The spelling is different, but if not for my friend Geoffrey, I'd likely have not been exposed to this band (the Boston, not San Fran, Girls), or a million others, that changed my life. I can't credit that music without crediting Geoffrey far, far above all of it. My experience up until meeting him was like, Eagles cover bands in suburban shitholes. He took this introverted (scared) clueless kid and exposed me to a world of possibilty I hadn't imagined, and I dove right in. He tapped a neglected mind, and it blinked on like stadium lights. Things changed quickly. New interests and inspirations came flooding in, and it's been my home ever since. This was his giving nature.

I met him volunteering for a crisis intervention hotline which he was responsible for getting off the ground, securing funds and office space through all the legal channels in our old hometown. At first I didn't make the cut, but I kept trying. I don't know if he had the final say, but either way, he saw something in me, because soon, I was invited to gatherings at his house with some of the nicest, smartest people I've ever met. It was there that I first heard X-Ray Spex, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, even the Firesign Theater. He showed me art, and books, and recommended films that all changed my thinking forever. And actually, he's just as brilliant as all of it. Great lyricist, sharp wit, massive insight and compassion. He also has the coolest last name in world history. It suits him perfectly.

I eventually became co-VP of that hotline, and of course we started going to shows. Most of the stuff we saw I'll never forget. He was right next to me when this photo of the band was shot at a loft party. Note the position of the drummer's leg. A split second later, he had barrelled into the crowd, which fell like dominoes, then he scooped some punk kid up over his shoulder and ran out the door. A classic wigout. [Pic found online, photographer presently unknown.]

Occasionally, that sharp wit would almost get us into trouble, but that only made me admire his nerve. Fact is, he never started shit. It was always a lesser mind with some bullshit axe to grind, or just your everyday meddlesome drunk who wouldn't leave us alone. And like many a true genius, he could also be quite solitary. I think I copped a slight, unconscious resentment over that. I looked up to him, and wanted to sort of show him off to the world, like, "Can you believe the brain on this guy, and he chooses to share it with me?" Perhaps I started to feel entitled to everything that had rubbed off on me, and feared losing it. My other friends weren't nearly as interesting, and I didn't want to revert to the shy, stoner kid with no one to share a thought with; thoughts that might never have occured if not for Geoff. But it didn't interfere with the shows, so no major biggie. They continued another good twenty years or so, but with the numbers naturally dropping over time. I'm in much the same boat now. Any sense of scene is gone. Magic rarely happens. As often as not, it's just another chore. But I'm still grateful for the good stuff, and the brain stays open because he showed me how. No kidding a little.

I've always worried (and still do) that I put him off. I snapped at him pretty hard on two occasions when I thought he said some inappropriate things. I probably should have apologized. I could be a vicious prick in those days. But he didn't either. And I see how little that matters now. But I also never thanked him, and I must. We were e-mailing up until a few years ago, but the last several I've sent have gone unacknowledged. Maybe he thinks I was full of shit. For a lot of that crazy time, I was. Last I knew, he'd moved back to our hometown and was still in the business of helping people. I've still never met anyone like him, and I miss him terribly. I'll probably send this, just so he finally knows what he really means to me. No pressure, dude. Just had to say it.

And yeah, that's really how the song ends. Hopefully, not the story.  

Title track from their their brilliant 2nd LP:

Empty pockets, empty bed, empty bottles, empty head

The committee says shape up, or they’ll fix me quick enough

  

We are with you everywhere

We protect you from yourself

We are watching you

 

I wanna rock and roll – NO! That’s a violation

I wanna lose control – NO! That’s a violation

I wanna love someone – NO! That’s a violation

I wanna have some fun – you better not try it

 

Lousy jobs down in holes, join the union, learn to bowl

Lovely houses of cement, the committee pays the rent

 

Thank you for electing us, we appreciate your trust

There’s a problem we’re aware, that many of your children share

We’ve developed new techniques

The process takes about 2 weeks

It’s based upon electroshock

A daily dose of microwatts

And when we’re through with all we do

We’ll ship the beggar back to you

And then he’ll be as good as new

 

Doctor says i’m almost fine, and they’ll let me out in time

I’m a very stubborn case, and my tape’s not quite erased

 

For the fourth time in as many days, a long-lost vinyl gem has found its way online and thus to me, after years, even decades, of checking regularly with no results. The ringleader of the band (which I believe is defunct; I saw a rare show once and it was wonderfully fucked) is this fella, who is probably better known as the deliberately unfunny "comic" Neil Hamburger (although sometimes, like a pesky kid, he's so annoying it becomes hilarious in spite of itself. He also released an LP of drunken pranks called "Great Phone Calls" with minimal info, some of which follow the song.  

This morning gave way to one of my grandest collusion-of-confusion days in quite some time, which is saying a lot. But it started with the art, so first things first; Thank you, Mr Beach. I seriously needed it today. Skimming through unheard / forgotten music files for a proper soundtrack, I found "Love," by Yann Tomita, whom I ONLY NOW discovered was part of one of the strangest records I've ever owned. More on that in a sec, but here's some info on the first one, which I picked virtually at random for its oddness.

Now about that other record. Sometime after its release in 1983, I spotted the used vinyl for two bucks and bought it for the cover, having almost no tiki-type stuff at the time. Pretty standard fare, and I was just about to turn it off when this baby hit. Everyone I played it for was baffled. I'd given up researching it years ago, let alone any hope of finding a digital copy. But now it's out there, and BOOM, I find it through divine consequence, like most of the other oddball things I truly care about. Sometimes I can't believe how these things keep happening for me. I've included the "censored" version (yep, there's an uncensored one), which my copy came with, and makes even LESS sense once you've heard it. This is a cosmic gift, so try not to bitch about the quality.    

On an extremely related note, before you listen to this last clip, please check out the prank calls posted here. Pretty much the same deal. The call tapes had made the rounds decades ago, and then someone named Lou Minati (wink wink) set some of it to music on a 45. The label vanished, resurfaced intermittently, but never (that I saw) included this in their catalog again. Sure enough, all this time later, someone was thoughtful enough to make it available for giddy jerkoffs like me. This is my life, folks! That's why no one reads this shit!

 

WARNING! What you are about to see begins merrily enough, but suddenly plummets into a dark circle of hell which no being, sentient or otherwise should, could, or would endure. Thus, a promise: as long as you keep coming HERE for your regular dose of flapjacks, I swear on my very soul that this will NEVER happen to ANY of my zillions of incredibly fucking fabulous readers. They're on the house, now and forever. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.

Spotted on CNN's site, of all places. Other stuff by this fella here.

What many accomplish in Photoshop or with hours of cutting and pasting, photographer Mark Hartman found in the streets of Panama: A mishmash of colors, shapes, images and letters. When workers shred expired outdoor advertisements, the vinyl remains left behind provide an artist effect.

BAND STUFF

From this classic album comes the simplest, most disturbing explanation of what is wrong with us, and how it got that way. I'm no shrink, no expert. I'm not even a victim. But if you're not, someone you know is, even if you're unaware of the fact. You see them everywhere. Bruised, zombified souls, the wounds still visible despite decades of trying to hide them. It's heroic, but it's no way out of the abyss, if such a way even exists. I know the line about it being cyclical, an impossible pattern to break. I even understand it. But nothing will ever justify it. Nothing. Ever. The worst monsters among us, the ones that "normal" people love to see put to death for their crimes, were all someone's baby once. And that hatred for them is just another part of the cycle. I'm not here to be righteous either way. I only know that all world's misery that isn't the result of natural disasters and maybe a very few other things, comes directly from it. The first time I heard this, I was almost nauseous. The precision plodding, minimal changes, and muffled whimpers conjured nothing but the relentless dulling of the senses that those who live with it must have suffered. There's an ELP song with the lyric, "Don't be afraid / Man is man-made." I say, be afraid. Be very fucking afraid.  

 

So truly jolly, an X-mas dolly / I talk on request, I'm never depressed
I'll wink a good time ‘til someone pokes me / One big blue eye out

So simply heady, a birthday teddy / Punches make me bleat, this bare soul is sweet
Keeping you warm at night ‘til someone rubs me / Hey, a fun-filled toy

A fun-filled toy

Free on a tightrope lives the animal soap / Safe, used, been tested, body molester
Amphibious charm, scum in several baths / Has blurred my features
Would you like to say / What that silence was meant to intend?
Would you like to see / What violence these eyes can send, send, send, send, send
To your heart
From the nursery?