At a red
light the youngish driver, who’d been silent for 20 minutes, suddenly turned
to me and asked, "Have you ever gotten the feeling everyone around you
is really negative?"
I said, wondering where this was leading. "I guess so."
he demanded, very seriously.
Sure. I guess."
his head. "Man, I was just sitting here realizing how I’m surrounded
by negative people. My family, all my friends… It sucks."
think of anything to say that might buck him up. For all I knew, everyone around
him really was a bringdown. I just hoped he wouldn’t get any suicidal thoughts
until after he dropped me off.
changed and he drove me to the Days Inn. There was a wild-sounding party going
on in a back room as I stood at the front desk and dealt with a skinny teenager
in braces, I guess a hotel-motel school student. After much confusion looking
for my reservation, it turned out the cabbie had dropped me at the wrong Days
Inn; mine was a long 10 blocks up the road. Now I was feeling a little negative
toward him myself. The strangest thing was that a FedEx that had been sent to
await my arrival was at this hotel, not the right one. Had I gone to the right
one first, I never would have gotten this crucial package.
As all this
was being sorted out, the kid noticed the folder where I was carrying my travel
paperwork. "Rock Til You Drop–what’s that?"
my book," I said.
You wrote a whole book?"
He slid a pen and one of the hotel’s business cards at me. "Could
you give me your autograph?"
I was starting
to think this author’s tour thing was all right. A drunk woman spilled
out the doors of the party room and bounced down the hall walls to land next
to me, where she clutched the desk for support.
Til You Drop?" she grinned at me.
my best," I said.
this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. I went outside to grab another
cab, thinking that Chicago is a very weird town. When I reached my real Days
Inn I was so late all I could do was throw my bags into the room and rush back
out to catch yet another cab for another long ride out to radio station WXRT
on the West Side. Chicago is one big-ass, spread-out city for taking cabs in.
Every ride seemed to take an hour and cost $20.
about to start dropping a lot of names, so I think I’ll go ahead and boldface
an accurate cliche to call Greg Kot and Jim DeRogatis the Siskel
and Ebert of Chicago rock critics. Kot writes for the Tribune, DeRogatis
for the Sun-Times, and they cohost a two-hour weekly call-in show, Sound
Opinions, 10-midnight Tuesdays. I was the guest for the last hour, doing
my schtick about how colostomy rockers like the Stones and Springsteen and Lynyrd
Skynyrd should be forced to retire. Got lots of callers, most wanting to argue
that their favorite geezer bands are exceptions to my rule that old farts in
bad wighats can’t rock. At the end of the show I screwed my chance of ever
being invited back when I blurted out that Kot and DeRogatis, both in their
40s, are too old to be writing rock criticism anymore. Doh. Yet DeRogatis gamely
joined me the following night for an appearance at the Empty Bottle,
the cool rock club in Wicker Park.
•At O’Hare the
next day United canceled my flight and the one after it, then delayed a third,
so that I had to race from the San Francisco airport straight to Books Inc.
in the Castro, bypassing my hotel and the shower I’d hoped to take
before appearing in public. It was a large crowd, but most of it wasn’t
mine: I was the opening act for J.T. LeRoy, who’s a superstar in
San Francisco and who’d kindly invited me to share the evening with him.
Following his usual m.o., he didn’t appear himself, but sent a bevy of
other stars to read from The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things for
him, among them Susie Bright, Re/Search legend V. Vale and rocker
Lynn Breedlove, who didn’t dig my act at all, possibly because she’s
no spring chicken herself. A bunch of other SF scenesters showed, including
Annalee Newitz of the Bay Guardian (or Gay Tardian, as
it’s known there), John Marr of Murder Can Be Fun, Jack
Boulware (San Francisco Bizarro) and rock writer Jennifer Maerz.
my first exposure to a sensitive West Coast crowd, and it was soon evident that
Breedlove wasn’t the only one who thought I was an ASSHOLE. I’d say
about half of them laughed along with my anti-geezer rant, while the other half
got downright hostile. I was accused of being sexist and ageist, a generally
negative and unfunny fellow with some real body image problems. Maybe it was
the Patti Smith and Stevie Nicks jokes that set them off. Later, the store’s
fabulous Patsy ("P-Funk") Lincoln-Hatt told me she hadn’t
seen an audience get riled up like that in ages, and invited me back to piss
them off again any time I wanted. Not everyone in the Bay Area is a p.c. robot.
When I got
up early the next morning and rode the BART out to Berkeley for an interview
on KPFA, the show’s producer told me their listeners "are not
known for their sense of humor" and specifically warned me away from my
material about fat old rockers squeezing into their stage outfits. But the interview
went okay, and the callers mostly just wanted to grumble at me about their favorite
Dodsworth, who was interviewing me for the San Francisco Examiner
(or Fagsaminer, as some out there call it), met me at the station and
took me on a leisurely flaneur’s tour of Berkeley and the bucolic UC-Berkeley
campus as we did our business. Fred hitchhiked to San Francisco from Arizona
30 years ago and never left. I was told there are lots of Freds in Berkeley.
He fed me a bunch of local lore in our morning together, and we talked newspaper
shop, and stopped in at a guitar store to plink around on a gorgeous acoustic
suggestion I was staying at the Triton, a Gershwin-like hotel full of hipsters
lounging on arty furnishings. Nice place, and perfectly sited right at the entrance
to Chinatown. Joel Schalit met me there and took me to a great lunch
at Caffe Macaroni, on the fringe of Chinatown, after which we paid our respects
at the landmark City Lights Bookstore, where I found a xeroxed pamphlet, Land
and Liberty, a play by the Mexican anarchist Ricardo Flores Magon, translated
and published in San Francisco by Mitchell Verter. The play is an hilariously
awful example of early 20th-century people’s agitprop, like the earnestly
preachy play Barton Fink has written at the beginning of his movie. It’s
all about noble peasants and vicious, mustache-twirling land owners, all of
whom have a bad habit of soliloquizing like:
the cradle with a cord.) I do not know what we are going to do; each day we
are more poor, and each day the master becomes more demanding. Today the majordomo,
on behalf of the master, tells me that I am not permitted to bring up my hens
on the land of the plantation, and that I have to eat them or sell them to the
master’s chicken coop; and I know what that means: that I make a gift of
in Leavenworth Prison in 1922; it’s unclear whether he was assassinated
for his anarchism or for his cruelty to the dramatic arts.
done his share of agitpropping himself, as an editor at both Punk Planet
and Bad Subjects. He also perpetrates guerrilla audio under the guise
of the Christal Methodists, who phone-prank Christian radio hosts and put out
the results as funny-spooky recordings. His dad was an Israeli intelligence
officer when Joel was a kid, and he did a lot of his growing up in Europe and
the U.S. He has a book about being a kind of stateless Israeli coming out from
Akashic this fall, Jerusalem Calling. As we strolled Chinatown he talked
to me about the huge atmospheric shift in San Francisco that came with the bottom
falling out of the dotcom market. Everybody out there talks about it. Jennifer
Maerz told me that in the last six months six good friends who’d lost their
dotcom jobs have moved away from the city to find work elsewhere. Schalit pointed
to a pair of big, beautiful BMW motorcycles parked together near City Lights
and told me to check the mileage on them. Both had clocked under 1000 miles.
"Dotcommer toys," he said.
of the dotcom economy were also on Vale’s mind when I visited with him
later that afternoon. I was not surprised to find that his apartment, up a steep
alley behind the hungry i (now a strip club), was cluttered with books and Incredibly
Strange recordings (cf. Re/Search’s two-volume Incredibly Strange Music).
Vale complained that rents in his neighborhood tripled or quadrupled during
the dotcom boom, and though they’re deflating some now, there’s no
way they’ll return to levels Vale’s type of artistes and bohemians
can afford. We also talked about the vicissitudes of being a small publisher
in a world where Barnes & Noble can pre-order a few thousand copies of your
book, do a terrible job of selling them for 120 days, then return the bulk of
them to you, all dog-eared and battered, at your expense.
He did admit
that not all of his recent problems have been external. Re/Search’s legendarily
infallible intuition for coming trends and hip esthetics (cf. Modern Primitives,
the book that launched a million tattoos and piercings) has faltered in recent
years, with books on zine culture and swing music that seemed behind the curve
or off-center. His latest book, Real Conversations no. 1, gets back
to Re/Search’s hepcat roots. I’ll write about it in detail next week.
I read that
night with Alexander Cockburn at the anarchist AK Press’
warehouse space in Oakland. AK threw a very nice party for us. It was another
big crowd that wasn’t mine, and Cockburn gave them a rousing hour of lefty
tub-thumping, after which they tolerated me pretty well. I think it helped that
by the time I went on all the free beer had been consumed and the anarchists
were feeling mellow.
I talked the pathologically shy J.T. into coming out to see me. We met at a
spot he designated–on the street, in the Tenderloin, surrounded by junkies–for
about two minutes. I gave him my book, he gave me an apple and one of those
Chinese fish of red film that curls and flops in your hand. Then he flinched
and fled. That night after midnight he called my hotel room and was back to
his confidently yakking, charming phone self.
Joel and I read for a small but smart crowd at Cody’s in Berkeley.
Dave Eggers came, and afterward over a beer and burger we talked some
more about the problems of distributing small press materials in a chain bookstore
world. He also complained about the fires he had to put out afterKeith
Kelly spread the false rumor that he was going to write for Talk. ("Page
Six" also ran a deeply stupid little squib about J.T. this past weekend.)
•After more hassles
with United, I flew into bright and sunny L.A. on a Sunday afternoon and immediately
started working on my tan. Sunday night Lucian K. Truscott IV and his
extremely pregnant wife Carolyn had me over to their house in Los Feliz
for a spectacular meal: tons of veggies from their big backyard and steaks Lucian
grilled outside. He regaled me with L.A. writer horror stories about dealing
with Hollywood weasels. He’s working on two interesting projects that I
suppose I can’t describe, the weasels being what they are.
I met up with Susan Kiel, a Fox TV exec who’s a buddy of our Lisa
Kearns. We had drinks at the Lobster, a newish, Miami Vice-ish hangout
at the foot of the Santa Monica Pier, where we watched a fiery sun splash down
into the Pacific. Then strolled up Ocean Ave. a couple of blocks to the hopping
I jumped into my rented Generica–that car couldn’t have been a more
obvious renter if it had bar codes and RENTAL VEHICLE stenciled on it–and
drove in a mad dash over hill and dale to KPFK in North Hollywood, where
I did 20 minutes on Jon Wiener’s show. Wiener’s a well-known
Lennonologist, and he seemed to get my book pretty well. Coincidentally, the
20 minutes before me he spent with Christopher Hitchens, grousing about
Kissinger. I was hoping we’d meet in the Green Room so Hitchens could finally
tell me to my face how much he deplores the writing of Cockburn and Taki, but
he phoned it in.
another mad dash back down to Santa Monica, where I gave a reading for a sparse
crowd at Midnight Special. Turns out none of the local papers had listed
me–though I saw that fellow New Yorker James Wolcott, reading on
the same night, got some nice write-ups. Grrr. Dinner afterward with Sue, my
friend Scott Lindgren the cool-cat photographer (lately he’s been
shooting all of Shag’s tiki art) and Gregory Bishop of the zine
The Excluded Middle, specializing in fortean-ufology-conspiracy theory
material. I’ll soon write at more length about his Excluded Middle
compendium, Wake Up Down There!, published by the fringe clearinghouse
Santa Monica the next day with Mickey Kaus of kausfiles.com. He moved
out there recently to be near the ocean, which helps with his allergies. Mickey’s
known for his political and media opinions, but like any white guy his age he
turned out to have plenty of thoughts about rock.
ass way across town that evening to give another reading, this one at Book
Bound, a cool, rock ’n’ rolly storefront in Echo Park, between
Dodger Stadium and the hipsterized Silver Lake. The space was so tiny that the
smallish crowd was SRO and spilling out onto the sidewalk. Got some hostility
from a middle-aged woman (i.e., she looked to be roughly my age) who thought
I was telling her and all our boomer cohort to just shrivel up and die. No,
I replied, but on the other hand, Mick Jagger doesn’t need your support
anymore. Music writer Jessica Hundley also showed.
went to dinner at Mexico City, a scene in Los Feliz, with writer Jonathan
Vankin (Conspiracies, Cover-Ups and Crimes) and his wife Deborah,
who writes for the L.A. Weekly. Feral House’s Adam Parfrey
and Jodi Wille of the arty Dilettante Press soon crowded into our booth
as well. Parfrey’s most recent publication is called Bubblegum Music
Is the Naked Truth. His next one, out soon, sounds a little more controversial:
it’s about a lone Jewish activist who, according to the author, was actually
responsible for the burning of the Reichstag, which helped the Nazis slide into
power. Dilettante has just put out Extreme Canvas, which sounds fascinating:
it’s color reproductions of hand-painted movie posters from Ghana. More
about that when they get me a review copy.
•Finally, by odd coincidence
the guy sitting next to me on the plane flying back to New York–a flight
I bitched and orangutan-danced my way onto, United having screwed up my original
one–was also in the book business. His name is Larry Coven. He’s
an actor in Los Angeles, and supplements his income selling collector’s
editions of horror, mystery and science fiction novels through his online store
the Coven (http://www.abebooks.com/home/2212/). Check him out if you’re
into those genres.