My heavenly shower is a sacred place of hot, warm or cold water. It is there for me in worst of times bones ache and chills of fever cleaning a dark soul quality away. I sing, talk and compose there I talk to my medicine animals there and say my prayers. It is an old shower with a whacked head yet the water cleans me inside and out my holy shower that sings me sweet words.
A reading from my novella To Ride A Painted Pony Wild
Chapter 3. Headless Horseman Road
Just in case you didn’t know you can order Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine Anniversary Issue #54 (replica) in the US, Canada, UK, Germany, India, France, Italy, Spain, Japan, Brazil, Mexico, Australia. Amazon Kindle Print On Demand is available there. Save on shipping fees. A mighty good deal. promotional hashtag…. #losangelesflipsidefanzinetenyearanniversaryissue
For Sale Here…
Only a new cover otherwise this is a replica of the original but better. The yellow patina is gone, and the pages are all straight. If you want it without all the fuss and facelift you can still purchase the squirrely eBook. It is cheaper. This issue of Flipside was originally printed on newsprint, paper, so the pages did yellow with time.
I put a great deal of time into making this paperback into the sweet little punk rock number that it is. Some punks have told me that this was their punk rock bible. It is Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine issues one through fifty. A lot of punk voices. The integrity of what punk was at any time during the original punk rock scene is shared here.
Flipside Fanzine number 54 captures the continuity and real experience and thoughtful wild exuberant expression of many interesting individuals. It was a passion of mine to share in this documentation of a scene. It still is which is why I continued over the years with this project to have a new handheld Flipside 54 for anyone who may want it. I think it is very special, in a punk kind of way, I hope you will enjoy it too.
Within this paperback book is our history of the early punk rock scene. We at Flipside covered that scene thoroughly, what we wanted to cover that is. It is best you read the editorial included at the beginning of this paperback to get a real sense of who we were. Ten years of documenting a scene included in issues one through fifty is a great deal to read. A magnifying glass may be needed.
I always say the proof is in the pudding. Shift workers who worked on each issue are clearly defined in each issue. This is what I mean by proof. Always a lot of hands in the cookie jar at the Flipside house. Suffice to say I’ll let this spectacular punk documentary speak for itself with a giant community of punk voices.
I recommend my memoir My Punkalullaby as a sidekick to this paperback book. Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine the Ten-Year Anniversary Issue (replica) is a punk rock opus and I am very proud of it.
I guess it was up to me to reprint it…
Be More Than A Witness,
The Seminary Of Praying Mantis Publishing
The Nasty Woman and the
“In his late works , he embodied these and other ills in the nightmare ridden figure of the cosmic giant Albion, or universal humanity, who has fallen in to deadly sleep of mundane existence. In humanity’s coma, the divine is a remote and forbidding sky-god: nature a sterile heap of atoms, lovers and family members, enemies; and one’s own innermost being, an unrecognized alien.”
~Blake’s Poetry & Designs ` A Norton Critical Edition.
I realize I am being confrontational, nasty and outrageous. It is that two-week time as we move into the autumnal equinox. I hate this time of transition, but I love autumn.
Today I had to get gas on the way to where I was going. This local gas station charged me a 30 cents gas fee. Yet this is the normal way to skim the top and make a lot of money off millions of poor people. I remember when gas stations had attendants pour the gas, check the oil and fill the car tires. It was service with a smile.
I wish one of these monster gas companies would be brave and bring the service attendants back. They could collect the cash and we could give them the service charge… instead of a fucking machine.
Every time we take away a person’s job and replace them with a machine, we become less human.
I went into the mini-market and the cashier, who seemed to be acting as an employe, knew nothing about the fee and said,
“I don’t know why you are asking about it. You are the only one that cares? No one else has asked about it.”
I looked at her silently and squarely.
“You should know about it and all the things around you here. I must pay a fee and it is dirty filthy outside around the gas tanks. I remember the day…”
A man came forward and interrupted our conversation and the cashier looked away.
“Excuse us,” I said. “We are talking.”
I used a figure to point to the cashier and me.
“Grumble, “said the man under his breath.
I left telling the cashier she should lose her job for not knowing anything.
Then I came home to find standing outside my home a strange older man smoking a cigarette.
“Are you waiting for someone,” I said.
“Then why did you park here?”
The street had no other cars around. He then looked up at the tree. I then asked him to please move his car I needed to part our truck there. He seemed nice enough for not having a reason for being there besides smoking a cigarette. We talked back and forth.
“We have had issues with drug dealers around here,” I said.
He soon left and I moved the truck out. I know I was being ridiculous. I thought it strange that he would get out of his car with his cell home in hand to smoke a cigarette under our lovely olive tree. I did say to him.
“I don’t like the smell of cigarettes and I am sure the tree doesn’t either.”
I think upon a poem I wrote that I have changed a bit.
Any time of the year but now it is moving into the Autumn poem.
Green-gold olives This eve I take my broom Last ray of sun is dead here … it is real… The shy clouds hide stars Only the Moon, Jupiter and Saturn shine their breastplates. Of radiant light… I take my broom to the front of our home into the dustpan goes Dry brown and yellow Pointy olive leaves and hard green-gold olives… Into the waste bin… away away. Goes all the thoughts of this day Of a wooing Crone… Looking around as I sweep and bend For any Fay to show their haunting ways In the clouds sailing on the night or Upon the grasping arms of the olive tree. Queen of Elphame mocks me As I move quickly and consistently, I call her Sabrina… How symbolic have I become? Wild movement… yet strangely calm. Sweet sweat dripping My dusty perfume… I do as many an old Crone Sweeping clean the front of their home At this transforming time. Today I am a nasty one...
“Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.” ― William Blake
It was terrifying living through the California fires. I took a picture across the street then of what I see as a fire monster. At least it looks like one. The fires approached so close to our home.
When Spring came so did the Monarch butterflies. A flying path over our home called us to visit the burned hills. I was beside myself with wonder. How resilient nature is. I know these hills well, and I saw blooming flowers I had never seen before. A multitude of creatures and fresh green hills. Roadrunners and rabbits have also returned.
Today I study the ideal of contraries. It is part of who we are as human beings and nature and the cosmos. I cannot think of a better quote then William Blake’s above to understand what we are going through right now. I want to share a hopeful part of nature as well. Contrary as is may seem now. It is a dependable pattern we can trust.
“According to Jung, humanity holds a special role in creation: to contribute to the act of consciousness, and the point of view of morality, in its highest sense.” ~ Johnson, Robert A. Ecstasy (p. 64) Harper One. Kindle Edition.
Driving towards home the dark night held all the romance that a woman could ask for. Falling in love after 30 was not a goal. Looking out of the passenger seat coyote was eyeballing my lover. He looked back at the wild thing that was part of a mythology deep in this hill’s subconscious. Hadn’t he been on top of coyote hill and tasted the nectar of adventure? Once on top years earlier coyote turned to look as coyote defined his territory. A wild thing knowing all those living there. A sacred path that went on for generations.
Posts about Coyote
“A novella is a text of written, fictional, narrative prose normally longer than a short story but shorter than a novel, somewhere between 17,500 and 40,000 words. The English word “novella” derives from the Italian novella, feminine of novello, which means “new”. The novella is a common literary genre in several European languages. “ `Wikipedia
I decided to make this real-life story into a short novella. It is a bit off the beaten track because a novella tends to be fiction. Yet I have found many that aren’t.
This story is like capturing the essence of a wildflower while watercoloring or grasping a political expression for one of my Flopside comics. I tend to grasp and then get it out there before I lose the essence of what is coming forth.
This story may have taken time to materialize into a novella format. Which I feel protects its essence which I hope will come across.
It is set in the early 1970s.
As my two boys, my dancing John and the punk rock scene… Sony was one of my greatest gifts.