Monday, February 28, 2011
A mess o' thoughts here. Let's see if I can be Al Chemical (arcane reference combined with jazz-loving Kool smoker image..1 point only. Metaphysical references don't apply in score system in this case...rats!) and combine this stuff into pure gold, not lead.
This should be a panel discussion ("Nice panel. There...I discussed it."). But seriously, folks. What is the fine line between acting, art and insult, when portraying any ethnic group that is not your own? Where are the borders between Al Jolsen in blackface and Anthony Quinn (a Mexican) playing a Greek in Zorba, a Russian in The Shoes of the Fisherman and so forth? I remember during Space Pirate Radio, a Chinese lady was offended by Peter Ustinov playing Charlie Chan and told me as such. "But what about Peter Sellers?" I asked. "He has also played Chinese." Her response? And I swear, this is true. "But he's funny."
So there is the secret, folks! If you can keep it sublime and still elicit the yuk-yuks...banjos and buckteeth and bombay oil can still grab a giggle. "It's a small world, after all!"
On the radio, through the power of the imageless voice, I committed every ethnic slurpee you could drink of. Hee-hee! This was fun! Mea culpa. Mia Farrow. Mira Sorvino. I admit it!
On stage in 1973, in Nothing is Sacred, as well as on Space Pirate Radio in 1974 and on, I did the Karma Denominator. This Hindi Guru, the inventor of Cosmic Unconsciousness. The man who turned the Beatles Off and On to drugs. The pitchman for Krishna Krispies, the only breakfast cereal that didn't snap, crackle and pop, but rather chanted Hare Krishna. And when you added milk, your bowl looked like the sacred Ganges river. (Karma is pictured above, appearing on the Ben Hummer Matinee Movie.) And in the same play we did a parody of spaghetti westerns called Never Trust A Blonde Mexican (a double slap...2 points).
Or back to Space Pirate Radio and Doctor Wu-Who? The Time Lord who didn't have two hearts but two bladders. "Come in handy on long trips. Notice in re-Tardis, there are no bathrooms. No kitchen, for that matter. Anyone ever get peckish?"
Or Wally Wang, who could teach you the art of foreclosure and fiveclosure and sixclosure? "It could just go on forever."
On Space Pirate Radio in the '70s, I played a record by Yellow Magic Orchestra, an import that dealt with a Watergate-like scandal that had happened in Japan. The YMO members did a comedy sketch on the bribes and corruption that had been exposed in the Japanese government. In English, though released in Japan, the YMO members mocked the Japanese head of state, saying how stupid the Japanese people were, calling them yellow monkeys and commenting on the size of their genitalia. An Asian women heard me play this and mistakenly assumed it was me doing a bad racist comedy bit. She called me and claimed that it was in horrible taste and that I as a Guy-Jin, shouldn't be doing such a racist bit of comedy. I told her, it may be racist...but that it was done by Japan's number one musical group and that the offensive album I was playing had been the number one selling album for several weeks in Japan. Knee jerks. In one of the few times KTYD stood behind me, this reactionary was told to check the facts before going into boil over mode.
So, if I am a racist in my humour, than it must be admitted that I hate dumb white Americans. When I make fun of neo-Nazis and KKK types, I must hate all Caucasians. If I parody Nixon (who hated just about everybody... Jew, black, Mexican, Communist and gay), well, I must be attacking Quakers. If Rush Limbaugh was black (Rush Limbo) or Glenn Beck was Italian (Glenn Bikini)...now that could have been ugly.
Otherwise, just look at recent news. Your friendly tyrant of yesterday, is your enemy of today...and vice versa. Nothing changes. Nothing personal. It's just business. And me? So sorry. Closed for the day. Ran out of whatever I was supposed to sell you. Useless goods. Over a hundred dollars a barrel. Have I got you over a barrel? No. But someone else has.
Daily shooters at the Ali Ak Bar & Grill (...1 point).
Monday, February 21, 2011
So there were the cool teachers. I wish I could go back and talk to some of these people now and see how they really lived. I remember that the hip ones were drama teachers, English teachers, an occasional eccentric math teacher or the cool sports instructors, the gymnastic cats. An anecdote here: I hated physical education. Year after year, freezing my nuts off in the morning drizzle, while neanderthal coaches, heavily bundled, drank their coffee and told us to do laps. Swine! Slacker whiffs of Leni Riefenstahl. Showering with smelly alpha-males. Jock-straps shot like sling shots. Is this how civilized people live? I hated it. But I had a good yet goofy friend in Diamond Bar named Brian Brumby who never had to attend a P.E. class in his life. How? Because he signed up as a coach's assistant, attending all the after school games. Football. Baseball. Basketball. Doing the stats and such, and coming home after six or seven p.m. on the last bus. By my Senior year, I realized this was the way to get out of the army. No more sit-ups for me. What sport wasn't taken up my friend Brian? Gymnastics. Section 8, sign me up.
And trust me, the cool guys were the coaches on this sport. Individual achievement as opposed to team sports. The coach didn't give a fart about my longer than normal blonde hair. As long as I could write what the high jump numbers were in the little book, that's all that mattered technically. And the assistant coach was a Bryan Ferry looking like cat who I'm sure read Playboy and had a liquor cabinet next to his folk records or Blue Note jazz collection. I recall having conversations about his previous night's escapade with some bird de jour. I may be reading more into this than was real, but I do know it was the uber-butch baseball coach, who kept bitching about me having my hair too long and sending me over to the principal's office to get a reality check. I probably reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. Or...?
Anyway, to make a long story longer...my thanks to the cool teachers. The others, being so uncool, must find the heat excessive. I will come back to these moments. Examples of this kind of madness popped up in junior high. High school definitely changed the equation. I lost a sense of discipline until two colleges later. At Santa Barbara City College in the Drama Department, that early love of academia returned. I got it in the Speech class as well, but I was still uninterested in all other required subjects. Coming around to my original inspiration for this entry was the fact that only in the drama classes were we (in an artistic sense), able to ask the questions that did not have a preordained answer. Call it a liberal bias if that's your hang-up, but the questioning of authority seemed to be in the drama department.
My first play at SBCC was the distinctly anti-war work, Bury the Dead. A drama in the spirit of Orson Welles' Mercury Players, this almost Brechtian meets Rod Serling production considered the possibility of war dead refusing to die and being martyred and ultimately forgotten for the sake of war profiteers. I was one of the undead.
Later we did The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail, another pacifist play. Then later, Abelard & Heloise, on suggestion from yours truly, who had seen the show done in Los Angeles with Diana Rigg and Keith Michell.
A quick slide back to the tyrants who ruled the high school. Our school had a principal whose last name sounded very close to the word Anus. Well, this Anus kept suspending me for my ultra cool Illya Kuryakin look of wearing my blonde hair slightly over the ears, and not buzz-cut on the neck like I just landed off of Iwo Jima. So I was suspended just before the end of my Senior year. I trimmed my cool mod looks down to a slightly "I've just been released from Baden-Baden camp thanks to the Allies" look by wearing a low cut shirt rather than my usual turtleneck. Anus sez, "Well, that's good enough ('guden auf') to get back into class. But you will have to cut it again for Graduation. You can't look like that if you want to get your diploma." My response? "Mail it to me."
A further side note regarding principal Anus. Long after I left the multi-purpose rooms of John A. Rowland and was doing my thing in Santa Barbara, I saw my old alma mustard mentioned in the news regarding a political embarrassment. It seemed the high school band had been invited to play at President Richard M. Nixon's arrival at not-so-nearby Ontario airport. A band member, not being a fan of Tricky Dick, but still having to play for the Fearless Leader's arrival, felt he would show his right to dissent by placing a McGovern sticker in his tuba horn bell. The result from my former principal Anus...total expulsion from high school...and those rip roarin' raiders. You can't write better drama than this. I wonder where my Anus is today? He seemed to give us all PILES of trouble.
Drama folks. It started with the Greeks, maybe earlier. The Trojan Women or Johnny Got His Gun. Liberal Arts. Me likee.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Diamond Bar, folks. I lived there when the city first began. A former ranch located north of Orange County and south of Pomona, it became incorporated in the mid-60s with one set of track houses at the south end and another set of track houses at the north end. Brea Canyon Road twisted up from Fullerton and Brea into what seemed like an urban version of Borgo Pass from Dracula. The rolling hills dotted with oak and walnut trees reminded yours truly of being in Mario Bava's Black Sunday. It was quiet. Deer would come down from the hills and drink in the fountain that welcomed the weary traveler into this new Stepford community. For a while it really was tranquil. An escape from the madness of Orange County. Ugh, Orange County. Flat and Republican filled. A place where its sense of history was re-fabricated in Disneyland. Every street corner was the same. Three gas stations and an Alpha Beta. I used to say to people that if they wanted to get rid of me, all they would have to do is break my glasses, put me on any corner (like Beach Blvd.) and I would never know where I was. But I digress.
So Diamond Bar became a refuge for this young man with flights of fantasy. I left the Alcatraz-like environment of Fullerton Union High School and began my sophomore year at the fresh, multipurpose room adobe of John A. Rowland High School, located in the dreamlike community of Rowland Heights, CA. Home of the rip roarin' Rowland Raiders, this unique learning establishment tried its best to change European-styled yours truly, Guy de Maupassant--man of letters and culture--into my actual namesake, Guy Madison--branding, tumbling cowpoke. This made for an amusing clash; a mutation of merriment, which I will discuss in detail later.
Diamond Bar was the home of the illustrious Diamond Bar Players. A high spirited group of theatricals nestled in this quaint community, I auditioned for them and they were impressed by my youthful Orson Welles-like vocal gymnastics. I suckered them, folks. And like Dick Powell in those Busby Berkeley films, for a while, I became their perennial juvenile. I did a number of plays for them: George S. Kaufman stuff like The Solid Gold Cadillac; Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, playing psycho red herring Christopher Wren (pictured); and a piece of fluff called Slice It Thin. Acting in these productions got me in prison. Of which, I mean, this little group was invited to bring our humble productions to all of the illustrious penal institutions conveniently located near our dream community. Besides doing our productions in one of the local schools, we would hit the road and go on tour, bringing our little repertory company to the entertainment starved felons of the Chino Institute For Men, the Norco Narcotics Rehabilitation Center, and (my favourite) the Corona Womens Prison. Let me tell you, folks, a young man's hormones can light up the imagination when you're in The Big Bird Cage or Cell Block H. Young girls holding hands would give the heavily made-up Illya Kuryakin looks of invitation. You could feel the subdued power of tension in this incredible B-rated drive-in movie. The facility in Norco was an interesting place--a former posh hotel resort turned into institution. My companions wondered why I kept humming the theme from the Great Escape as we entered through the gates. Chino was interesting as well. I remember the male lead who looked like Jack Cassidy being made-up by one of the inmates, heavily tattooed and rugged. As he was being shaved and powdered for his role, the slighty nervous lead asked the man, "so what are you in for?" As the blade trimmed the actor's neck, the inmate replied, "I murdered my wife." There was no need to powder the actor's face. He had become white enough.
Ah, the memories come flooding back. The problem of poor plumbing at this age. Diamond Bar in the early days before it became the inspiration for the TV series Weeds. It all went to hell when they put the Orange Freeway in. And all those special folks got smog-trapped within the once beautiful but now barren hills. It was time to rethink the area after the Pomona Freeway became an alternative route into Los Angeles, instead of the previous choices of the Santa Ana Freeway or the San Bernadino Freeway (which I tended to use the most). I left in 1970 and have not returned to Diamond Bar for even a visit. My wife has heard enough stories about the area. And when I've had more psychic courage, have told her that perhaps we should look and see how much it has all changed. Personally, I'm afraid the shock would kill me and that's why it hasn't happened so far. So we look at the photos instead and share a few mildly amusing anecdotes.
By the way, before I owned the first white car, I had a motorcycle. It was a Bridgestone 90. I thought I was a midget version of Steve McQueen in the Great Escape. Do you hear it? Do you hear it? There's that theme again. The thrill of driving in those pre-helmet days on the highways near Walnut, CA. There's nothing more fun than having some big green bug squash in your mouth. One bug leads to another.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Question: If Captain Nemo wrote poetry on board of the Nautilus...would he be considered sub versive?
And so I had hoped to carry this Nemonic spirit into the wireless world of Space Pirate Radio. What does this all mean, you might well ask? Good question. I am still caught up in the nostalgia of the show that happens around this time of year. It seems like a dream...that's got me hypnotised. It was a dream. A dream show. A dream I wanted to share with friends. I was never motivated by profit. Never. Ever. If I was, I wouldn't be here now. I'd be unreachable, and soulless and most likely dead. That is not to say I wasn't a hustler. I was. I just wasn't very good at it. I hustled enough to get my mad projects floating, but not greedy enough to turn them into an empire. Never was empirical. Utopian, yes. Dystopian, no. Dystope addicts. There are enough of those folks around to sap all of the oxygen out of the room. In the early days, all the PROFESSIONALS said Space Pirate Radio was lunacy. "No Commercial Potential," as someone I once artistically encountered was quoted. When the avant-avant garde became commercially viable, well... that was another story folks! Once the crazy cult program was a commercial viability, the number of people in the room changed dramatically. "Sounds a tad bitter, Steve?" You bet kiddies. The circle of friends or the cool commune becomes a convention center. Check out time: 12 noon (or 11am...don't you just hate those hotels?). The New Age Hustlers. Do you want a list? It's Adolphe Menjou or Robert Taylor testifying before the House.
Captain Nemo. What a man. Hello, sailor. "Are you a Matalot?" I can hear Charles Trenet singing "La Mer." Or Debussy. (I don't think Debussy ever sang "La Mer." Well, maybe after a couple of absinthes. Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.) Pirates.
Well, there was a sort of master plan here. It weathered many stormy changes and transmutations and an ever changing of the guard. Let me go into details...I will name names. :) Happy birthday, Captain Nemo. And to Jules Verne El-Equinox. And looking on birthdays for Thursday February 10th, I noticed that both Glenn Beck and Bertolt Brecht share that date. Talk about yin and yang. Beck and Brecht. Sounds like a rock band or hair shampoo.
But first, the other week, I was down by the harbour...and a couple of wharfs called out and said, "hey Guy, we loved the show...and we're glad to see you doing your thing on the blog." I was touched to hear the wharfs say this. It is always a pleasure to be recognized by your piers.
Now the story so far...
Paul Latex of Danzig (...the Paul Latex of OOO feeling good...) :)
Monday, February 7, 2011
"Where are we going with this?" asks my wife. Glad you asked, thank you. It was your comment, dear wife, regarding the fact that the aforementioned For Colored Girls was getting bad reviews, mostly from male viewers. This, of course, ties into my constant horror of watching couples fight over movie choices. The poor female enters the establishment, hoping that her alpha-male companion will not protest too much over her desire to see Letters To Juliet. As in most cases, this does not go unnoticed. "I don't wanna watch any CHICK flick!" tattooed grease monkey screams. Being sensitive to the hidden pain of the poor lady, her eyes moistening, but mouth silent for fear of the belt...yours truly, the ever constant smart ass, interjects to the mini gorilla male, "Oh, then you want to see a DICK flick." This results in a moment of stunned silence, a slight look of confusion or possible homicidal anger from aforementioned gorilla, and a faint flicker of eye contact from the silent female; a glimmer of hope that her father confessor has understood her inner turmoil. "Can this elderly man understand my needs and not be an interior decorator?" "Yes, my child," I say to her silently, letting her kiss my ring. "Men, they are a useless bunch. Except for one obvious appendage, what do women see in them? I understand, my child. I am a lesbian."
So for those of you who worship at the small statue of Schwarzenegger and Stallone; those of you who suck at the vulva of Van Damme; nibble at the nob of Norris; and measure your manliness in the magnificence of your Magnum: I say in the ancient Chinese wisdom of Yoda and Pat Morita, "Fung Goo." You are not worthy to be in the shadow of the lady you walk with.
What is it with these men? Why in the hell would any man, after a hard day rotating tires, laying linoleum or putting some unwanted person in cement, feel the urge to relax with a cacophony of greased up, hyper-steroided, badly tattooed, alpha-males, shoving sawed-off shotguns down the throats of various ethnic groups, while smashing their 4 wheeled trucks through plated glass windows? Doesn't any man enjoy seeing a beautiful woman who is not wrapped around a strip pole or relating to another human being without a handgun punctuating the conversation? Call me old-fashioned, but I can still enjoy a non-high octane moment with a glint of leg.
Now where was I?
Oh yes. In 1976 I had the opportunity to produce a play of mine called Casanova's Lips. How did this come about? Well, it's a kind of funny story and it begins this way...