Even “more than asshole” people make some good points… global economy or USA economy… this is a complicated and tricky question. Agendas are secretive and sensitive, profitable to some, political, debatable, and this is a fucking sucky editorial.
Taxes vs corporations, taxes vs “WE the people”, cheep labor in other countries and empty streets, no work for US citizens.
It is not that bad, it is not that good… but politics suck because we have to remember to look into the real agendas behind the politics…
bad guys are good guys… and good guys are bad guys… confusion…
My mind challenges me all the time. It is an endless crematorium of my accomplishments or desires to create. I must say it is a blessing that something else, inside me, does not listen to these aimless shadow words. No matter how dark the shadow appears, I ascend to the light of the occasion to create. This time of year always seems to amplify the worst of the worst anyway. The longest day and the shortest night, seems ironically off.
Jupiter, Mars, Saturn and the full moon come along to celebrate tonight’s summer solstice this year. I have taken out a book, I have had a long time, and have started reading it again. Dimensions by Jacques Vallee. I post about him from time to time. He has whisked me away to so many other books. As a scientist he is also creative and intuitive. His perspective on tradition, folklore and UFOs always amazes me. With the many questions, alone, I have on these subjects, he alone, answers them; intense to say the least.
Proposition 1: The behavior of a superior race would not necessarily appear purposeful to a human observer. Scientists who brush aside UFO reports because “obviously intelligent visitors would not behave like that” simply have not given serious thought to the problem of nonhuman intelligence. Observation and deduction agree, in fact, that the organized action of a superior race must appear absurd to the inferior one…” Pg. 167.
I also like how he blends in the conversation of psychic and mystical with the UFO experience. Also that historically, this is a long going tradition that must not be ignored and viewed only scientifically. Knocks at the door when no one is there, lost time and space, and strange dreams are, in fact, nothing new. This all has been written about for a damn long time. Many traditions that go back for generations. As Jacques Vallee points out, “Ones that must not be forgotten or they die forever.”
So tonight, as I look into the night sky and see the wondrous lights there, I am thankful for this consistency and the mystery; within the darkness there is light!
It seems that history is disappearing, as in a short story viewed on the TV series, the Twilight Zone. Something unreal and strange is happening, but it is real to me. A town, where I grew up, is slowly fading away. Even the stories my folks told me have no basis of reality anymore … all are becoming memories.
Arcos Drive, Dumetz, Canoga Ave, Mulholland Highway, Ventura Blvd., Serrania Ave / Desoto Ave… Winnetka, Topanga Canyon Blvd. The zig-zag path of my youth is Woodland Hills, California. Once dirt roads and two-way lanes embraced by eucalyptus trees and pepper trees, now screams the constant cars of an asphalt jungle it has become. No longer the shady town of horses, farmers and small town ways.
The echos of others who saw change before me. The large land owners or farmers of Orange Groves or the Native Americans, that still embrace this land with their souls. I hear their chanting in the waters that flow over concrete. The Los Angeles River sweetly moans and sometimes howls their stories .
Today we drove by Ventura and Serrania Ave. A whole block is resurrected. A new blue Chase Bank now stands there. A place that once housed a 7/11. In the early 1970s while walking home from Parkman Jr. High, we would stop there to enjoy an ice-cold Slurpee. ten cents made a 5 mile walk home, go by a little faster. A H. Salt Fish & Chips and a Winchell’s Doughnut House adjoined the same block of youthful memories.
In fact, from Canoga Ave. to Serrania Ave. along Ventura Blvd. so much is changed! Immensely so, since the days when my dad told me stories about the small town of Woodland Hills. He told me about the land that my grandmother owned.
My Brothers BBQ was in business for almost 60 years and only closed down a couple of months ago. The best damn BBQ sauce!!
Across the street from My Bros is a nursing home. My dad told me it was once a wonderful park where there was a fountain in the middle. My grandmother owned that at one time. My history is fading away. The same block was crowded this evening with nowhere to park. Strange faces, hipsters, smoke houses and unfamiliar restaurants line the street where I played as a youth..
On Canoga and Ventura there once was a horse stable. My dad would rent a horse and ride up to the top of Arcos drive, between Mulholland Highway and Dumetz. A quick clean view of the valley while resting under a large Eucalyptus tree is when he decided to buy the land there. A tree that I learned to climb years latter. My dad’s brother built my parents’ home on that hill. For some 60 years that was our home.
Tonight as Luna and Mars play their games… I will write this, for them, as an offering of peace and goodwill…
Original and wild as we were … it is also fading … disappearing…
Our goal tonight was to go to a friendly pub that we have visited many times. The Pickwick pub was full tonight. It seems this area is a hip strip that has rolled into a tomorrow I will not be a part of, much…but maybe my two sons will know it differently. Oh golly, I think it is time to move on to a place where there are no memories. I want to open and close the door to these memories.
“The Cambion… Nimue herself and Merlin all are “denizens of another reality.” How can we humans begin to understand them. Why do we make them evil? Instead, I will enjoy their stories and not judge them. Life is just that, a mystery… like the denizens.”
-Jacques Vallee
Walking in the early morning has become a new routine for me, though I typically prefer evening walks to enjoy the night sky. Today, I had an amusing encounter with a local squirrel by the olive tree in front of my house.
Then half up the olive tree turned round looking straight into my eyes. The squirrel’s eyes are a dark black brown with a reflective glimmering. A squirrel moves like a humming bird…deliberate movement, fast then still and focused.
The squirrel moving away, then came back to look closely into my eyes again! About three feet between us was the distance we shared. This lasted about ten minutes.
I mumbled conversation as the squirrel responded with a deep vibrating sound from within its flexible body, while showing off its gorgeous tail! I would like to think; I am still a bit on the wild side too. I have let myself become too damn domesticated over the years. It is nice to know that I have not lost my touch with nature!
This magic, also taught by Merlin the Magician, helps me to appreciate my little wild connection. I feel that nature still knows my name, as it did when I was young!
Punk Rock Colleague & Historian and Professional Consultant
Hudley Flipside
I have never been a record collector. I did have a little cheap tape recorder. I would record the music I liked, taken from a radio program, and play it over and over again. I duct-taped that little recorder on my bike and would play it while riding around the neighborhood, feeling the wind in my hair and the rhythm of the music pulsing through me. It was a simple joy, but it sparked a passion for music that I’ve carried with me ever since.
The Sex Pistols were my favorite. Their raw sound and rebellious attitude resonated deeply with me during my formative years. Everything I recorded was from KROQ when it was still free radio, a station known for its eclectic lineup that brought the freshest hits straight to my ears. It was current and on the cutting edge of what was happening in the music scene at that time, helping to cultivate my taste and broaden my horizons. Each song I captured on tape felt like a small adventure, a way to escape the ordinary and dive into a world filled with energy and intensity.
The music opened some doors for me, shaping not only my identity but also leading me to new friendships and experiences. I remember gathering with friends, sharing our favorite tracks, discussing the latest bands, and feeling a sense of connection through our love for music. Those moments were formative, and I cherish them. Yet, I can list the records I purchased myself from 1978 to 1989 and beyond, each one holding its own special place in my memory. If I could recount the stories of those albums, they would include the late-night trips to local record stores, the anticipation of listening to a new release for the first time, and the nostalgia of revisiting the sounds of my youth. Each record, though not an extensive collection, was a testament to my journey as a music lover, embodying the evolution of my tastes and the ever-changing landscape of the music world.
The Saints, “I’m Stranded,” “Eternally Yours,” “Prehistoric Sounds”
Vibrators, “Pure Mania”
Stray Cats, “Stray Cats”
Ramones, “Rocket to Russia,” “Road to Ruin”
Charged GBH, “Leather, Bristles, Studs, And Acne,” “City Baby Attacked by Rats,” “City Baby’s Revenge,” ” Midnight Madness and Beyond,” “Punk Junkies, “ “Ha Ha,” “Perfume and Piss.”
The Adicts, “Life Goes On”
Avengers, Album
From 1979 to 1989 we at Flipside Fanzine received all our records free. Like many fanzines we performed a service to its readers and to the bands. (of course I will not list the endless supply of thrift store records that came and went for pennies…)
“Any review is a good review,” was my motto. Now I am comfortable with listening to YouTube freely. Any song I want is there for me. I can do what I have always done.
Don’t get me wrong, I spent a good 10 years addicted to the smell of fresh vinyl, but now I am amused by collectors and enjoy their company now and then. Before all this I listened to hand me down records via my siblings.
When I left Flipside I also left all the records, I did love, to the Flipside Record collective.
Records are a small slice of the pie for me and punk rock. Then, I preferred live shows, reading letters from punk fans and making friends.
Another two bits about the BIG PUNK ROCK… there are many stories from the BIG PUNK ROCK, this is just one story.
I reluctantly picked up a book that seemed to urge me to open it, and despite my hesitation, I obeyed its call.
“This investigation was rounded out by the Mysterium Coniunctionis, in which I once again took up the problem of the transference, but primarily followed my original intention of representing the whole range of alchemy as a kind of psychology of alchemy, or as an alchemical basis for depth psychology.
In Mysterium Coniunctionis my psychology was at last given its place in reality and established upon its historical foundations. Thus my task was finished, my work done, and now it can stand. The moment I touched bottom, I reached the bounds of scientific understanding, the transcendental, the nature of the archetype per se.”
California Yucca picture taken in the San Fernando Valley, 2009
“She would be my teacher, helping me to learn to shatter the mirrors of self-importance and to laugh at the expectations or projections that others send my way. It was OK to be me once more.”
~ South Shield, Sacred Path Cards, Jamie Sams, 1990.
I finally caught up with my long time punk comrade. Another show to play for him. We smiled at each other. I just had an ice-cold shot of vodka. The cold filled my belly. Even in a sleeping dream I could feel it. I also felt the warmth of the alcohol in my blood. I turned my head to order another. One for him and one for myself. I looked back and he was gone. OH, that depressed feeling when I lose a friend.
So many scenes have come and gone in my life. They happened and are now gone. They are tight and inspirational and then become a memory. Over and over again this change happens. I have enjoyed the tight times of intensity. A community of friends doing things together with a similar passion. I have experienced that nothing lasts forever. A new scene always comes again. Especially, when I take a risk by stepping out of my comfort zone.
Coyote tells me, as the trickster he/she is, to balance “sacredness and irreverence.” I can hop on my ego and ride it like a balloon, letting it go up into the sky. I can pull it back down with my human string. I will pop the crazy yellow balloon and laugh like a child.
To flourish with the same electrical sounds around us every day can become an adventure wrapped in strange amusing memories.
Reggie and the large tuning fork !!
Such as today when I used the lady’s room at my favorite store. A large fan vibrated throughout the small tilted covered bathroom. The sound reminded me of a scene from the horror film Phantasm (1979). In the film a youth named Mike Pearson finds a room in a mortuary where there are two large round metal polls. The room that contains the polls is bright. The polls vibrate and flourish relentlessly. A strange overwhelming loud pitched sound is heard. That is the same sound as in the lady’s room I visited today.
I once turned on our old dish washer every night. It sounded like the Alien UFO Machines in the remake of War of the Worlds. Images of long legs, tripods, squirting blood and the horror stimulated my scary dreaming. The sounds of the dish washer. Oh man, were a constant reminder every night of War of the Worlds. The old dish washer did not flourish. Now our new dishwasher sounds fine. No more scary dreams…. too bad.
By the time the punk scene hit the ‘eighties there was a continuous explosion of riptide underground movements happening at the same time. Bands like X and the Go-Go’s went with the big labels. They left the underground punk scene and faded. A mirage in the desert of big media. We did not focus on them anymore.
This post shows up after many years. I have done what I inspired to do. I am amazed that in my frustration I came forth with a re-print of our Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine Ten Year Anniversary issue. Also, My Punkalullaby memoir, both in paperback. Also, my three Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine creation narratives documentary films.
I did what I set out to do. A new Flipside Video loop is out too and that is it… Flipside Fanzine, my story and all for ones reviewing. D.I.Y…. the Flipside way. Learn as you go.
a bard of the earth and sky, in the alley,
Hudley Flipside / 2024.
2016
A Ballad to the Good ‘ole Song by Hudley
‘to the ‘young punk dead.’
Life is a song, having a beginning, middle and end. A song has a soul each time you hear it. A song shares feelings and memories which awaken the life lived. A song holds on to experiences of good and inconvenient times! A song has a spirit which is eternally youthful, middle-aged, and old. A song ends like all living things. A song has all the qualities of life. A song amplifies us, the human being, who create the songs and those that resurrect listening to the songs … repeatedly.
Da Capo Press is under a big black sky. Yes, it is good that we all have the freedom to share our stories. In the supermarket I seem to get some deep emotions pulled up. We are all visually abused at the checkout stand. As usual I had to turn the ugly Trump man image around. Was it Time, Time/Life, Rolling Stone, People are another big media cutaneous pig where I viewed his image, and by chance the inside front page had a book review? My brain sucked it in so fast and I did not want to read it… but it came at me like a kamikaze knife. “The real punk rock …,” “X and the Go-Go’s, “the beloved untouchable Minutemen.” Then there was the one image of Henry Rollins …. His bald head.
“It is a curse…”
I put my blueberries and tortillas on the checkout stand. I know how big media gets reviews in such magazines. Is it an honest interview or is it a promotional piece, or a big advertisement? It all reeks and my heart break a bit to think about how the ‘young punk dead’ would rebel against this… as they did 30 years ago.
At Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine we had an endless supply of photos of all the punk bands. It was common underground weed photographs. Not for sale, or for a museum or for any uptown media DICKS. That was not our agenda.
Henry Rollins’s shaved head,
“Twenty something years ago; what issue was my review of Black Flag live in? A show where I called him a penis head?”
I think it was because he was one big muscle of sweat. It was meant to be a humorous blow from an underground nobody punker chick reviewing just another show. Henry took it like an evangelical’s literal agenda when reading the bible.
He was not hip to Los Angeles yet. A sense of humor he lacked big time.
Was it 12 years ago when the “Old-School” nostalgia punk thing started to happen? It has passed its peak baby. I was a silly doe when I approached Santa Monica Press and Feral House Publishing 12 years ago with my memoirs about the punk scene.
No one was interested. I even shared my ideas with punk Icon Keith Morris. No dice…that is how vinyl melts… old school wise.
I am not bitter, just sad. I find that some people are too eager to tell their story in a big way. Big promotional campaigns and all the media hype is a downer man. I wanted to write my memoir because I was concerned that the punk scene, as Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine, might be forgotten? Why am I so loyal …? I am still trying to figure it out!
What I have learned is this, I am more determined to do it myself now. DO It Myself BABY… locally and with my own media machine; a computer, scanner, and little art closet. I have my heavenly share of nasty sharpie pens, erasers, and pencils too.
I’ll hang with a community of peasants that don’t really want to break the membrane into the realm of fame and stars in Hollywood. I’ll stay a bard of the earth and sky, in the alley.
Bless them wild suicide squirrels they got a death wish. I see them dance the Distortion Dance of Death.
Spring is so sweet today. The air honeyed with nectar and the birds are singing. Life can be heavenly, but I never lose sight of the shadow. It is important to keep goodness and our shadows at check, or in balance. A clever way for our soul. You know the story of the brightest light casting the greatest shadow.
Today I am impressed to hear the music of the wild thyme herb growing. Blossoms are small and delicate. It casts a shadow too and hangs best under one dark shadow this morning.
But…
Have you seen the suicide squirrels? Crazy animals that run across the street. They have a big shadow going on in them as daredevils galore.
These crazy squirrels race across the street not looking where they are going. They zoom fast over the road right in front of cars.
I slow down in my car and honk and yell trying to save their life. Jerks in cars don’t care and run them right over. A real hit and run. I stay to watch the Distortion Dance of Death.
Them crazy suicide squirrels. I stay and take care of their final wishes. I always take time to bless ’em and put them in a bag after they die. It is always quick.
A song by Stan Kenton called Painted Rhythm reminds me of them wild beasts, them suicide squirrels. They just don’t listen to me.
I scream,
“Get off the street !!”
The suicide squirrels are damn independent, wild, and organized animals… but they have a strange shadow side. A death wish.
“We know that something unknown, alien, does come our way, just as we know that we do not ourselves make a dream or an inspiration, but that is somehow arises of its own accord. What does happen to us in this manner can be said to emanate from mana, from a daimon, a god, or the unconscious…”
Pg 336 Par 2 Memories, dreams, reflections ~ C.G. Jung
The yard is the shape of a crescent moon facing west. The cypress trees line the crescent shape that enhances the progression of the equinox in the night sky. Last night walking out into the darkness looking up,
“Hello Jupiter.”
Wings like a moth, or a big barn owl, or a giant bird swam through the darkness towards the south. Very high in the dark sky. A very large bird just west of Jupiter. A foreign site next to the consistency of the progression. All captured within the eyes of this little backyard. The ascending full moon was low on the horizon yet the light-numinosity surrounded the large creature.
“Learning from ones mistakes” and the “uncomfortable truth” just about sums up Mercury Rx here. Those aspected by this will find they are constantly faced with intellectual opposition and therefore will have to develop witty deflective responses and a thick skin to criticism at this time. However this enables much wisdom to be gathered because every theory will be put through the wringer in debates. Ideas will have to be validated the scientific way, so generally the mass media will not get away with misleading reporting or unsubstantiated statements.
“To develop witty deflective responses and a thick skin to criticism at this time.”
Husband has some vacation time. He spent all day researching all the places we could go. Las Vegas, Sacramento, Death Valley or maybe Yosemite Park.
“I just don’t know,” I said.
This morning I told him that there is no where you can take me that will make me happier than I am right here. My trees in the garden or the lavender near the miniature lemon tree. Also the things I seek these days are internal joys. Noting compares with the challenges of my mind. Maybe a rough something like kayaking or a path into the mountains near by. Yet still I am happy here, right here. I have so much to amuse me. Chores and responsibilities are my contract and contrast to a willing imagination.
Now that Mercury Rx is happening I feel an interesting shadow coming forth. Husband can run, play chess and maybe we can share a pint or see a band together? It is best to enjoy our time together here.
“…Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
I find comment ’bout my looks irrelativity,
Think I’ll go and have some fun,
‘Cos it’s all for free.
I’m not searching for a reason to enjoy myself…,”
– Yardbirds
How I looked in the dream last night !
Had one of those dreams of being back at the scene of the 1980s. A club morphed into a Golden Voice show! The tight feelings were there of knowing all the bands and the characters and players! Jim Kaa of the Crowd was talking in my ear when brother Gus showed up. We are not talking these days, but in this dream, we approached each other for a forgiving hug when I turned into myself. How I look now.
I asked myself if I had the password to get into the show? I said it does not matter because I am in and not going anywhere!
Lots of guys from bands were roaming around! I was consciously aware enough to dig being back in the middle of things. Running around and being part of what was happening…like everyone else there! My scene, my friends, something to offer and cover! Al approached me; we then were at an adjoining Chinese restaurant. We were shooting the breeze! I was wondering where the bar was ’cause a cold beer sounded good to ease my social tension!
Al Flipside had a new computerized contraption that took pictures, recorded bands, and interviewed bands; ready for documenting the whole scene. All from a large black computer book!
He was on the cutting edge and creative as usual. As we were eating our noodles a band came on! Al said he had to go see about a band. I told him go ahead I will watch over your noodles until you get back!!
I awoke from the dream with a missing feeling of belonging once to a music scene that was overwhelming wild and unpredictable. I was spoiled then! My heart will always mourn those days of youthful rebellion!
Experience the first bubblegum comic that will blow your socks off… and they’re coming to your local area before we soar into a brighter future with the Mothman!!
I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one, But I can tell you, anyhow, I’d rather see than be one!
by Gelett Burgess Other poems of BURGESS (14)
I remember her old hands, and the way she had to slide down the stairs at my parent’s home. My mother kept a special dresser drawer of pictures and things from the past where a few of my grandmother’s poems rested.
I wish I asked more questions and paid more attention to stories told about her. I do remember her gaze at me when I was around her as a child. I felt her need to be by me and to hold me. I feel that now too. I like that!!
Margarete Louise Hudson
She reminds me of a character from the 1945 film Mildred Pierce. NO she was not involved in a murder because she was much more inventive and practical and was married to the same man all her life. Her time was the 1930s and 1940s. My grandmother was an epicurean entrepreneur.
A genius at what she did. All her wealth she moved into purchasing land in the San Fernando Valley. She owned horse stables in the Santa Monica Mountains too. She invested in her four children’s’ future. Helping them all to reach for their dreams.
By the time I came around most of her financial wealth and creative spark was gone due to the usual metamorphose of change, age and a new generation.
I awoke this morning thinking about my grandmother on my paternal side. She was quite the gal. She drove all the way out from Pittsburgh Pennsylvanian, with her family, and invested in the Santa Monica Pier.
She had food-stands on or near the pier where she sold different items such as pineapple and cold water taffy. I heard a story once sharing that she got her hand caught in a taffy stretching machine.
She eventually owned and managed The Purple Cow a popular restaurant on the Santa Monica pier.
Was it 8 years ago, around this time, that M.r. Fuck came to play? Yes… it was…. this is a happy Mr. Fuck day. And we are, here at Flopside comics, ` as we wait for the rain in southern California. I think, well I know, that Flopside Comics suck. People look the other way and are embarrassed for us here. M.R. fuck does not care about bat man, super man or robin (or flesh Gordon) or any of those mighty men… but instead hangs out with the unspeakable and undesirable! Assholes seeking assholes while demanding to be, “More than an asshole!”
I video taped this today. A singing bird and even the sound of man… airplane in the background… it is in the contrast that one feels the value of life.
What is man made and what is created by nature and where the two meet !
Reading by Hudley 3/17/2026
We live in “the best of times and the worst of times.” Darkness and light play a game upon us all. Terrorists initiate fear in us all. It is a time to focus on what is enduring in life as the planets, the stars and Spring. The changing of the season is remarkable, accurate and even mathematically perfected. Humor, poems, and music move us to be less hateful and to show empathy proudly. As the wind blows on a warm Spring Day take the time to see the ritual of life.
Today I am thinking about Bernie Sanders and a little peace bird, a synchronicity, which can lead our footsteps towards a tickling of heartfelt humor and baskets of embracing hope. We need to follow our footsteps of synchronicity,
I authored this poem for my father years ago. It is about birds. Not human footsteps but the continuity of singing bird steps.
A bird song…
Today I heard the sound of a singing bird.
What type of bird I do not know?
A sparrow or maybe a blue bird sings
This lovely song of summer and spring.
I’ve heard this singing many times before
As an infant I heard the singing near
My parent’s pool
As a child I also heard the singing
While sliding down a grassy hill.
Now as an adult of forty
I remember all the times I’ve heard the singing
The same song but from different birds
This lovely song of summer and spring.
In California I’ve heard
Their tunes hundreds of times
I’ve changed so much since
The first time I heard the birds singing ‘tell now,
