And now, due to popular demand, the second of the “Zeitgeist Boom”/”Drunken Monkey” columns from wherever the hell it is I first published them (It’s fiction, dammit! Don’t forget – it’s fiction!):
Mean Woman Blues
By Drunken Monkey
I’m in the Airstream, on the not-so-foamy pad that passes for a bed, playing a sweet shuffle beat on a little gal I met at the Chimacum feed store across the highway, when my cell phone rings.
Well, it doesn’t ring, actually, it starts thumping out the opening of “L.A. Woman.” Which, if you’re old enough to remember that song, you’ll know is totally out of sync with my fucking, or anybody’s, for that matter.
I’m so thrown that the little gal (who wasn’t really all that little, but she’d showed me a picture of the tiny thing she’d been back in the day and that was who I was banging in my mind) raises up her head and turns so she can see me, and her Absolut-soaked voice gives out an angry, “What the hell? I was just about to make it. Get back on track, monkey man!”
“You were just about to make it? What d’you think I was gonna fucking do?”
The phone stops. Both of us realize it at the same time.
“Hurry, babe,” she says. “Now, now now!”
“Honey, I’m so there—”
I push her face down into the mattress, pull up her butt—
And I remember another time, back in ’68 or ’69, when hearing “L.A. Woman” threw me off so badly that the genuinely little thing I was humping on stomped out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house without bothering to put on her clothes.
Probably, she didn’t even remember she had clothes. Because we weren’t fucking in just any bedroom in any house, we were fucking in the back bedroom of Eighty Something Something Wonderland Avenue, off Laurel Canyon in La La Lovely L.A., in a session that’d already gone on for two nights and two days of ‘shrooms and acid and shit I can’t recall. The real wonder of that night wasn’t that I’d managed to get my pecker up in the first place, it was that I still knew what a pecker was and that I had one.
“Christine, my little mescaline queen! Don’t go….”
Then I stopped. From the next room I heard Jim’s voice:
“Well I just got into town about an hour ago.
Took a look around, see which way the wind blow….”
Now when I say I heard Jim from the next room, I mean that literally. The Wonderland Avenue house belonged to Morrison’s keyboard-playing pard in The Doors, Ray Manzarak, and I was crashing there after being tossed out of my little Hollywood bungalow by a certain Ms. I can’t name because she’s still alive and miserable mean, who came home with me one night after a recording session on Cahuenga where I was teaching the music lovers of the world how to play drums.
I tripped downstairs and saw Morrison and Manzarak at Ray’s beat-up upright. Jim was wailing, but he stopped when he saw me.
“What’re you doing, standing there naked and watching me, man?”
“Your goddamn song made me lose my hard on,” I said.
“You’re lucky, man. Everything makes me lose my hard on. Fucking downers.” He turned to Ray. “I’m thinking we should shitcan this damn song anyway. Fuckin’ Po’ Boy hates it.”
“Fuckin’ Po’ Boy” was their producer at the time. And his opinion of “L.A. Woman” is more proof if anybody needs it that the minute you give a dude a title with “producer” in it his brain turns into a turd so hard it won’t float.
So I’m in the Airstream, remembering all this and how great that Wonderland Avenue bitch was in bed, and my fucking gets right in the groove.
Until the trailer door bursts open and this Paul Bunyan sized guy crashes in, just as both me and whoever are once again about to cum.
“Arlene! You damn whore!”
“Baby! Shit! It’s not what you think. This gentlemen was helping me load the Nutrena into the truck —
“Don’t talk to me about loads, bitch—”
My cell rang again. I rolled off the pad and grabbed it, keeping myself out of their way.
“Yo, Monkey!” It was the Kid Editor. “Just want you to know our first issue was a big success, and everybody loved your column. We need more…except we’re changing the format so we need it to be half as long.”
Which is a good thing because that’s when Chimacum Bunyan caved in my nose and I stopped being able to think about anything, except one last word:
Speaking of book deals, I’ve been thinking lately about re-using a character I created a couple of years ago for a column I began writing in a Seattle-based rock mag. The column was pseudonymous and fictionalized – a less than idealistic picture of what my life was like back in the day when I would rather have played drums than breathed.
I don’t know how long the magazine lasted. Maybe it’s still going. But I only wrote two columns because they never got around to paying me. Because they were just launching and I felt sorry for them, the fee was only lunch, but still. Anyway, here’s the character. I’m thinking of making him the protagonist in a novel set in the ’60s, in a music world I knew all too well.
What do you think?
Lo! There Shall Be a Beginning
By Drunken Monkey
First of all, let’s get something straight.
I’m not one of your Seattle dudes. Not rocking in Rain City ’cause fragile little Kurtie did it.
I’m from Tennessee and St. Louis and Port Arthur, with way too many years in the studio in L.A. And way too few years in the street in San Francisco.
I’ve played in bars in Chicago, Santa Fe, Taos. Lived in The Factory in NY. Partied in Soho and Laurel Canyon. Been wasted with everyone from Andy Warhol to Jim Morrison. Toured with Don Henley, which for me was the real Day the Music Died.
Why? Let me count the ways. No drugs. No groupies. And—I swear to God—no jamming. It was a tour of the Southeast to plug Don’s latest solo album—in other words, songs his Eagles mate, Glen Frey, hated—and we had to play exactly what was on the CD. No more. No less. No different.
Couldn’t get high. Couldn’t get laid. Couldn’t improvise.
So not worth the paycheck, man.
Is it even rock ‘n’ roll if you’ve got to wear phones and listen to the whole recording and not just a clicktrack to make sure you’re giving the oh-so-straight-and-far-from-panting public what the record company expects while you’re onstage?
Especially when you’re a drummer.
Who grew up in the school of Keith Moon, that crazy sumbitch who lived and played way before Cobain but died the same way.
(Seems to me the last thing I want for my last earthly sensation is the taste of my own vomit spewing up, but, hell, to each his own.)
So I’m not your Seattle rocker. I’m way too old and experienced in more than a Hendrix kind of way.
Which isn’t to say I don’t hear Puget Sound slapping in my ears like a stand-up bass, because I do. Everyday.
Between trucks, that is.
The trucks going by my place on Highway 19, headed up the middle finger most people call the Olympic Peninsula on their way to Port Townsend.
If you’ve gone that way you’ve seen me just as you hit Chimacum. The hairy old dude in shorts and the faded aloha shirt sitting back in the plastic lounge chair across the highway from the Chimacum feed store. That’s right, the asshole with the highball glass filled with the finest, highest proof agua something or other, beside the old Airstream trailer. Except in the winter, when I’m the asshole inside the old Airstream with body-warming Scotch.
Got an ancient Ludwig drum kit in the Airstream too. Bought it in ’57, a year that also brought me my first blowjob. From a 13 year old girl who gazed up from a junior high dance floor and found her sweet self immediately bedazzled by the kit’s black sparkle pearl.
Or maybe it was the shades that did it. Thick and black-framed and so dark I could barely see the rest of the Drunken Monkey Band, which was named for me that night because I was the one who got the gig.
It was a good night to be 15 and playing rock ‘n’ roll. Covering Elvis and Fats and—I’m sorry—Pat Boone.
But that was then, and St. Louis.
And this is now, and, as the posers say, “South Port Townsend.”
Every bit as wild as Seattle can be, even when it comes to blowjobs, and not a hipster in sight. Chimacum’s definitely the place to be. Especially if you’re into white trash.
There I was, just a few blurred-out days ago, out beside my Airstream, engaged in one of my favorite summer sports, The 3 Tequilas Taste Test, when my cell started playing Jailhouse Rock.
A quick note about this classic. Lieber and Stoller, who wrote it—and who I’m sure have first names but I’m damned if I know or care what they are—hated Elvis’s performance because…and I love this…the crazy, speeded-up son of a bitch got the words wrong!
That’s right. I got it straight from Lieber—or Stoller, whoever. E was supposed to sing, “The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang, the whole rhythm section was the purple gang,” but Lieber or whoever swore that the first time they heard the track Momma Presley’s favorite emotional incest victim was singing, “The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bam,” and the Colonel was complaining, “How could you thimbleriggers write a song that doesn’t rhyme?”
So my cell interrupts me between the Sauza Gold and the Marquis de Valencia, and it turns out it’s one of this very magazine’s Fine Editors.
“Hey, D.M. What ya doin’?” Mr. Fine Editor, who’s so damn young he was probably born during that last, stultifying Don Henley tour, asks.
“Seeing if anything in the world can get me ripped better than Oro de Oaxaca Silver Mezcal, man. What about you?”
“I’m helping start a new rock magazine,” Mr. FE said.
“Rock? What’s rock these days? April Lavigne? Girl couldn’t rock if you tied her lips to a hi-hat and her pussy to a wah-wah pedal.”
“What’s a wah-wah pedal?”
“Goddammit, kid, get off my phone!” I tried to shitcan the call, but my thumb wouldn’t move. Which gave FE the chance he needed.
“We want you to write for us, Monkey Man,” he said. “Everybody knows it ain’t rock ‘n’ roll without the Drunk Monkey.”
“What do you want me to write?” I said. “If I’ve got to listen to crap like Firewater or Death Lizard or whatever the fuck—“
“No, no! We want you to write about the music you love. The music you played. The musicians you played with.”
“You want me to be your nostalgia monkey? No way, dude—“
“Wait! We want you to write about what it was like to make the music back in the day. About the good times. The good guys. And the bad ones too.”
“Can I write about blowjobs? They were part of the music, man. Till Henley banned ’em.”
The kid editor gasped. “Don Henley banned blowjobs?”
“Absolutely. The asshole.”
“Then yeah, yeah, you can write about it. Every month. You in?”
“I’m in,” I said.
And that brings me to this very moment of Now and Seattle. The moment when I welcome this wonderful magazine, which I’m sure has a name but if I can’t remember Lieber’s and Stoller’s names why in the memory of sweet, dead Blind Lemon Jefferson (yes, the last thing he tasted was also his own vomit because such is the rocker’s life and if bluesmen aren’t rockers, then the Space Needle Restaurant isn’t way overpriced), should I remember that of this budding literary baby?
The moment when I relate a short but meaningful story about beginnings and greatness.
It was the very early ’60s, and I was a senior in high school. My Ludwig sparkling pearl kit and I were in a band that had not one but two nationwide Top 40 hits. We were on top of the world.
But no one. Absolutely no one in school gave a damn.
No one even mentioned it. Not the popular kids. Not the creeps. Not the gang types we then called “greasers.”
No one acknowledged hearing either song on the radio, or seeing us on American Bandstand.
Our band didn’t exist. We didn’t exist—except as our crazyass, goofball selves. Four guys who’d been kicked out of the school marching band for bursting into Only the Lonely on the football field during practice. (The cheerleaders dug it though. Blowjob Number—well, by then I’d already lost count.)
At last, one day around graduation time, some student government type asswad sidled over to me in the cafeteria. With him were a couple of equally asswad buddies. “Hey, I saw the Beach Boys the other night. Was that you playing the drums with the band that opened for ’em?”
I was wearing my shades—I always wore my shades—but I took them off to look Asswad in the eye as I smiled. “Sure was,” I said.
“You dumb shit,” said Asswad. “You were holding your sticks wrong.”
Laughing, he and his assistant asswads walked away.
There’s a lesson in this, and here it is: Nobody wants to acknowledge other people’s success. Nobody wishes you well. You guys here at whatever this magazine is called have a chance to kick butt, and I think you’re all clever enough to do that and make it big.
Just remember, you’ve got the printing press. Never, never, never be afraid to use it to get in the last word. When you’re big and still getting crap, stand even bigger and say what I didn’t back then. Say it loud and say it proud:
May you create a future where you too get to lounge around in an old Airstream trailer. May the blowjob gods smile upon you.
My Truly Wonderful Friend & Agent’s not going to like me talking about this, but, c’mon, public nos don’t just trump private ones they whip the total bejezus out of ’em.
What happened was that about a month ago the TRF&W told me about a series of non-fiction books being done by an editor friend of hers, and the general substance of them was right up my alley. In fact, the editor had already come up with a topic that I know more about than just about anyone on this planet. (No, I’m not going to tell you what it is.) Was I interested?
Was I interested in getting paid to expound about one of my favorite subjects? Absolutely. My TRF&W told the editor the encouraging news and put us together to discuss everything in more detail.
It was a very good conversation. I was, as we used to say in the ’90s, jazzed.
Then my TRF&W dropped the bomb.
By telling me how much the editor would pay.
Again, I’m not going to tell you what it was. But I will say this: I’ve been paid more for 3000 word magazine articles than this publishing company is paying for 125,000 word books.
“Tell her I want more than that,” I told the TRF&W. “A lot more.”
“She’ll never go for it,” the TRF&W said. “I tried with a couple of other clients. No deal.”
“Tell her,” I said.
A couple of days later the TRF&W got back to me. “The editor is standing firm at the price.”
“Even though she knows that price sucks?”
“She says it’s a labor of love. You’ll have the chance to write about something you love more than anything else, something you’ve always wanted to share with the world.”
“If I’m going to write about something I love more than anything else in the world, I’ll write about myself. Does she want to pay me that amount for My Book About Me, By Myself? Because then I might consider it.”
I haven’t gotten a response yet, but I’m certainly not holding my breath. Exchanges like this always make me furious/insane. The belief that writers – that any creative beings – should work for nothing, or the equivalent of nothing, because it’s just so much gosh-darned fun for us to do our thing is another way of saying, “The whore had an orgasm. Why the hell should she get paid?”
Artists aren’t whores, but sometimes we forget that, and we fall into the “hey, it’s only pussy” trap and let ourselves give it away. Being asked to behave that way is insulting. Demeaning. If your income depends on our work, then pay us for the work, dammit, because so does ours.
Pay us appropriately.
Don’t fall for this crap, boys and girls. Believe in yourselves and your own worth.
To paraphrase the Rolling Stones:
They can’t always get what they want.
Especially when it keeps you from getting what you need.
My wife Gwen the Beautiful and I have been enjoying A&E’s THE GLADES since its debut. For us, the series has two things going for it.
It’s a cop show from the days they were cop shows instead of police procedurals, which means that although there are some unexpected twists there’s also a light-hearted feeling that makes me glad to be watching. (As opposed to, say, the plodding grimness of the CSIs, and the forced, usually unsuitable unclever repartee of the “Characters Welcome” shows on USA.)
The star, Matt Passmore, looks just like old friend, law-enforcement-officer-turned-actor-writer-producer Chriss Anglin.
Last night we settled in to watch our DVR’d Season 3 opener and had a good time. This show goes especially well with tequila, and with 1800 anejo…ah. We were especially pleased to see that the spark has returned to the Jim Longworth-Callie Cargill relationship. (The hero and his honey, right.)
The last time we watched the show they were barely speaking. Sure, the Season 2 finale ended with the beginning of a reapproachment, but in this episode they were in full-on lovers mode, grabbing each other by the hormones whenever and wherever they could.
Without the audience ever having been part of The Moment It Became Real.
You know what moment I’m talking about. It’s the one we all seek in that funny thing called Real Life…and remember forever. (Or, at least, until the Big Bad Permanent Break-Up That We Never Forget.)
This isn’t just frustrating. It’s a cop-out. A cheat. When I see things like this (and GLADES isn’t the only culprit here, is it, BONES fans?), in my head I hear the writers saying, “Hey, we’re clueless. We have no real-life experience in romance, only old movies. So bear with us, folks, cuz we just couldn’t think of a new, interesting way to write the realization and acceptance of love. Pretend you saw it. Pretend we did our job.”
With very few exceptions (MOONLIGHTING back in the day, CASTLE – yay! – just a few weeks ago), the rule on TV has been to keep the leads apart. Anger gets played onscreen, because anger = conflict, and conflict is what stories are all about. But the kind of love that grows into a powerful link between human beings has usually been treated as, simply, subtext. In fact, years ago, when I was doing otherwise highly satisfying and hugely successful (with critics if not always the audience), shows like POLICE STORY and MEDICAL STORY, Executive Producer David Gerber laid down a rule:
“Nobody in my shows says, ‘I love you.’ Ever. But if you have someone say, ‘I hate you,’ you’ll make me smile.”