some valentine's day gifts were never meant to be DIY

came across this story tonight and laughed, because i'm pretty sure i know exactly where sandra came up with the idea.

see, a few years ago, my baby sister the producer was doing a story on jayne mansfield for one of the cable networks.  unable to find anybody alive who had known her well and/or was willing to talk, she in desperation drove out to palm springs with a crew to interview jayne's by-then ancient former hairdresser on the off chance he might be able to give her something.

old queen turned out to be a treasure trove of information:  among many other things, he told her--on camera--that, in preparation for giving herself to a man for the first time, the pink goddess would always have him trim her pubic hair into the shape of a heart and dye it her signature color.

while this little tidbit never made it into america's living rooms, trust me--it made the industry rounds in no time.

i guess if there's a moral to this story, it's that it's a shame actresses don't rely on their hairdressers like they used to.

the homosexuals

been tryin to figure out where that last post came from, and then i remembered my recent exposure to the following:



watching it, it all came back--my surreptitous neo-adolescent visitations to the library tryin to figure out what the fuck was wrong with me, reading the bullshit in scholarly tomes and prematurely consigning myself to hell.

because back then, all you could find on the subject was shit like this--and, of course, this.

can't you see?  i was doomed.

towelhead

[don't ask where this one came from--couldn't possibly be the vodka]

the grownups used to tell endless stories about that brief period in mkf's early childhood when he insisted on having a washcloth or dishrag on his head at all times--none of 'em could figure it out, but they all agreed it was hilarious.

i've since debated whether i should tell my mother it was probably just my inner girl tryin to come out, but decided instead to let her cling to whatever's left of her illusions.

but here's the message for the rest of you who still don't get it:  we are born, not made.

sober update:  just for balance, here's one from the same roll in which mkf is obviously workin his inner boi:

and yes i was sweet, dammit.

because it's lonely in the modern world

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i have no reverence for most shelter rags--architectural digest, metropolitan home, elle decor, better homes, whatever--i flip through 'em quickly, tear out the one or two pages of interest and toss the rest.

dwell, of course, is different--each pristine, archival-quality edition of that purist paean to the harsh goddess of modern architecture is given the white-glove treatment from the moment it hits my mailbox in its protective plastic sheath until, once carefully perused, it's reverently slipped into the bookcase alongside its predecessors.

and never mind that the goddam things are multiplying like tribbles and taking over--they're just too pretty and perfect to rip to shreds, right?

apparently, not everyone sees it that way:







all the grim pomposity of the modernist ethos turned on its head--fuckin' priceless.

there's something in unhappy hipsters' ruthless skewering of dwell and all it represents for everyone--if you despise modern architecture, every bitingly re-captioned photograph is validation; if on the other hand you're a disciple, you get to chuckle knowingly and imagine yourself inside the joke.

win-win, right?

children waiting for the day they feel good

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one of the more elegant expressions of existential angst of which i am aware [and one of the few covers i feel captures the author's intent more effectively than the original].

i try to avoid this song when i drink, because it puts me in a mood.

in this, i don't always succeed--sometimes it sneaks up on me.



Gary Jules - Mad World

more accidental architecture

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the other day i found myself in the westlake district of los angeles--a seedy, downtrodden neighborhood just west of downtown whose only stand-out feature (or so i thought) is drug-dealer-infested macarthur park--looking for a side street of sufficient anonymity where i could leave my truck with a reasonable expectation of finding it in one piece when i got back.

walking quickly and looking neither left or right as is my custom when in such neighborhoods, i almost missed the graffiti-covered sign twenty feet down the littered sidewalk from where i finally parked.

knowing my city and figuring ignorance might well result in a $50 ticket, i circled it and glanced up at the other side.



wait--historical landmark in this neighborhood?

my gaze then shifted to the right, through the bars of the security fence which edged the sidewalk, and...holy motherfuckin' shit.


yeah, she's decrepit and decayed, but you can totally see what she once was, can't you?

[and almost completely obscured by unkempt foliage and security fencing, i could make out another house of similar size and grandeur next door to the right


whose onion-domed cupola could only be glimpsed if i stood on top of a car in the parking lot of the burger king on the other side of 818--but what the hell, i'm nothing if not a fool for my art.]

my original reason for being there momentarily forgotten, i wandered down this apparently once-grand avenue and up the next, ignoring traffic and the threatening glares of passersby, snapping pictures with my crappy iphone as i went [some of which actually came out] of the few majestic landmarks of a bygone era which still remain.








and yeah i know you east-coast readers will laugh at this post because you've no doubt seen this sorta shit played out everywhere you've lived in orders of magnitude greater than i can even imagine.

what can i say--i've spent my life in relatively-new places like houston and los angeles, so the real-life decay of history still strikes awe in my heart.

* * * * *

for a brief synopsis of the unhappy history of 818 s. bonnie brae, click here.

for a glimpse of the way said house [and by extrapolation, said neighborhood] looked back in the halcyon days before even the idea of security fences entered the american consciousness, i offer up the following archival snapshot:



and for more images of this once-proud neighborhood in better days, click here and follow the links.

birdwood days (concluded)

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the story i'm about to tell was intended to be the penultimate installment of a multi-part series that started with this post.

problem was, my alcohol-addled brain couldn't conjure up sufficient detail about our other neighbors to flesh out their stories to my satisfaction, so i let the whole thing die--until tonight, anyway, when this song came up on shuffle.

btw, the picture of our old house which follows isn't quite right; the lawn was better and it was painted a pale olive green when we lived there.

and the left side, at the top of the driveway? that used to be the garage.


3.  our house



the only thing that still haunts me about that long-ago april day is how passive and mindlessly accepting of authority it would prove me to be.

sure, i was only ten, but you tell me: if you woke up in the wee, small hours with flashlights shining in your eyes and two hulking cops clomping around the darkened bedroom you shared with your little brother telling you, "it's ok, kid--go back to sleep," and you did, what would that say about you?

it's a question i've pondered more than once over the years.

* * * * *

i awoke on that sunny saturday morning as usual, wandered out to the kitchen and poured myself my usual bowl of cereal. it was only after settling down in front of the tv for my usual three hours of cartoons that i realized how quiet the house was, suddenly remembered the weird thing with the policemen and the flashlights the night before and wondered if it had just been a crazy dream.

getting up and looking around, i found my little sister's room empty, my parents' bedroom door open, their bed stripped of its bedspread but otherwise seemingly untouched [i never did figure that one out], and my still-sleeping brother the only other person in the house.

as unprecedented as all this was, i sat back down in front of the tv, figuring everybody'd show up sooner or later.

it was mrs. harberger from next door who finally came over and told me my father and sister were in the hospital and my mother was down at the ash's, but not to worry because everything would be ok.

i accepted this news without question and went outside to play with her son (and my best friend) davy.

when an hour or so later my normally affectionate and impeccably-groomed uncle huby unexpectedly screeched into the driveway from 200 miles away looking disheveled and unshaven and without even so much as a hello demanded to know where my mother was, i directed him to the house two doors down and went back to whatever davy and i were doing.

weirder and weirder, but everything was ok--the grownups had told me so, so it had to be true.

when later that day my brother and i were summoned into my mother's pale presence only to be told nothing more than, "your dad was very sick, and he died," i held her cold hands and accepted her words without question.

it was only years later, digging around in the silver metal box for my birth certificate so i could sign up for driver's ed, that i stumbled across the truth; my mother subsequently and reluctantly filled in the details that the official papers

and that cold, godawful handwritten note

left out.

turns out when he went out to the garage early on that saturday morning, cut a piece of garden hose of sufficient length to reach from the exhaust pipe to the backseat of the family car, started the engine, climbed in and lit his last lucky, my father neglected to notice that the window in the door that led from the garage to the kitchen was half-open [at least i hope to god that's the way it happened].

for whatever reason--probably because he hadn't come to bed yet--either the sound of the engine or the smell of the exhaust finally roused my mother from her uneasy sleep.

when she found him, he'd fallen out of the car and was crawling toward the kitchen door [or so she chooses to believe]. when her frantic efforts at mouth-to-mouth failed to revive him, she flew down the street to the ash's house and hammered on their door.

it was harsh, pragmatic laverne who saved my sister--while everybody else was focused on the lost cause sprawled on the garage floor, she was the one who noticed the open window and went in and dragged liz's blue and unconscious little body from her bed in the toxic bedroom nearest the garage and walked her around outside in the fresh air until she started to cough and breathe.

* * * * *

the last thing i remember about that long april day's journey into night is lying in bed next to davy harberger as he slept, radio playing softly in the background, twisting my dead father's too-big timex on its stretchy band around and around my slender, newly-orphaned wrist as i stared at the ceiling, listening to the #1 song of that week of april, 1967 as it came up twice an hour, every hour all night long, and wondering if anything would ever be usual again.

The Turtles - Happy Together