HAIRDRESSER ON FIRE

Ya Wanna Buy A Toothbrush?

2012-01-11T12:27:00.000-08:00

Freewrite morning post, scattered thoughts and misspelled words. I hope you enjoy it. [The Zolar X piece will be up in a few days, I promise. There is just so much to write about our dear Plutonians, and I want to get my thoughts in order and be succinct. I'll be working on it tonight after Alice Bag at RADAR (!) and it will be posted by Friday at the latest. Perhaps even by tomorrow.]

For now, there's this:

When I was five years old I would ask my dad to tell me a joke before bedtime, so I could slip into the grip of Morpheus with a smile on my face. I fall asleep like a baby. It takes anywhere from ten seconds to three minutes, but then there I am, a little angel...he looks like an angel when he's asleep! they said, once, before they tried to rouse me from my slumber.

When I wake up I am like the charater Jawa in my novel, all swinging fists and throat yelps begging, begging five more minutes... I wake up punching the air, aiming at nothing and connecting with nothing.
[Make sure to never have your head in the line of fire when you wake me up. You ~~may~~ will get punched, I wont remember it but I will apologize a few hours later, once the blood clears from my knuckles and your lip, but you'll probably still be mad and I will feel the remorse of a nun-killer, serving neither of us... so if you need to wake me, do what Joel does: set a loud alarm next to my head, run away, and hope for the best.]

My dad always chose tucking me to waking me up. Waking me was my mother's charge, and she'd try everything: slamming my door, singing morning songs, flicking lights on and off like an exhausted bartender at 4am. After ten minutes she'd lay up my red window shades with a sharp snap and fwip fwip fwip, it would spin on its roller and the goddamn sun blast would warm my closed eyes from beneath the shell of my covers. She would give up after that, school day or not. "Go ahead and sleep," she'd say, as if it were a punishment.

In my cave of cheap blankets, the sun was an intruder. It never whispered the promise of a productive day of being awake, as it does for so many who savor the waking life. With my sign being ruled by the Sun, it hangs there waiting for my morning salute, which I scream into a stack of pillows. I don't hop off the matress and bend at the knee, raising my arms to Father Sun, beads of joyful gratitude forming like dewdrops on my perfectly smooth forehead.

Instead I lay there frowning and waiting. I struggle to tap in to inspiration, gurgling into my pillow, reminding it that the Sun is no more than a quickly dying star, and that I'd rather slip back into dream/night, shirking all percieved responsibilities. Just you and me, pillow. We don't need the sun, you and I... I got you, babe. And you got me. My literal pillow talk (literal because I am talking directly to my pillow, a fancy tempurpedic that makes my thumpsack of a bed all the more uncomfortable in comparison) finds me saying horrible things to my Ruler, the Sun, blaspheming into the NASA approved memory-foam and exposing me as the most unmotivated ingrate of a Leo to ever take a nap. Bad Leo.

So, bedtime was for jokes, but always the same joke: my favorite joke, the only one I liked. I heard it every night and still it made me laugh. I hate jokes- always have- and never know what to do when someone threatens to tell me one. Usually I tell the comedian Oh, I hate jokes, almost as much as I hate interactive puppetry. This is said for their benefit, pre-joke, so they aren't upset when I don't laugh. I know they are going to push the joke on me regardless; when someone says "I have a joke for you," not even a well placed swarm of Locusts can prevent them from telling it. Saying "I have a joke" is the set-up for the joke itself, and I never get it, or it's not funny, or both. Maybe I don;t get it because it's not funny. Either way, I loathe a good joke.

Except for this one, told in my dad's voice:

There was this kid, a little older than you, who wanted a job. He searched and searched but most jobs he applied for were too hard. Then one day he came home all excited, barging through the door and throwing down his bookbag, telling his father "Dad, dad! I got a job!"
His dad says "Great! What kind of job did you get?"
"I sell toothbrushes, door to door!"
"Hmmm. How'd your first day go?"
"I didn't sell any toothbrushes."
"Well, what did you do?"
"I went up to the door, I knocked on the door, the lady answered the door and I says 'Hey, ya wanna buy a toothbrush? and she says "No, I don;t wanna buy a toothbrush" and then she slammed the door in my face.
The father said "Hmmm. Seems like what you need is a gimmick."
"What's a gimmick?"
"A gimmick is something that helps you sell your product. An incentive, something that will make someone want what you're selling.You have to make them think they need what you have."

The next day the kid comes home for dinner, beaming, "Dad, dad! I sold seven toothbrushes!"
"Whoa!" says the dad. "That's a LOT! What did you do?"
"I got a gimmick, just like you told me to!"
"How did it work?"
"I went up to the door, I knocked on the door, lady answers the door and I say 'Ya wanna buy a toothbrush?" and she says "No, I don't wanna buy a toothbrush."
So I says "ya wanna cookie?" and the lady says "Sure! I want a cookie!"
Then she says "Hey, this cookie tastes like shit!"
I says
"It is shit!
You wanna buy a toothbrush?"

Bah dum dum. So that's it for me on jokes. Please don't message me telling me you have a better one. I hate jokes. I really do. And with that, I now go back to my uncomfortable bed, pull the covers over my head, and curse the Sun.

New Yearz

2012-01-04T12:05:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to let regular readers know that I'll be back up and running in a few days. So much happening in the New Year.
I hope you all had a great holidaze and are now happily living in 2012.

To answer a reader question:
No. I do not think that the end of the Mayan long count spells out cataclysm for Earthlings.
I fear we are the cockroaches of the Solar System, and will continue our tedious spinning far beyond 2012, either degrading or rising up. Hopefully rising up.

xxx

On Fire

2011-12-29T13:46:00.000-08:00

[Happy New Year! This is an blogpost expansion of Hairdresser on Fire. This will be the last excerpt shared until it is published. I hope you enjoy. Unrelated to this post:
Coming up next: Zolar X in The New Century...I've been honored to recieve advance listen of new tracks soon to be released by Zolar X. I will be writing about them here in a few days, please stay tuned as I assimilate the transmissions.]

...A few weeks later, it was somehow decided that I should be able to attend my first concert, a trip with the boys, chaperoned by my neighbor, a Van driver. All the kids got to go, I said, and it was KISS, so.

My sisters were pissed. “Why does he get to gooooo?”
I don't think my eldest sister had even seen Foreigner yet. So mad. She called me "hateful" in French, which in retrospect I love even though it horrified me then, all french. I don't remember the word, I can ask her and get back to you, or you can Google it.
"Heeee gets to go?" They were pointing at me.

"Yuah, because he’s going out with the guys,” my mother said.
She made these little ditch attempts, occasional one-offs to see if I wanted to hang out with the guys. Hunting trips, fishing, godforsaken ice races with stupid boy scouts. I forget what they called it. Something with Alpine in it, but it was boy scouts and cans of beans and all the things I hated. American Chop Suey.
Hunting. Me posing in front of the woodstove- at five am, an hour I don't know unless I haven't slept yet, even then- me looking evil and so pissed for being woken up, I could skin a pheasant using only the scorn in my eyeballs.
But I coulda said no. She never forced my hand, but she'd encourage it with a push when I showed grudging interest. I wanted to go hunting. I really did want to shoot that gun. I eat meat. I should know how to behead a chicken or kill a buffallo with a bow and arrow. It wasn't a moral issue, it was timing. Five am was no time for examining my relationship to meat.

KISS was not something I'd need to be dragged to. I was going. In fact, my mother would have to pry her own eye pencil out of my dead hands, and even then. Nevermind that, I was already there in my head, planning my outfit, and neither one of us cared if it was a group of Satanists driving me. It was the 70's, in a van. With the boys.

“Ahhhh, well. Ahh, shit.... soooo, whattayagonnado…” my mom said, her classic line predating “what-ever” by decades.

I remember the van ride, classic ‘70’s from the movie in your head. Bubble windows. Curtains. That’s all I’m giving you. I shoved my nine year old frame, oddly like my current frame, deep into the bowels of the Chevy Van.

The show was held at the Providence Civic Center, where just weeks before I watched Katharine Kuhlman working her magic spells on the Charasmatics. This time I wasn't dressed like a cult kid. Conversely, I had dressed up for the occasion. With my make-up and flaking talcum powder, I must have looked like a zombie Paul Stanley in Zips, but nobody cared. I think I fluffed my hair.

Passing into the same inner sanctum I had two weeks ago with the Christians, past the red velvet curtains thick as doors, we took our seats. First row balcony, left stage (a certain drag for the Ace Frehley fan I was, but still, not too shabby, my braincamera has awesome shots of Gene, you should see 'em). As we settled, the other boys and the rest of the room disappeared into a swirl of pot smoke, lighters- all those lighters- and the sound of people screaming WE WANT KISS WE WANT KISS like this mob, they were demanding it, all sweaty and swearing and openly puking into their fingers. I was enchanted.

My seat was the last thing I wanted at this tent revival. The lobby was on a different planet. I clung to the metal bar in front of me, waiting. Waiting for the voice. The house lights clacked off, and the place went quiet for a second, before going apeshit.

"You Wanted The Best And You Got The Best: The Hottest band In The World: KIIIIi-uuSSSS!"

Our demands were met. KISS appeared from under the stage, trap doors coughing with fog machines, their costumed bodies running back and forth in front of the sign, with its giant letters: K-I-S-S-K-I-S-S-KISS-KISS-KISS-K-I-S-S blinking in seizure patterns. Sometimes the light would be only around the edges. Or one letter at a time. Or my favorite, the less common every light on the sign on at once, where the giant KISS would blind you for a second and when you closed your eyes it still said KISS.

Then Detroit Rock City started and I almost fell over backwards. In 1978 there was zero regulation on how much explosives a band could have. KISS had a shitload of explosives, and giant flames on both sides of the stage that licked the metal ceiling of the Civic Center, heating up my face. And KISS weren't a bunch of old dudes in 1978. They were way younger than our chaperones, and seemed just as stoked to be there as we were. Even more because they were getting paid.

“Hell-o!” screamed Paul Stanley, looking directly at me, pointing his right index at my face.

I needed a barf bag or a diaper, I couldn’t tell. I was coming apart, shaking. The stage was going up and down with hydraulics, spirals of white light shooting out of Ace’s guitar. And God of Thunder, with the blood? Oh my god, the blood!

Vibration shook my body, every cell slamming together, re-tuning to the higher frequency, my synapses making connections that weren’t there before. Finally. People were falling out all around me, and I realized I was on fire.

Whatever it was that the Charasmatics had felt two weeks ago, when Benny Hinn, with all his rings and white shoes, shuffled across the golden stage set, I felt it now.

Levitating, I looked across the flames and He looked right back, through the one star on his face; there was God, in seven inch leather heels, screaming Do You Love Me.

I was saved.

He's GOOD at it...

2011-12-26T16:15:00.000-08:00

[Not an excerpt from H.O.F. This is another freewrite, forgive any errors]

I was pretty lucky that I never had to come out. It was already done for me, evidenced by my wig box and assorted props (cheerleading pom-poms, juggling bags, eye shadow sponges and yarn). Nobody had to tell anybody anything.
Trust: when your nine year old's "down time" fills itself with walking serpentine through the house in a blonde bouffant wig, and digging through your dresser for Maybelinne eye pencils, you don't need to do the math. Equation solved.

My neighbor's toy box laid in sharp contrast to mine- not a old wooden toybox but a new one in the shape of a giant NFL football- the smell of thick plastic surrounded it from a solid foot on each side, it had its own aura. This giant toxic football, like an advertisement, was stuffed with tennis balls, catchers mitts, and the hand-held sports games that worked my nerves, with their constant bleats for touchdowns or more batteries. Above the toxic sports slush and the electronic games screaming feed me, hung every baseball card ever printed, screwed to the wall, on display.

Above my wig box- the wooden "toy" box that was mostly a tangle of synthetic hair- hung no such parephenalia.
There was an inexplicable, personalized autograph from (Dr?) Leo Buscaglia, who i had written to after reading his book On Love.
A picture of me with The King at a Medieveal Times in Florida- the King just looked like a dude from Orlando, not particularly enraged by his job. I looked by far more uncomfortable in my Vacation Costume, way too old at twelve to be posing with a character actor in a theme restaurant.

Next to that was a piture of me posing with Willie Whistle, the local clown of my youth, at a senior citizens facility Outside Boston. I have no idea how I even got there. Driving to Boston was always a hassle for my parents, and we rarely did it. We barely even crossed into the Massachusetts bordertowns that surrounded us, in fear of The Massholes, or as we called them, The Hillbillies.
[I realize some may take offense at the term "hillbilly". Be aware that I am not using this term to describe Noble Mountain Folk, but only to describe the Massholes, who bordered my town in their grassy yards they called farms. My dad adopted a horse from a Masshole, and gave it to mty sister, in one of our more stupid and embarrasing maneuvers as a family. but that's another post...]

Rushing home from third grade to make sure I caught my stories- General Hospital was gearing up for the Ice Princess and big things were happening- I'd see the other kids planning their afternoons. Shooting hoops, skateboarding, and eventually, thank god, playing Atari.

I sat myself in front of the full length mirror in my mother's room.
She was ironing, singing a Mama's and Papa's tune as I patty-caked against thew mirror.
Having nobody to practice with, I had to depend upon myself to learn the hand-clapping routines and the order in which to clap, pat, cross your hands or slap your knees. It wasn't easy, but with myself as my only competition I got wicked fast at it. Before I knew it I was a blur of arms in front of the mirror

...old lady mac, mac, mac...

I could hear my neighbor coming up the driveway, dragging some piece of metal sports equipment. I knew he was going to bother me, so I picked up the pace of my clapping in hopes he would get the hint. Instead he came to my mom's window.

"Hey, do ya wanna come play baseball with us?" Marty asked.

....all dressed in black black black

"Shhhhhhh!" I said. Clearly, the rhyme wasn't over. Why was he bothering me in the middle?

...with silver buttons buttons buttons

"Hey, you wanna come play baseball?" he repeated. They must have really needed someone.
My concentration was broken. My mother could see me getting flustered.

"Can't you see that I'm busy here? What's wrong with you?" I said in the mirror, his stupid head in the window. I started my hand claps again, from the top.

Old Lady mac, mac mac

"Why don't you wanna play baseball?" Marty was incredulous.

allll dressed in black, black, black...
I got louder. I wanted to take that bat to his head and really swing.
He was bugging me now.

"and why are you always practicing those girl games?" he said.

...with silver buttons buttons buttons

before I could jump up and run outside, my mother said:

"He's GOOD at it.That's why he practices, because he's good at it...you little shit"

...all down her back back back

Marty looked at my mom and ran away, schooled.

"He's a little shit," she said. "You're good at it...keep going, hon..."

She started singing again, and my hands regained their speed
competing with their own reflection.

My mom was right.
I was good at it.
Still am.

Alice Bag's "Violence Girl" at Modern Times/ ALICE BAG AT RADAR!

2011-12-20T15:12:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow nights RADAR will be featuring another performance and reading from Alice Bag, so if you missed her first visit, here's your chance to see the magic happen.

This is a repost of what I wrote after Alice's reading in December at Modern Times. And now she's back! RADAR + Alice Bag? This is gonna be great.

RePost:
[Not an excerpt from Hairdresser on Fire. Not a review, either. I meant to write this weeks ago. Forgive any mispellings...freewrite. Not sure how to classify, but if Alice Bag comes to your town to read from Violence Girl- GO.]

While the "This Is Boston, NOT LA" compilation was steady wearing down the needle of my teenage record player, the back of the NewPaper's movie section announced midnight showings of "The Decline of Western Civilization" at The Avon.

The LA punk scene didn't interest me, it was so far away. England was closer. And I'd never live in California anyways, right? If I had been able to go to LA, it wouldn't have been to check the scene, it would've been to move to Gilligan's Island where I've always wanted to live. I'd share a hut with Ginger, because she had the best make-up. Or maybe do some hut-hopping. Professor one night, Lovey and Thurston the next.
[I have since found my own Gilligan's Island. It lies in the Mexican State of Quintana Roo, on the Mayan Riviera. I will move my family there, and we will live under palapas. I will proudly accept my charge to rescue Sea Turtles, grabbing the torch passed to me from Elio, the tortuga doula. More on that later.]

So when it came to this now legendary documentary on the LA Punk Scene, I skipped it.
I didn't go, and I've still never seen the entire film.
But I did buy the record, if only for the pictures on the cover.
[Note to younger readers: Before MTV, many people used to buy records by unknown artists based soley on the cover art. This gamble could lead to a discovery that changes your life, as was my case with Elvis Costello's "Armed Foces", or it could bring you to your knees in regret, as did my early exposure to Uriah Heep's "Demons and Wizards". ]

Whittling through side one of Decline..., I was left sorta flat, not particularly riled by the pre-Henry Rollins Black Flag set (this sentiment goes double for Black Flag with Henry Rollins...I can't be the only person who doesn't give a shit what Henry Rollins thinks- about anything).

I was starting to lose interest until the voices of Exene Cervenka and John Doe of X egged me on to keep listening. I read the liner notes. Now we were getting somewhere.

I will say that I liked the Circle Jerks set- even though, years later in Atlanta, a dreadlocked Keith Morris lectured me from the stage, pontificating from his perch about being peaceful when he didnt even see what happened, forever erasing my good memories of "Red Tape".
(Watch your fuckin' mouth, Keith Morris. You didn't even see what happened.)
See? See how easy it is to get distracted by these macho punk assholes? (yes, I just called Keith Morris "macho", showing how low my tolerance is, and speaking volumes to my perception.)

Once the macho assholes were done, somewhere in the middle of side two, came the opening crunch of Gluttony by The Alice Bag Band, stopping me in my tracks.

I sat there clutching my eye pencil, not sure whether to jump up and down or lay prostrate before the record player. I couldn't believe what i was hearing, this female lead, more powerful than all of the LA dudes put together.

Gluttony, for me, has to be the most widely relatable song on the record. Not bitching about Beverly Hills and Century City or how many sluts got fucked, Gluttony made the entire record worthy of a previously withheld dustcover. I hardly got past the track after that first listen. I would pick up the needle and reset it into the grains of the vinyl as soon as the song ended. Over and over. Repeat.

Jump to a few weeks ago. Alice Armandariz a/k/a Alice Bag gave two San Francisco readings from her new book "Violence Girl: From East LA Rage to Hollywood Stage".

Mixing spoken excerpts from her book with musical selections from the time period of the chapter, she held the packed Modern Times hostage with her grace, her giant brain, and her sincere wit.

Her first selection was about being a young girl in East LA, collecting Barbies but having no Kens to go with them. As a lousy hairdresser, I loved this piece. (Bag's Barbie did have a boyfriend, and certainly got some action, but you need to buy the book, no spoilers).

Another excerpt was from her teenage years, about becoming a cheerleader, which is right up my alley; I love stories like this.
The juxtaposition of the act of cheerleading with this bomb of Chicana feminism was hilarious, showing the subtle dashed hopes of growing up different... of growing up smart. Bag seemed truly horrified to learn that this cheerleading team was in place to cheer on the boys, not to tumble competitively with the girls. The resulting lightbulb over her head shows how early she embodied the take-no-prisoners feminist ideals that are her hallmark.

Her third excerpt exposed a funny and loving power push with a visiting Sid Vicious, moving along the timeline to her founding position in the LA Punk scene.

With a small, adorable accompanying band, she played a beautiful Ranchero song, Elton John's "Love Lies Bleeding" and finished with The Bag's "Babylonian Gorgon".

At one point she said (I'm paraphrasing):

You can all probably tell that I'm not the best guitarist, but I play guitar. And I think I'm probably as good a writer as I am a guitarist. But I think it's important to push the limits of everything. That is what I'm rooted in. I wanted to write a book. So I said Fuck It, and i wrote a book. Do what you want to do.

I believe that. Say Fuck It. Shift the paradigm.
You are a writer because you write; you are a musician because you make music; you an artist because you make art.

And, like Alice Bag, you are revolutionary because you are part of a revolution.

Occupy Your Closet: The Revolutionary Costume

2011-12-13T15:29:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's the act of people rising up in the streets to challenge the Status Quo; maybe it's the handmade signs or incredible dialogues I've heard on the front lines; maybe it's the newly strong calves of people who have added "marching" and "standing in the cold for hours on end" to their exercise regimen, but there's no doubt about it:

This Revolution is Sexy.

This power, for the first time in a long time, has to do with the ideas of the people- not what they are wearing. Not to discount looking good...even a Catholic Priest looks sexy when holding a sign that says Death To Capitalism. But as with anything, certain cliques develop, and a "new" style trickles to the masses at the mall. The first drips cannot be far off.

[To Bay Area readers: the look I go on to describe may seem much like our own beloved "black-hoodie mafia", only homogenized. But these new hoodies are clean, cleaner than even our skin. Plus they've added perpetual, unnecessary face-hiding.]

It is only a matter of minutes until the "Occupy Look" reaches the global runways (I could even be late on this; I'd imagine Hot Topic is already selling those horrid white masks, as well as buttons and t-shirts emblazoned with "99%").

Yesterday, on the way to the Port, the fashion choices of of a small group of protesters became more apparent than I had previously noticed. Sitting at General Assemblies, I don't see any of these kids. Most people are older, wrapped in blankets and puffy jackets, protecting themselves form the cold during the arduous process of Direct Democracy (the wrapped-in-a-blaket look being a personal favorite). But aside and apart from all the blankets and wiggling fingers, a certain aesthetic has been picked up on from the suburbs.

I don't know what to label it. Anarchist Chic? Black Bloc Vogue? Either way, it's spreading, so don't be surprised when your kid comes home from Pleasant Hill High School wearing a full on gas mask.

Yesterday, I noticed countless young people (this post is only about the teens. anyone over 24 doing this is a whole different issue) working the same look, while thousands marched on, ignorant to their fashion.
Huddled in small groups, looking busy, the distrusting sneer they give is the first indication that they are not only part of an altruistic, larger movement fighting for Social Change, but are foremost part of a pack of kids fighting for Fashion Acceptance. Which is fine, the bodies are needed, but as the story of my life goes, I never do well with costumes, dress codes, or sneering packs of teenagers.

[If this post was in The Ironing Board Collective, a wonderful fashion blog, there would be a series of pictures showing examples of what I am talking about. Since I'm not that savvy on this here blog, I'll have to use words. Fortunately, the look is the same for all genders, so I won't have to break it down in binary. Everything is in black unless otherwise indicated. One look fits all...]

Let's start below the ankle and work our way up:

Blackspot Sneakers (made by AdBusters): Costing about $80. USD, Blackspots are made from hemp and natural rubber in a Fair Trade factory in northern Pakistan, making them the first choice for the socially-aware revolutionary.
I won't get into the politics of sneakers here. They are designed by John Fleuvog (one of my all time favorite shoe guys, truly...no wonder they're so cute and I secretly covet them but won't buy them because I'm often too poor and always too old).
On Adbusters website, it says: "This is your chance to unswoosh Nike's tired old swoosh and give birth to a new kind of cool in the sneaker industry..."
Now you know where to go if "giving birth to a new kind of cool" is your reason for marching.

If these are out of price range, a pair of Chuck Taylors ($40-$50 USD) in red or black, seem to be the next best thing. Despite that Converse is owned by Nike, rendering them not that revolutionary on the surface, they apparently work just fine. You can walk in them. I saw people doing that, walking in them. Just know that you are an evil re-swoosher.

Try and avoid leather when choosing shoes (for some reason the same doesn't always apply when picking a jacket).

Above the shoes and to the knee is where joyful individuality can creep into the costume. The bicyclists, bless their hearts, will wear one leg rolled up with a stripey sock ($7.50 at The Gap. Hey, Adbusters doesn't sell socks, and I'm certainly not knitting you any).
I doubt many kids in Emeryville are seeking out sweatshop-free socks, where throngs of holiday shoppers push each other around to feed cash registers on sacred Ohlone Land.
The one leg rolled up/ stripey sock look, besides feeding expression, is a measure taken for keeping the bike chain from grinding your skinny jeans into pilly nubs. Careful, now. And remember to always have the leg rolled up, even if you're driving a car or riding the bus. It let's me know: "that person rides a bicycle." The same way a single match floating in a public toilet tells me, "that person just took a shit".

If the bike leg is not rolled up, we can see the whole of the skinny jean (Levis, $75-$150 USD) without the chaos of the stripey sock. How the cyclists get it rolled up so far in the first place is beyond me. It's like a tourniquet...

For a moment I must jump straight above the neck to the fashion face mask. I can't bear to wait.
The bandanna -worn- tight- around- the- face is the new tribal tattoo/tramp stamp. An all-purpose face cover, the fashion mask is to be worn in all situations, ~~even~~ especially when tear gas is not present or threatened.

Dependent on weather, you can use different types of fabric so you don't have to be the fashion victim who needs to pull down their mask when talking to other masked friends, or sliding it to one side to smoke a clove cigarette- a mortifying faux pas, to be sure.
Proms, weddings, Senior Pictures, I predict the face mask will be the next big hit with the Twilight Crowd.

Until then, I'll try to learn how to post pictures.
More in part 2, which may not be directly after part 1.

[Full disclosure: I do know the importance and value of carrying a face mask soaked in apple cider vinegar during protest/civil disobedience. Right pocket, in a Ziploc...I'm jaded, not stupid.]

Mayo and Starshine

2011-12-12T11:57:00.000-08:00

[This is not about hair. This is about juvenile delinquency. It is unedited freee-write. Please forgive misspellings, grammar or any other problems.]

"Parents should worry if their children haven't been arrested by the time they turn sixteen. Being a juvenile delinquent is a birthright and as much a part of healthy adolescence as smoking cigarettes or getting pimples. If your kid is class president or an eager beaver in extracurricular activities, beware. These overachievers usually reach their peak in High School, and from the day they graduate, it's downhill. If your kid is a terror and refuses to go along with any authority, he will be forced to hang around with social outcasts and learn early to sort out the exciting and original people from all the idiots. I'd never trust anyone who hasn't spent at least one night of his youth in the local jail. The more hell you raise as a teenager, the sweeter your memories will be..." -John Waters

Once again, John Waters gives the best advice. It's true:

I was lucky to be arrested by the DEA when I was seventeen. I mean, I was lucky I wasn't eighteen when it happened.
Full disclosure:
I was selling LSD in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show in Roanoke VA [pause for laughter/mockery]. Unbeknown to me, the lot was a hop-skip up the road from the DEA training center.
We were selling LSD ("Aaaaacid!" I shouted, like I was selling toast), as well as giant joints made of shake and seeds ("Gorilla Fingers, Big Fat Gorilla Fingers For Sale," screamed David, may he rest in peace)

An Agent in training, we'll call him Agent Mayo (because that was his real name), approached the tent, a hippie girl climbing all over him (we'll call her Starshine). Mayo was sweaty and gross, in a new tie-dye, looking for any drugs he could find. He was that unspecific. Whatever ya got..., he said (tip-off #1).

Mayo and Starshine were freakin' authentic, their arrival announced by a waft of patchouli that manifest thirty seconds before the touchdown of their sandaled feet.
I know the patchouli/hippie thing is cliche, which in hindsight should have been another small clue. New Birkenstocks + Patchouli= Federal Agent Looking To Throw You In Jail. I must have forgotten, not known yet, or was simply eager to get rid of what I had left.

I had no suspicion. Mayo was sketchy, but Starshine was the clincher. The ultimate prop, she looked out of her mind, like a Manson Girl who didn't have the balls to carve an X into her forehead so she left LA and went on East Coast Tour. She kept wiping Mayo's bald head (tip-off #2) with a wet rag, with high pitched giggling. She laughed like the girl that got raped by the forest in The Evil Dead.

Had Mayo popped me an hour before he did, I would probably still be locked up today. I only had 25 hits left by the time he nailed me, down from the 2,500 hits I started the day with. I sold him the rest of what I had.
They even bought the shitty weed. Nobody had bought a joint all day. We wouldn't even smoke this headache weed, yet Starshine seemed pretty amped about buying the Gorilla Fingers and the LSD, so Mayo acted like he was doing us all a favor. "I'll take it all, everything you got," he said, Starshine tweaking his nipples with her painted nails (tipoff #3).
Desperation veiled any red flags. All of it in one sale? Perfect. More time to count money.

Mayo took the drugs out of my hand and put the cash into David's, locking us both into the sale. They both smiled as they noodle-walked away, Starshine exhibiting such REALNESS that I was convinced they would be together forever, hugging and swaying at Rolling Stones reunion shows until we were all dead.

Within a minute of the sale, we were surrounded. "DEA" they said, "stand up, please." They said please, which further indicated they weren't regular cops.One guy kept a hand on my shoulder and said "stay still, please."
So I ran.
Sprinting barefoot through the lot, I was a blur in red gauze Hammer Pants. As I ran, I heard Lisa yelling behind me Run, Danny, Ruuuun!
I could hear her voice melting as I dodged VW Buses, Evangelical Jesus Freaks dragging life-size crosses and confused Tour Hippies.

"Help!" Somebody heeelp meeee! They're gonna get me!" People looked up from their blankets, thinking Oh Shit, That Dude is on A Bad One...Check It Out, Pankake Dredd, this kid is buggin'..." They all thought I was just another beginner losing his mind, and watched tranfixed as I was tackled by an army of DEA and they realized I wasn't lying. "Oh, shit, Pancake, that dude was serious..."

Yeah, no kidding, Pancake. I was held for a week, shoeless in my Hammer Pants, until my mother was finally dispatched to get me, flying 1000 miles to collect me. My charge was "conspiracy to overthrow the government." (They don't weigh the LSD, but the paper/sugarcube/strawberry that it's laid onto, amping up the weight and making the seller implicit in an imagined desire to dose a water supply.)

I can tell you now that a parent doesn't know how to lecture their teen on a charge such as this. It's not like I got caught shoplifting or smoking cigarettes. The words "acid" and "conspiracy" go a long way to stifle any parental response, particularly when used in the same sentence by a judge.

I don't know what happened to Starshine, but Agent Mayo contacted at my court date six months later.
His message said:

You Were My Final Exam,
Agent Mayo

So Mayo passed. With flying colors.

Dress Code: Fashion Forward

2011-12-08T15:09:00.000-08:00

[this is not an excerpt from Hairdresser on Fire, but an expansion. Francis is the name of the main character in the book. Enjoy.]

When I got my job at the Beauty Cult, that first day, I was told by the Director of Education that I had to wear different clothes, that I had to dress it up a little.

"Oh....there's a Dress Code?" I asked, unsurprised. Of course there was a Dress Code; there's always a Dress Code is in this business. Everything on the surface must be expressed to the liking of the Institution you are working in, and that always means Dress Code.

"Errrr, no no noooooooo, not a dress code," she said. "We don't believe in a dress code here! We want everybody to feel free! And you, too, we want you to feel free to express yourself inside of our culture, silly!"

Silly, she called me, as if I should have come prepared to decipher every bit of jargon thrown at me inside of the school, a challenge I would never overcome during my three month stint.

"So, whadda ya mean? If I can't wear what I have on..." My shoes were scraping themselves together, telling me to run. Shushing my shoes, I planned an eye to eye plea for understanding.
I looked into her eyes and was smacked hard by the mirrored contact lenses she wore. My own confusion was being thrown back at me from the space where her irises were supposed to be. In the reflection, I looked like an ape.

(Worse than mirrored sunglasses, these mirrored contact lenses really hit the heghts of shade and perversion. When I looked at her all I saw was my own stupid face glaring back. I looked sad. A sad ape. Her mirrors were so shiny, so rigid- looking, that I couldn't imagine them being just contacts, but entire eyball replacements. Like she popped out the sneaky predator eyes before bed, sleeping with empty sockets while her mirrorballs floated in a glass next to her bed, like dentures.)

"...and that's why you can't wear those shoes," she said, finishing the sentence I didn't hear, her direct order pulling me out of my parenthetical loop of dentures and eyeballs.

"But these are fancy shoes..." I pointed at them. "See? They're like modified wingtips! And they were wicked expensive!" To me, they were fancy despite their age, and despite the side to side shaking of the giant pink synthetic extensions pulling at the Director's scalp. "They're Canadian, my shoes!" I said, as if that would win me any points. It never does.

She couldn't have cared less about my imported shoes and looked at them for a long time, trying to figure out how to X them out of her life forever. She was running deep hate circles around my shoes, antipathy fogging her lenses.

"I don't think soooo...they're not realy wingtips...they look too sneaker-y." she said, using a press-on nail to scrape the remaining repugnance from the corners of her lids. "And: If ya can run in 'em, you can't wear 'em. That's the rule!"

"The rule? You mean the dress code?"

"Neeeewp, it's not a dress code! Just a rule!"

"But, you said I had to..."

"I didn't say what you had to wear! I just said You Can't Wear That!"

"Well, ok, I...uh... hmmm.... So what should I wear tomorrow?"

"Not what you wore today, that's for sure!" she said, her face a Limburger Cheese scowl. "But...the good news... you can choose from three different 'looks"! You choose the look you fit best in! That's why it's not a Dress Code!"

"I can pick?"

"Yep! You pick! And I bet I know exactly which one you'll pick, Mister Fancypants!" She mustn't have seen my pants when she scanned me bottom to top, or she wouldn't have called me Mr Fancypants. Maybe my shoes horrified her so much she had to stop at my ankle to avoid a fashion panic attack.

"Three looks?"

"Yep! Three! Not too bad, huh?"
The first choice is the Classic look, which I don't really see you in... then there's Edgy, The Edgy Look, which may be a little too 'young' for you..." I hate when people use language this way. Instead of saying I was too old, she said the "look" was too young. The Cult filled itself with such semantics.
"And the last one- the one I think you'd look great in- is the Fashion Forward Look....you're a total Fashion Forward. Yup," she said, "definetely a fashion forward..."

Now I wanted to cry. I knew this Fashion Forward business would set me up for another brutal battle at Ross Dress For Less- the store I always end up at when my daily uniform is challenged and enforced.

Roaming the aisles in my smelly pants and burnhole sweater, I make secret Ross wishes as I tapped the racks:

I wish they had pants in my size.
I wish their Husky Boys section had better selection.
I wish they would separate their pants by "pleats" or "no pleats" so I'd know which section to avoid (pleats).

The Only "Processing" That Should Be Done In A Beauty School Should Involve Chemicals, Not Hugging

2011-12-07T13:06:00.000-08:00

[I promise I wont be posting rants like this very often. I'll try to keep it light. I can see where many people may say I am "all problem and no solution"so I'll give you some solutions in my next post...for example: Cut Your Own Hair; Shave it half off, the long way, whatever that means to you; Take all your hair in a bunch and slide it right to left, slicing in with kitchen scissors (again, interpret that as you will)...maybe you shouldn't follow my haircutting advice. I wouldn't. So, until then, there's this...]

Prospective students
and stylists:
withhold your money
from the Corporate High Holy
who control the sales
of information
and products
The Figureheads of Industry
who manipulate
with a veneer
of Higher Purpose

YOU ARE ONLY SIGNING UP
TO GO TO SCHOOL
TO LEARN
AND GET A LICENSE

Corporate Beauty Schools
will tell you different
will sell you different
throwing in the notion
that they are not only teaching hair
but saving lives

As the Dean of Students
for a notorious Beauty Cult
once told me
in his nasal Mormon whine:

"We Are Here To Make Better People,
Not Better Stylists
We Fix Broken People!
Addictions, Loss, and Heartache
I've Seen Them All Mended Here
In Our Culture!
At Our School!
JOIN US!"
(and for three months I did
as an Educator
for The Cult
I will never
live it down)

if you are addicted,
I'm sure there are numbers
you can call
meetings you can attend
and none of them
are attached to
a Beauty School

The Leaders of Industry
will only serve to limit
your learning experience
with dogma and clapping
and maybe even
a little EST

So,
unless you need the coddling
save your money
find a Community College
pay in cash
if you can
dont let them wrap you
in their loans

they tell you anything they need to
to get you to sign on the dotted line
the facades of pink billowing curtains
and giant posters of Celebrity Smiles
only serve to hide the lack of learning
and utter frustration
trapped inside the classroom

glitter and glue
do not replace
solid learning
blind praise
heaped upon needy shoulders
does not replace
working at learning your trade

don't wait until you are like me
and you cannot bear it anymore

where you'd rather slit your face
than work in a salon
where the injustices
far outweigh
the benefits
and all you can do
anymore
is write about it

It's All Keratin

2011-12-06T10:53:00.000-08:00

When I went to beauty school
over twenty years ago
The Bible of Beauty
(that's not what it was called)
was the main theory book
the federally accepted, standard text
for most all beauty school curricula

the text described/divided
hair types
not by texture
but by race

white hair was desribed as "normal hair"
and by white I don't mean lacking pigment.
I mean white like "look at the normal hair on that white lady."

asian hair was described as "overly straight"

black hair was, following suit, "overly curly"

Overly. The teacher seemed oblivious to the implications.

When we got to the chapter with different face shapes
the manual's antiquity showed itself
with pictures of pink-faced lady
all lined up in rows
according to the shape of their heads:

Diamond-shaped face
Heart-shaped face.
Oblong face.
Round face.

Well looky there
You Can Draw The Lines

Then it went like this:

Asian face
which sort of looked like the Round Face
but inside of the circle
was a racist cartoon
with just yellow tone for skin

and then, as all the air sucked out of my lungs,

the teacher said it out loud

Person With Negroid Features

And Deleena said

Oh, no.
What- in- the- fuck- is- a- ne-groid?
And she did a robot walk around the teachers desk
I -am -not -buyin -this- shi-it, in robotvoice, she repeated
What. The. Fuck. Is. A. Ne-groid."

other people slammed their books on the ground
I- am- from-the-planet-ne-grella robotted Deleena
in-the-galaxy-of-neg-ron
stiff-legging her way out the door
we all followed
one by one
a student walk-out
in protest of the text

The School said they'd call the authors
if they ever did, I can't be sure

When I became an educator
twelve years later
I saw that the text hadn't changed much
and I had to tell my students

There's no such thing as "overly"
Nevermind that
The shit's all keratin
It's curly, or it aint

the Bible of Beauty
is still limited
to teaching certain procedures
over others

And my students, like I did twenty years ago
ended up marching in the streets
picketing their own school
this time
for gross exploitation of race
an opportunistic attempt so deep
that I am still
wrapping my head around it
(this was only two years ago
I wish I was lying)

in the Happy Smile Corporate schools of today
it's just as racist
a sea of Mormon-white faces
waiting to burn your eyes out
with sodium hydroxide
standing on stages
the same text
but with superballs
and god-forsaken glitter
thrown into the mix
to distract people
from getting an education

all they have to do is clap their hands
and catch the ball
as more glitter slips in
on the backs of thin, greasy ponytails

Pretty Beaver

2011-12-04T18:20:00.000-08:00

Blue-hairs- the community of those with blue hair- don’t just wake up that way. Blue hair doesn’t spring from the scalp, just like that. People have to work for that shit. The "blue" color of their namesake ranges from a powder blue to a deep steel, and comes from applying a blue rinse over white hair to cut the yellow. Basic color theory: complementary colors dull each other out when mixed. So if your white hair looks like rusty water, they'll grab for the violet rinse to cut the orange.

At the beauty school I graduated from twenty two years ago, the rinses were lined up by name and number on the shelves inside the dispensary, where anything that cost more than thirty cents was kept under lock and key. I always wanted to be in the dispensary instead of on the clinic floor, where I was sure to have to touch scalps. I'd argue for the position daily and would always win, freeing me up to waste hours organizing the rinses.
The "Miss Roux" line was my favorite, with animal-named shades, like Frivolous Fawn, White Minx, and Pretty Beaver.
Nothing made my day like someone telling me they needed some Pretty Beaver.

The non-animal color names weren't as fun but some of them sounded dirty: Hidden Honey, Bashful Blonde, Chocolate Kiss, Black Rage. The color titles hinted at a suspected personality trait of the person who wore that shade: The girls who got Black Rage were dead serious, and it was never dark enough; Hidden Honeys were picky- it was either too gold or not gold enough; Bashful Blondes were the most low-maintenance, they didn't care to make waves. Too bashful, I guess.

Contact Lenses and The Cult of Community

2011-12-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

[Note to reader: This is NOT an excerpt from my "Hairdresser On Fire" manuscript, but a free write blog post which is an expansion of the manuscript.To set up for contextual clarity: for a few years as a Clown Child, my family was in a cult; the leader's name was Milton.]

My sister wanted contact lenses more than I wanted Clown White.
Going into Ninth Grade, she was as marked as I was. I can’t imagine being a girl in ninth grade, let alone being The Girl in The Cult, the one with the big nose and glasses. My father felt bad for not being able to provide contact lenses, and for passing down the giant schnozz that they would bookend.

He saved up all his working-class nickels until the day he could afford to buy the new eyeball covers she wanted. He was so proud when she opened the package and saw them; I think we all cried.

My family was always happy for one another when something went well. Not a lot of competition when the bar is so low. Not particularly encouraged, I never shot too high, something that is with me to this day.

When I wanted a paper route my mother said "Oh, no way. No way, Jose! I am not driving around in the rain at seven in the morning on Saturdays when you don’t wanna wake up and do it. It’s a big responsibility, Francis. You’ll join up, and then you won’t do it, just like the Cub Scouts. Remember the Cub Scouts?”

When my sister got to remove her giant glasses, I was genuinely happy that she broke through to my parents. To her, they didn’t say “Oh, we’ll get ‘em for you, even though you probably won’t put them in.” They just got them for her, knowing. And she wore them, too. Every day. Her old glasses sat on her cracked wooden shelf like a fossil, on one lens was a gold butterfly and on the other lens were her initials. They were that big.

When Milton and the other Men in The Community found out about the contacts they weren’t too happy, and called my parents into an emergency meeting with the parish priest, Father Moe.
Moe was a raging queen who was later sent away from the Church- not because he was diddling boys, but because he was having sex with men, and because they knew he was a big old 'mo. Father ‘Mo.

“So, Milt, what’s this all about?” my father asked.

“Maybe we should all sit,” said Father ‘Mo.

“Yes, maybe. Good idea, Moe,” said Milton.

My mom sat silent as Milton took the seat across from my dad, took Father Mo’s seat. Milton was such a dick.

“We see you bought your Carlene some contact lenses...that’s what we heard from the girls today, that Carlene had some contacts in at school.”

“Yeah?” my father said.

“Well, we just don’t think…”

My father’s hands balled into fists as he waited for Milton to say it.

“…we just don’t think you should be making such large purchases without consulting the Community first.... or at least tell Moe, here…”

“Father Moe,” said Father ‘Mo.

“Father Moe...sorry.... but we, me and Moe, see this purchase as a reduction of your tithe, of our tithe, and we can’t have that. You understand.”

My father jumped out of his seat and held up his hand to the men with his middle finger extended. He never did it before, maybe once in the Navy, but giving the finger wasn’t his long suit. Like me, when enraged, he turns into Don Knotts.

“Screw you, Milt!” he screamed, "screeew youuu!" His voice shook into the higher octaves, his register getting higher with each word and his voice cracking. “I’ll buy anything for my damn kids that I damn well want, you don’t tell me how to spend my damn money, you big jerk.”

My father grabbed my mom and plucked her out of her seat- she was starting to cry- and pulled her out of the room, pushing past Milton and through the door, walking out the clackety doors of the Church rectory. "And screw you too, Moe!"
And that was it. As fast as we were in a cult, we were out. No de-programming required. My parents got into their Impala and drove away.

"Well, that didn't go as well I had hoped," said Milton. "I guess some folks just can't be saved, huh Moe?"

“Father Moe,” said Father ‘Mo...

It Ends With The Click

2011-12-01T22:09:00.000-08:00

It's not like I never asked. I asked Chris the Receptionist, "Wait wait wait, you just way undercharged that dude..."
"Uhuh, honey. It was a men's cut." "
"Wait, what?"
"It was a Men's Cut." he said, like that was even a thing, a men's cut.
"No, it was a hair cut, Chris...I..."
"Men's cut!" he sang, tapping a beat on the cash register.
The cash register, always filling up, ding, kachunk, slide, click.

Why Stores At The Mall Have Always Sucked

2011-12-01T10:15:00.000-08:00

Once I discovered RIPTA- the Rhode Island Public Transit Authority- my pre-teen life started to really blossom. I was now going to the mall regularly, looking at “The Joy of Gay Sex” inside the WaldenBoooks across from the Deb Shop.

DEB, with its bubble mirror façade, reflecting everything in front of it thousands of times. With headache lighting and belt racks, I could never go in there with my sisters. DEB smelled like belts and carpeting and money and gave me an instant headache.

WaldenBooks soothed that headache, with its folksy name and wooden shelves. The staff were so lax, there was access to any kind of material, and it smelled like books. It still smelled like carpet, too, but not like DEB. WaldenBooks seemed so cozy back then, like a real smart person's book place.

This was 1978, before we knew that chains were bad, that local booksellers were the best way. Mall regulars called it simply Waldens. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone had any ideas on Thoreau, preservationism, resistance, things like that, but they knew Walden was something literary.“Like Whit Walden or whats’is name up at Walden Woods, up in Mass, on Golden Pond or whatever,” my mom said.

Are they even around anymore, or did they get shut down/ bought out? I could Google it, but that would defeat my own purpose of writing in this blog space. Feel free to research if it seems crucial.

The copy of “The Joy of Gay Sex” was hidden there at Waldens in the Politics and Finance section, where nobody ever went, not even the staff. I didn’t hide it myself, but I found it and kept it hid. There were probably six of us, all complete strangers, feeding off the secret of our communal hiding place. Looking at the book, I couldn’t believe what I was in for. So lame.The drawings were so shitty that it wasn’t even dirty, like a sketch of “oral passive”, drawn as if it was a diagram for using a car jack.

Deflated, I would go to Spencer Gifts and flip through the dirty poster display in the back, skipping past all the Cheryl Tiegs and the Cheryl Ladds and all the Cheryls, swip, swip, swip, the blacklight Boston poster, swip, swip, the blacklight acid-head poster, swip, the pot-leaf poster, swip, swip, swip, until I got to the hairy fireman one, where you could see the top of his bush poking above his yellow rubber pants with red suspenders.
I would stand gawking, thinking more about the red suspenders than “oral passive”, until a gaggle of teenagers- a demographic that still works my nerves to this day- would come back there to check out the strobe lights, lava lamps, and posters of the Cheryls.

I would flip to a Cheryl as soon as I heard their stupid cracky voices, afraid they would think I was looking at the suspender fireman. “’Ay, Sherrrrrr-alll,” they’d say as they passed the poster, like Damone in Fast Times with the Deborah Harry cut-out, all oh… Debbie…hi…
It really was a magical world, the back of Spencer Gifts, and my time there was always ruined by some zit faced asshole who wanted some fake dog shit or punk sticks or a Cheryl.

Eventually, RIPTA would take me past the mall, all the way to Providence, where I’d find the smaller indie bookstores, with not only great books I’d never heard of, but entire rows of filth way better than the suspender fireman shit at Spencers.

My bus pas lasted another year before I got my license, the giant Volvo tires of the RIPTA bus kneeling to to the yellow curb with a hydraulic pssssssttt, dropping me off to find the sleazy alleys and parking lots where I would at last come to understand “oral passive”, in a very physical way. I even made a little lunch money.
Fuck WaldenBooks.

The Poet's Fridge/Letter to eileen

2010-08-13T10:46:00.001-07:00

I left my needle in the poet's fridge
that summer
in Provincetown

Dear Eileen,
I never told you what was in the blue bag
it sat in your fridge like a brick
on the bottom shelf
it took up space in the vaccuum
of your giant, empty poet's fridge
You must have looked inside
while I slept in an upstairs nook
a room designed for artists
and art
but instead it was me
sleeping
while your girlfriend looked
into the blue bag
(who wouldnt look inside
a blue medical bag
placed by a stranger
without asking
behind cans of seltzer)

The Poet (hero)
and her girlfriend
never asked
'what medicine are you shooting
into your leg in our guest bathroom
why do you look green
ten minutes later'
(the poet knows drugs)
(the poet knows that my needle doesn't fill itself
with drugs,
but with medicine)

The Poet has seen so many
deaths
big and small
friends and presidential campaigns
and now I sit
in the new england summer
with an epi-pen micro-fine
jammed into my thigh muscle
tightening
unprepared for reception
burning
interferon killing me
in your home seeming perfect
for those moments
suspended
I died
until other needles were poked
through my chest
in jest they slid
pulling only air
and bits of flesh
behind them
'play' needles they were called
by tattooed voices
to make them seem innocent
objects no different from paper dolls
air rushed my lungs
and a girl cried
guilt rising in her lungs
pouring out her lips
She Wasn't Ready Yet
To Go This Far For Play
I walked
up commercial street
with my shirt off
dry needles stuck in flesh
and blood dripping to my waist
as i ordered coffee
what a poseur

Dear Eileen,
I'm sorry
I never told you
what was in the bag
before
I put it in your fridge
Your Holy Poet's Fridge
I am sure you know
it was only medicine
I hope it didn't shock your lady
as i was shocked
by the bowl of perfect citrus
laid sterile on the marble countertop

Strutter

2010-07-15T23:52:00.000-07:00

This one time
when I was in second grade
I went to Mammoth Mart
with the Church Lez
to pick out 45's

I picked
Sometimes When We Touch
by Dan Hill
I thought it would be dirty

When I got home
I traded it to my sister
for Strutter '78
Thank God
she traded me

pantoum 36

2010-06-24T16:24:00.000-07:00

for Los Angeles

You do not have to suffer for beauty
It's not true
A farce created by industry
Mean cheerleaders chant in unison

It's not true
that silver hair is ugly
Mean cheerleaders chant in unison
"Dye Job! Botox! GLITTER!"

"That silver hair is ugly"
she said it and you bought it
Dye job, Botox, glitter.
Glitter gets everywhere; I hate it

She said it, and you bought it
Now your face is a frozen mask in a dark bar
Glitter gets everywhere; I hate it
when careless hands toss glitter around the dance floor

Now your face is a frozen mask in a dark bar
stretched tight in fury
When careless hands toss glitter around the dance floor,
flashbulbs pop from your face for weeks

stretched tight in fury
Self-tanning lotion sets orange in creases
Flashbulbs pop from your face for weeks
The Lady says, "Don't move. You have glitter on your face"

Self-tanning lotion sets, orange in creases
Self-concious in the bank, you panic
The Lady says, "Don't move. You have glitter on your face"
Nobody knows it's on your butthole, too

Self-concious, in the bank you panic
everyone sees your glittering fake tan
Nobody knows it's on your butthole too
(both the glitter and the tan)

Everyone sees your glittering fake tan
the Botox, the dye job, the pinpricks
Both the glitter and the tan
fill the holes made by needles

The botox the dye job the pinpricks
they only make you smell older
Fill the holes made by needles
with botulism from a petri dish

They only make you smell older
A farce, created by industry
Fill the holes made by needles
You do not have to suffer for beauty

Moira Scar record review: Slink to Intensity

2010-06-22T12:43:00.000-07:00

Moira Scar: Slink to Intensity

Embodying the ephermal nature of certain insects, Moira Scar’s music is at once organic, immediate, and similar to nothing that has come before. To call it “avant garde” would indicate that it could be labeled at all, and no other band/entity defies labels to the degree of Moira Scar.

Roxanna Fausti Arania and Lu-Lu Gamma Ray, ex -Floating Corpses, recorded this in 2011, before adding Ryan "bonus beast" King to the line-up.

A shot of adrenaline in this postmodern landscape, Moira Scar brings together aspects of dada-ism, complex flux-ism, voodoo, conjure and madness, presenting its catharsis beneath layers of glittered soundscapes. New yet somehow ancient, Moira Scar’s Slink to Intensity is like finding lost audio of an unknown tribe of urban shamans. The record in its entirety reveals a wall of complexities assembled with microsurgical precision; nothing is coincidental, and this is not noise.

Tracks like “Blood Moon” peek into the midnight dreams of a musical shape-shifter, pulling us without notice from dark jazz filth to manic klezmer romp; “Gnu Groove” promises to be the intergalactic dance hit for the New Aeon, with vocal tracks slicing through a sonic backdrop like ripping silk, clean lines from high to low. All the way through to “Maggot Dance,” Slink to Intensity is a mutant feast for starving minds, a supernatural buffet of sound for hungry ears.

The record, like the live performance, doesn’t simply happen but instead takes place in time, demanding the audience to analyze the here and now, to acknowledge it and draw it forth into the dark invisible. This intergalactic unity of sense and spirit produces a record that can resemble exorcism, frenzied benediction, or cathartic possession- all depending on how you look at it.

Using guitars, drums, horns, synth and vox to alchemical effect, Pelvis and Sapphoid (Rox N Lu)- the duo of humanoids who create the channel from which Moira Scar pours- evoke the innocence of demon-children singing lullabies, their presence blurring the line between art and life, between performance and existence. Eradicating any preconceived constructs that foolishly attempt to restrict transmission, Moira Scar is an open channel, a cosmic mystery box that you would trade in all your raffle tickets for.

Don’t be scared. Hand over your tickets. Open the box.

pantoum 35

2010-06-22T12:39:00.000-07:00

Ravens line branches
to shit on my head
It brings good fortune
The blessings of birds

To shit on my head
Digested fruit and nectar
The blessings of birds
Only good can come of this

Digested fruit and nectar
It brings good fortune
Only good can come of this
Ravens line branches

pantoum 34

2010-06-22T12:28:00.000-07:00

pantoum#34

Lilies in full bloom
White curls
Like Mapplethorpe
At once filthy and beautiful

White curls
The hair of old women
At once filthy and beautiful
Yellowed by poison air

The hair of old women
Wound on tiny rods
Yellowed by poison air
Overprocessed with chemicals

Wound on tiny rods
Tension pulls at scalps
Overproccessed with chemicals
Hair turns to mush

Tension pulls at scalps
Chemicals burn skin
Hair turns to mush
Sink traps eat, digest

Chemicals burn skin
like Mapplethorpe
Sink traps eat, digest
lilies in full bloom

poem

2008-02-18T16:22:00.000-08:00

A poem. Written a long time ago. Co-written with George H Reyes, found recorded on an audio tape made in a four day period of self induced sleep deprivation:

San Francisco 1995

Last minute quick list of things in the city:
Slow cabs arriving and smiling
Late airport grumblings
creeping up pigs asses driving
and there’s no seat on that bird for me
Backseat silence rips voracious purr through spilled port sky
layered thicker than evenings slit
cunt shade
wet magnet
drift
cuss
and cut grit
on the 26th terminal
watching lost kids erupt
amber fountains adrenal