Tuesday, April 12, 2016
"I'm a spy in the house of love."
Something is going on. High Energy. The highest. The Spring Bliss I would get around the anniversary of SPACE PIRATE RADIO, January 27th. And usually continues and peaks on May Day... Well, this year it's Springier and more Blissful. It scares me. Especially at my age. You know, "the Light Burns Brightest Before It Burns Out." Please...no. Not that. Not yet.
"You really are the limit, Number 66."
I'm Doctor Wu-hu again. Lodged in the re-Tardis. Travelling both headlong into the Future and surrealistically into the Past. All this while lusting after my many companions, especially the '60s and '70s Dolly Girls. I'll be Faithfull to One. The Last One. The One the Celestial Physician marries. For Life. (The Master is Also the Mistress? Zounds!) But previously...it's all very exciting, but watch your intake. Don't let the muffler run too long in the garage of memories. Agatha & Lou Christie's unpublished mystery written on mescaline: "Death By Nostalgia."
Ha! Hoo-hah! I laugh in the face of danger. I giggle in the genitals of Certain Doom. It's my job. My Beat, man. Drive, he said. My classic Maltese Ford Falcon. From Detroit, via Andalusia. Auto di blanco. I know. I worked in Granada. Eight floors and rising.
The recent trips to the Pueblo Los Angles-Lust have filled the lungs with fresh heavy metals. I'm still Pumped! (So, am I the only one who misses free dishes at the sign of the Shell? S&H Green Stamps at the Olympian Garage of Pegasus? Blue Chip Stamps at the high ranking Standard?) This coming from a husband and wife team who, like Orson Welles in an uncut version of THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS, daily damn the combustible engine. When my license expired and no more automatic extensions were given, I felt "if it don't come easy, dolly back and fade to black." I use to love my cars, but I'm not Peter Sellers obsessed, or Jay Leno for chrissakes.! Or that Swinefeld actor who had a collection of Porsches with different dental spittoons. I mean seriously? Oh you Lemmings who love the Richfields, the celebrities with less charisma than Benito Mussolini.
Embrace your inner Joseph Goebbels. Who needs it? Travel for me? "I think, therefore I Amtrak."
And yet, I'm loving and forgiving lately those who gifted me with malice. I've even replaced Firesign Theatre and Frank Zappa back into my archives. What's up with that?
This is interesting to me. When the wife and I were last in Los Angeles and Hollywood, the old passions of a younger self returned in full bloom: the journeys to the Record and Bookstore. In this case, Amoeba Records in Hollywood, home of the lost nuggets of sound for the later broadcasts of SPACE PIRATE RADIO. And The Last Bookstore, which I have never visited, for lost and forgotten tomes of the Arcane. Both visits were rejuvenating. A Fountain of Youth for the Soul and Spirit. And a bit of trash and pulp to make the skin tingle; the senses go into overdrive and a scent of nostalgia like a fresh garden of thought and ideas.
The Last Bookstore, which my wife always begged me to visit, and I in an eternal state of crank and contrary, avoided. Possessed by some voodoo manifestation, I enthusiastically suggested on our romp through the arteries of Metropolis, a visit. And in doing so, thirty years of my life evaporated. I was once again that obsessed teenager, haunting the second hand stores of Fullerton or Santa Ana, for missing issues of MAD MAGAZINE or sci-fi paperbacks and magazines.
The book store even had racks of vinyl. Forgotten soundtracks of my imagination. Lounge and cheese; vinyl avec fromage. I could have bought dozens for the covers alone.
I am now Jacques Tati in the Interpol, working with the C.I.A., but not trusting the bastards.
The Man From Mon U.N.C.L.E.