My annoying brother Gus who takes pictures all the time.. Auld Lang Syne!!!

Several self-portraits…

I viewed a wonderful film last night on the Sundance Channel called Starting Out in the Evening last. This is not a critical review of the film but a sharing of the themes that the film inspired out of my life.

It was a film about age differences, maturity and art. It was about passion, greed and love. It is about a book that an author wrote when he was much younger, and a graduate student who falls in love with the man who wrote that book when he was that young man. It is about a picture of a young man and the real author who is now aged.

I think it is better to achieve fame and fortune later in life. For me it is a bummer for younger people to judge me by what I achieved when I was much younger. In the film this older author has moved on from the young man ideals of youth. Oh sure he talked about them and shared them with others. Yet, it was the here and now that was his real concern. I related to this completely.

We all get older and we often find ourselves in the mist of youngsters. Sometimes I do find it humorous to listen to the troubles of women in their 20s. They look at me like I don’t already know what they are experiencing. I am 54. I have had 11 lovers and my heart has been broken more than once. I have been independent, dependent: loved and hated. Nothing really shocks me anymore besides the way our culture sometimes treats children.

I think all of us, when we get past 50, should start to write our biographies and do a self-portrait before we die. (I say this laughing due to another reference to the film Flight Club) Starting Out in the Evening last clearly states that to reach maturity takes a good deal of time and life experience. Youth has its day but not for long and definitely not forever as in a picture, book, magazine or song.

I would love reading my mother’s, grandfather’s or my aunt’s biography now! Unfortunately they did not write one. So I gather what I can from others and from what’s left behind about their lives.

Not all of us will be accomplished authors… but to our loved ones we can become accomplished authors by writing our biographies for them. As I get older this is what’s most important to me…any fame or future is just a little pinch of the pleasure of sharing who I am with others, especially my loved ones.

Grasping and sharing the story of my life, for I will someday die… sounds like fun too me!!

The picture above is me. I was 18 months old. I did not want to have my picture-portrait taken. I was nervous, scared and biting my fingers nails….

Gifts fogotten

I tell my two sons to clean their rooms

and they don’t

it is like pulling teeth

I am guilty too..

Then when I do clena up, like them

we find forgotten gifts…

toys, books, art or a poem

and these are some I found today…

Hudley Flipside Art

She was a little wild, a little guy crazy but innocent as the smell of Shalimar!?

Shalimar’s recognizable scent has captivated women and their admirers for almost a century now. The iconic love potion was created by blending lemony top notes and fragrant florals over a rich base of vanilla, patchouli, amber and musk. The result is an exotic scent cocktail that deepens into a powerfully sensual weapon, over hours of wear. (taken from Advertisement)

At 16 and at Christmas I was as thrilled and alive as any young woman. My gifts changed from toys and trivia to more serious and harder to please items. Of course Santa was long gone from my view. The Christmas holiday became the usual routine of family, turkey and poker games later in the evening.

Now was the time of sneaking booze from the bar and smoking something a little more potent with teenage friends.

I wanted some Shalimar perfume. All my gifts were opened. No Shalimar perfume. I was filled with grief.

Then my dad disappeared for some time. We thought he went to get some food or more drinks. He came back with a gift…

It was a gift of Shalimar perfume.

I have written and told this story many times because the story still holds a heart punch for me.

My dad has the ability of being the worst of the worst but at times he could be very sweet. When my dad makes his trek into the great beyond which will be sooner than later! I know this will be one feeling we will share forever of a good deed done at Christmas time for his teenage girl.

I imagine as he greets his mother in that place of the great beyond, she too will be wearing the scent of a rich base of vanilla, patchouli, amber and musk!!

ya baby!!!

Hot Buttered Rum Batter recipe

1 lb brown sugar
1/2 lb salted butter
1 tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground cardamom
1 tsp vanilla

Blend all ingredients in a food processer or mixer and store in the fridge or freezer. To make a drink add a shot of good dark rum along with 1 or 2 tbl spoons of batter to a mug of very hot water. Serve in irish coffee cup.

The Middle Class at Webers (2012)

Punk Rock Colleague & Historian and Professional Consultant

Hudley Flipside

I turned the exposure to “out of control light maxed out” on my little Sony camera and had some fun… enjoyed all the bands this evening but my focus was on the Middle Class.

A sacred punker evening!!

Whenever I happen to drive by the Whisky a Go Go I often flash back to the golden days of my youthful rebellion. It was hanging under the marquee that I first met Mike Atta. Like many personalities and images that come forth, Mike’s is a pronounced one that echoes loudly in my memories of that extraordinary time.

~ Hudley Flipside, My PUNKALULLABY. The Seminary of Praying Mantis Publishing

It became a routine to go to the liquor Store on Topanga & Dumetz, in Woodland Hills in the San Fernando Valley, before driving out to the Whisky A Go Go on Sunset: I bought a large glass Dr. Pepper to drink on the drive through the canyon. The tall thin glass of cold soda was the best thing in the world.

This was the beginning of my days in the Los Angeles punk scene. I gravitated towards the band the Middle Class. I remember the boys of the band.

Impressions of running around, laughing, and talking while I was being inspired by the style and personalities of the boys in this band. The Atta boys and Mike Patton on bass is how I remembered them. They were my early comrades and contain the feelings of that time in my life of youthful enthusiasm and wild adventures on the streets.

We all filled our bellies full of beer and into the Whisky we would run as we then went wild to the sounds of the Middle Class. To recall these memories sends chills up my spine. “I love these guys.” They were such a big part of my life.

Photo tagging due to some people who like to take images and claim them as there own… it is annoyingly clear.

I LOVE YOU

A little punk rock serendipity

Miles away…

Going through the motions of the Christmas season.

Not wanting to spend more money on presents

Not wanting to spend time with the family

I like the cold and a fire in our fireplace

Something has passion around here!!

I feel like steam all the time

Melting, questioning and dreaming.

The cold cools my fire within.

I feel like steam all the time

Melting, questioning and dreaming.

I’m dream’in of a Blue Meanie

Dear Leader

“The world is my country, all humankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.“

– Thomas Paine

Over the last few months, I have noticed a great deal of fraudulent activities going on. We have many local governments run by gangsters. These leading individual fools are making bad choices. Our local leaders are “wheeling and dealing” money and stealing from “the People.” This is inspired by big corporations as well.

They come into a community and influence little city councils with the “big bucks.” I wonder where the honor is with our local leaders. I wonder if most individuals drawn to public office these days are badly “power-warped” from the get go.

We live in a global community more than ever before in our history as human beings. The above quote by Thomas Paine identifies the real ambition of a true public servant for “the People.” Government should be as a fine membrane; set up to maintain and service “the People.” The above quote by Paine reveals the ideals of honorable leadership of a world, a country, or any spit in the wind local city government.

“To do good is my religion” is what we must hold all leaders accountable to. First our leaders must have a heart, a conscience. Second our local leaders need to understand that they are interconnected to other local governments.

They are the microcosm of the macrocosm. As this applies locally, it also applies to our states and our country.

As a leader one takes on responsibility for those she or he serves. Public office must be an honor of service. This must be the same locally and to the world. Everything is interconnected. We need extraordinary ambassadors that make a vow to serve “the People” a continent, governments, and countries. We do not want leaders who serve only their personal and private interests anymore!!!.

I call to the Thomas Paine’s of the world, countries, and governments to be leaders of “goodness.” Their greatest and highest inspiration must now be, “All mankind [humanity] are my brethren.”

Cheers ~ a toast to our future Leaders, our great new extraordinary Ambassadors!!

They purify the earth for My Lady

They celebrate her in song

They fill the table of the land with the first fruits

They pour dark beer for her

They pour light beer for her

Dark beer or amber beer

Beer for My Lady

~Inanna, Queen of Heaven, and Earth.

Bitters for the Meat balls and cats at Xmas…here come the Holidaz

A bitters is an alcoholic beverage flavored with herbal essences and has a bitter or bittersweet flavor.

Who is stroking their carrots?

10056703-walking-carrot-isolated-on-a-white-background

The apartment was adjoined at the hip to the subway. Every time the subway went by the building shook. It was either Queens or Yonkers New York where we watched; looking down from the tall building to the streets below.

We were staying only for a few days while the bands where in town. At dusk, the produce stores closed and locked up, pulling down their metal roller type garage doors. Later, the limousines drove up.

The tall mannequin looking young women and the old gray-haired men were stepping out; the sounds of disco, a terrible kind, blared below. It was the luck of being young and beautiful. It was of being old and foolish… with loads of dough. We watched and listened until the sun came up.

~ Excerpt from The Seminary of Praying Mantis: A Punkalullaby: In New York by Hudley Flipside

Canoga Park, West Hills and Woodland Hills have something interesting going on. On every block you see them. Three types of businesses are booming here. Psychics, tobacco stores and massage parlors. They are on the increase. These cities are up to something that I have not figured out yet. It feels like the kind of wheeling & dealing that smells fraudulent.

The tobacco stores are not so strange. In fact, most of them look manly and are rather attractive. The psychics are not so bad. They are growing in number. If they are not doing so well with their crystal balls, you can always see their boats, trailers, and expensive appliances for sale. The massage parlors seem more sinister.

These places are not legally run by a chiropractor or homeopathic doctor because these types of doctors are licensed practitioners. When you open the door to the sound of a jingling bell at these local massage parlors whom do you think you will see?

We need to legalize prostitution. I say this to protect the women who are working at these places. I am focusing on the possibility that we are ignorantly supporting human trafficking at any zip code.

If we are not going to be honest about these places and legalize prostitution, then we should close them down.

I understand men have their needs. I am not talking about their need to get a carrot massage or table shower. (whatever the hell that is?) I am asking these customers to think about who is stroking their carrots? Is it some young foreign woman who speaks extraordinarily little English with high heels? Human Trafficking is most likely the truth here. A mother, a daughter, a sister … yes.

http://www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/2016/05/07/20-stings-49-arrests-look-lansing-prostitution/84065824/

The Right Chord: Love Canal, The Gears, TSOL and Adolescents

Punk Rock Colleague & Historian and Professional Consultant

Hudley Flipside

This post is from 2012. Imagine that and I still bug these guys like no tomorrow… but as a fan or fanatic I may be wrong, but I still think of them as buddies, bands and beyond. Youngest son was just turning 12 then and now it is 13 years later, and he is graduating college with a BA in Geophysics…

Happy Happy Mr. Kerry Love Canal.

This was a fun year to see bands before the festivals hit the scene or covid-19 for that matter. The Punk nostalgia was hitting hard and many of the players shook the dust and cobwebs from their instruments and started playing again.

I cannot believe it was that long ago 12/9/2012.

Last time I got to see Steve Soto live.

Love Canal

Holding his hand up and using his finger to make a circular movement Kerry said,

“Remember to go in the opposite direction of the slam pit.”

My young son did not understand his sense of punk humor & doom. I laughed.

~ Kerry singer Love Canal

Bob Gnarly and I / Love Canal

The Canyon Club in Agoura California has been around for ages. Last night was my first time there. It is a large club that offers fine dining; at least the prices are fine prices. If you want some drinks before the show, I suggest somewhere else nearby.

Carpet floors, large booths, lots of comfortable chairs and a large funky chair made the place seem like something out of Alice in Wonderland; or we were in the I Dream of a Jeanie Bottle. Large Buddhas and Ganesha the elephant of success added a disjointed décor feeling to the atmosphere: along with a current Christmas theme of snowmen and ceiling stars.

The last time I saw Tony and Steve ~ Adolescents were hanging together… we all stood there, the only difference is my adolescent son was hanging with us too.

Love Canal, The Gears, TSOL and Adolescents were primed, mutable and youthfully transformed on stage with a massive loud sound system to carry their music to the full crowd of fans.

We sang along to Love Canal. The Gears warmed us up with their familiar continuity of original punk music. TSOL drove the fans wild as Jack talked his dirty talk and The Adolescents came on us like a fire truck’s alarm.

“So, mom what is this thing you call a slam pit?”

“Wait and see.”

My youngest son has been to a few punk shows. He never seemed to focus on the weird folk dancers. This time he was on a mission and as he got closer and closer to the pit, he said this,

“Ok, I am going to the bathroom, but when I get out, I am going in.”

He was talking about the pit and before he knew if three big guys told him,

“Son if you want to go in, we have your back… we will watch out for you.”

So as if catching a wave, he went in and initiated himself into the world of punk… to the live sound of the True Sounds of Liberty.

Thirty years ago, the punk scene did not have the diversity in ages as it does today; guys now seemed thrilled to share their love of the pit to a youngster. I was impressed.

“Ya knows, when I was his age my three brothers and I would sneak out the window at night and go to punk shows. Sorry to tell you I was drinking my first beers in alleys before a show when I was twelve.”

My ears were filled with stories that night as I watched my son learn the moves of this wild folksy dance of the fans of punk rock music. I felt humbled, proud, and part of something that I loved too.

Some boys get initiated into adulthood at their Bar Mitzvah… my son’s onset to puberty seemed to be achieved by having the guts to walk into the pit.

As I held my hand to my heart, the drumbeat moves me as I was thinking,

“Now that is the right chord!”

“But drumbeats do not have chords?”

Overall, a great place to see bands. clean restrooms!

Frank Lopez and Demi Lishen-Girl

THE BLACK WIDOWS

Lately, while diving around in my car I have been listening to a CD by the evil BLACK WIDOWS…

“All instrumental, all original, all evil”…

And I love them. Their songs have a nice edge of surf meets dance and beyond. I would compare them to the band The Venturas but THE BLACK WIDOWS are better. I would make this CD as a must for anyone’s Christmas gift list…damn good dance music…remember to carry a big stick…cause ya never know when you will need it ??

This band will bite ya and you will never be the same…My fave song is Zero’s hour.

Banners from Kubrick’s exhibition or glorious rebellious madness.

Now some 30 years later his face mocks me.

Alex: What you got back home, little sister, to play your fuzzy warbles on? I bet you got little save pitiful, portable picnic players. Come with uncle and hear all proper! Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are invited.

My first printing project was with a hand mechanical printing press. I took print shop as one of my class electives: leading me on to West Valley Occupational School to take a paste-up class. This training got me a job working for a short time at a local adult book publisher on Venture Blvd. I pasted page numbers on each page. They were small paperback adult books.

But, back in high school the image I printed for my first project was the face of Alex from the film A Clockwork Orange. My project was stationary with Alex saying,

“Hello my little droogs”

With all of his glorious rebellious madness.

Now throughout the valley I am haunted by banners all over the place advertising the Los Angeles Museum of Art Stanley Kubrick exhibition, as I drive along the same streets where I grew up; there is Alex’s face grinning down at me with all of his glorious rebellious madness.

Everyone in the print shop class did not have a clue to who this character was: not even the teacher. Now some 30 years later his face mocks me. He takes me back to those beginning days of the 1970s ; to the place of that transforming rebellious power that stirred my soul.

Now I hold up a challenge. I am thinking of all the banners I now viddy around the San Fernando Valley .

I am saying this,

“Would you or could you rip-off one of these banners for me?”

I will make you a home cooked spaghetti dinner.

No lie… or maybe I will buy you a brew from my favorite pub.

The point being I would do it myself but my back is not what it was, so late one night if you find yourself under such a banner of Alex… it could be done.!?

Just climb up the pole and pull it down.

Regardless I find the whole thing pretty ironically & mockingly…weird.

Around the fire of electirity

Reading, watching and listening are all good and fine. I’ve done a lot of these things in my time. Writing is something different altogether. It is a focused act or process of sharing. I use to be afraid to write. Going back to my school days I noticed it was always the smart kids that did the writing. I could barely write a sentence without feeling a deep sense of stupidity and peer pressure. In high school I think I wrote one essay and it seemed as foreign to me as learning another language. Then in time I became hip to the game by writing simple things such as live band reviews, and record reviews for a music fanzine. This little bit of writing opened a door for me; it gave me a voice that I did not know I had. Writing, editing and rewriting became an art form that I love. I am still making up for a weak elementary educational foundation: which has improved and can’t be that bad since I put myself through a BA and Master’s program; which is all about writing.

Now I am addicted to writing. I continue to learn about it too. I would say right now I find writing is more important to me than reading blogs. As a crone this is a natural part of my DNA… to share my stories!! I am hanging out around the fire with the old hags sharing my fairy tales or folksy wisdom; which is the accumulation of knowledge and experience. The fire is now a computer and my stories are shared via a WordPress blog.

Strawberry Nose

I think dad will be ninety-three this year. He once was an exceptionally good storyteller. He would sit out on the back porch looking over the San Fernando Valley and tell a story to whomever sat next to him. Just make sure it was not past 5 pm …before the liquor hit his brain.

This put him into a fighting mood and a meaner fucking son-of-a-bitch you will never find; it was always like this; between good and evil, and you had to be as sensitive as a cat; to stay and purr or take off and get away; to be domestic or wild.

To this day you can bet your cards on this about my dad. My siblings are in justification mode when it comes to his actions, or they rise above as if in some place of divine grace. I have always been straight with the man, as I told mom once,

“Mom if anything ever happens to you, I will not take care of that bastard.”

So be it this is how it is today. Don’t get me wrong, I am kind to him now. He lives in an unimaginable place of dementia. I often lift my pint up to him and smile.

“Cheers dad!”

I realize he does not know if I am his wife, daughter, sister, or some dame he has his eyes on? I really don’t care and just affirm repeatedly that,

“I am your daughter… Holly; the youngest of five children.”

He smiles and he is pleasant.

I hold firmly, in my mind and breast, that he needs to be accountable for the pain and suffering that he caused us. But I also remember the times during the quiet, in the eye of the storm, when life seemed normal and even sweetly naïve, fun, and magical.

This is a story I share with my sister. It recently came to my mind while reflecting on dad. Remember my relationship with him is always like clockwork based on the swing of the pendulum, and this story is when the pendulum was happy.

My mother was a stay-at-home mom during the 50s and 60s while I was growing up. She did not drive so dad did the shopping for her. Their life was based a great deal on the conversation of “what’s for dinner honey?”

My folks always had lots of fruit around for the kids to eat. I will never forget one particular summer about the mystery of who was eating the strawberries.

In the evening mom would clean up the strawberries and get them ready for breakfast. I watched her rinse them and cut off the tops, putting the fresh, sweet, redness in a large bowl. The berries where then put into the refrigerator.

I said, “oh boy, strawberries for breakfast!”

“Yes, honey…we will wait until then.”

Morning came and there were no strawberries. I wondered about this. The whole family did. This went on for a couple of weeks, until someone did some investigation.

My sister caught my dad in the act. He was getting up late at night and eating the strawberries. She then drew a picture of my dad with a strawberry nose. She showed it to me and instantly I knew who had been eating the strawberries. It was not a strawberry monster.

“Who’s been eating the strawberries?”

“Dad with the strawberry nose!”

We laughed together and mom put the picture up on the refrigerator for viewing as dad confessed.

Dad has a substantial size roman nose and at one time he had a dark mustache underneath. The drawing of dad induced an upside-down strawberry; the uncut green top was his mustache.

Dad loved his Jazz…