Indian restaurant on Melrose. She had a coupon for a two-for-the-price-of-one dinner. Over the chicken and lamb entrees, I told her about my novel. She knows me primarily as a musician and an artist, but not really as a writer (raps notwithstanding). I discovered that she used to write when she was younger. From past experiences with other girls I could tell that she wanted to ask me if she could read my work but was too shy or afraid to ask. Instead, she approached it in her charming, direct-yet-indirect manner by demanding a chapter all about her... to which I replied, "I'll write an entire book about you..."

Smooth, eh? I suppose, but I meant it with every square inch of my soul and being.


Saturday evening: We drove out to see the Wolf Man, a fitting visit to make considering there was a full moon in the sky. The both of us were also aware that Mercury has been in retrograde for some time, but what was truly amazing was how perfect our Saturday was turning out for us. Everything we did worked out the way it was supposed to work out, and it was not lost on us.

Wolfie had some Salvia divinorum on him. I consented to give it a shot but warned him that a previous attempt on my part to try the legal hallucinogen was bunk. She and I both partook of it shortly after Wolf had showed us the method, and within seconds I felt slanted, angular, my imagination burning and my eyes pulsating with psychedelic purpose. The TV stand morphed with the coffee table, and she and Wolf seemed to morph into both the coffee table and my cigarette smoke.

Then, after five minutes, the trip wore off. For the rest of the night I felt brain-boggled. She told me that (in her trip) she forgot who we were, and only snapped out of it after she remembered that we'd done it also. Meanwhile, Wolf Man was baked, having done it every night after work for an entire week. To cool down, I produced a joint, and we all laughed and drank wine and talked into the late night, on to the early morning, her banshee laughter trickling up and down my spine, in behind my ears and echoing in my heart...

I dropped her off at home, and left only after kissing her and holding her in my arms for as long as I could muster. But I knew I had to go home-- I could not stay. I needed to sleep in my own bed. I needed to unwind on my own. She needed to get rested apart from me.

That way, when I saw her the next evening, the fondness we feel for each other would blossom in the wake of our respective absences...

Last Saturday was one of the best Saturdays I've ever spent in my life. I pray that it was not the peak, but merely the beginning of something I cannot predict nor imagine.