1983

Father time's goddamn Lunar calendar has shed its skin again and drawn another ring around my trunk, forcing me to symbolically drop into the musical fetal position of my early 20s. Well, very early 20s - 20, 21 to be exact. 1983.  The first year I recall being relatively happy most of the time.

Which is odd because I spent a good deal of '83 on what constituted a floating prison with 5000 other people, 4995 of whom I didn't know or, worse, really didn't want to know. Strangely, it might have been great because I'd finally felt free. Free of what? Of the 20 years that came before it, I guess. It was my first real job, I did it well, and it was interesting if morally abhorrent (thus began the compartmentalization of my ethics).

Maybe it was all the great music I could buy really cheaply there (for some reason, very few others on the ship cared for Nina Hagen, The Jam, Elvis Costello, etc. yet the ship's store always seemed to have cassettes of their albums available, marked down because they presumably couldn't get rid of them).

Maybe it was that I saw a bit of Europe for the first time: Italy, Greece ... well, Italy and Greece, anyway. Qaddafi and troubles in Lebanon put the kibosh on planned visits to Israel, Egypt and Spain that year.

Really, though, I think it was the four months at the beginning of the year I spent at the Navy Intelligence School and Oxymoron Emporium in Denver, Colorado. There wasn't a lot of Navy in Denver (that was Air Force country) and it was more like college than the military, at least from my perspective. Slam dancing Thursday's (New Wave night) at Thirsty's and Friday/Saturday (not New Wave nights, but we slammed anyway) at After The Gold Rush, both 3.2 bars where us under-21 types could drink. I saw Wall of Voodoo live and hung out with other New Wave aficionados for the first time. Good memories.

Elvis Costello's Imperial Bedroom and The Jam's Snap compilation have been getting extra heavy play on the iPod, my feeble attempt to ignore father time's clock ticking off another year, one more I won't get back. One step closer to the proverbial grave.

These two albums bring me back to a specific year - 1983, in this case - more than any other music that I actually enjoy. There are a great many tunes that dredge up strong memories of the past, specific pinpoints in time; however, in almost all cases, they are songs I at least vaguely dislike and rarely have purchased (except when the memory overpowers the distaste and I need to hear the piece of shit jingle to help get me back to the moment).

Elvis and the Jam bring it all back home.

True Blood

So last night I'm laying in bed watching an interesting documentary on the life of Joe Stummer, the late leader of seminal punk band the Clash. What I found kind of telling, however, were some reactions to Joe's days prior to the Clash. There were grumblings by a few punk purists that Strummer was a "poseur" because he'd been an art school "hippie" type performing in rhythm and blues bands before he "became" a punk.

Never mind that to be a "punk" in the late 60's/early 70's probably meant you were a prison bitch rather than a musician, I'm not sure exactly what these naysayers expected Joe to have been. I guess he should have been hanging out with the Velvets, Stooges and the New York Dolls, but I don't think he had the coin to pull up stakes and move across the pond to America.

Personally, I admire the guy more for his ability to invent and then re-invent himself. All the greats do it, with perhaps Bob Dylan being the grand master at that game. Declan Patrick MacManus, better known as Elvis Costello and perhaps my favorite musician, is another ever-changing chameleon. Being "true to one's self" doesn't mean you need to do it for the rest of the world; in fact, it usually means you can't.

To me, substance is far more important than "truth." Or, more accurately, truth is more important than "facts." One of my favorite books of the 21st century is James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. When it came out that this "memoir" was much more a melding of some fact and a lot of fiction, Frey got crucified (mainly because he fooled the lord god Oprah). But the quality of the writing didn't magically dissipate. On the contrary, I admired it that much more as it showed Frey had a sense of imagination alongside his way with words. That it seems Frey is a pompous ass or that thus far the book appears to be this particular pony's one trick has likewise not diminished the work in my eyes.

My ultimate journalistic hero isn't Edward R. Murrow, it's Hunter S. Thompson. Murrow is close to the summit but Hunter and his Sherpa Ralph Steadman have firmly planted their flag at the top of the world in my opinion. Hunter's "Gonzo Journalism" was based on the adage that you should never let facts get in the way of your search for what's true. It's the substance of the story that matters more than the traditional view of "truth" (and Hunter used all manner of substance and substances in his quest to bend reality to this end). Not journalism, you say? Bullshit. Read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 for some of the best political reporting you're likely to find before or since. How much of it is true? All of it, more than almost anything I've read. How much of it is fact? Who cares.

Perhaps today's guru of the wise, Mr. Stephen Cobert, had it right when he coined the term "truthiness" in 2005 as that thing you know in your gut is the "truth" despite all absence of evidence, logic or fact. That he's being facetious doesn't make it less true.

Leave It To Bitcher

Maybe it's the nostalgia jag I'm on with Mad Men, maybe it's memories of the thrill I had as a kid getting my first typewriter (I was a wannabe writer geek as a boy, still am), but the thought of these obsolete machines brings with it powerful recollections.


I wish I'd kept at least a few pages of the reams of shit I knocked out on that thing. It was a little plastic-encased jobby, still a manual but not nearly so onerous to use as the 1950s metal Underwood monstrosity my Mom had.

I pecked out numerous "episodes" of a family sitcom entitled 'Leave it to Bitcher' on that little machine. My alternative 'Leave it to Beaver' universe had June turning tricks, Wally selling smack to Lumpy and Eddie at the local high school and Ward as an end-stage alcoholic (but ever the ham, he never quite leaves the stage). The Bitcher - Theodore - was a pyromaniac who was being sexually molested by Miss Landers. It was a merry romp, to be sure - shot through innocent eyes, framed in the Eisenhower age of the nuclear family. With a healthy dollop of my twisted worldview melting down its core.


Now to be sure, my mother was not a prostitute, though she always gave me the impression she wouldn't be opposed to the idea, liking to brag that her paternal grandmother was thought to be a turn-of-the-century hooker in Norway. The truth is that my maternal grandfather did not know his biological mother - it's just speculation, rumor, gossip. But the point is made. Anyway, my sister didn't sell black tar heroin at Everett High (at least not that I'm aware of) and I neither set fires nor screwed any of my grade school teachers (from what I recall of them, thank God for that).


That leaves dear ol' Dad. He was the real deal and a model for my Ward in the Bitcher series. But Ward was mainly a supporting character in my teleplays. Sure, he'd stumble in and out of scenes, vomit caking his 'business suit,' always with a slur and a "honey, I'm home, ya goddam whassa, don't tell me, Christ! Blahhh." Still, he didn't generally stay conscious long enough to figure into any of the main story lines.

Ward did have one memorable scene attempting to show the Bitcher some fatherly concern and support upon hearing the news that Miss Landers was pregnant and the fire marshal was gunning for the boy. The old man leaned over his son for a pat on the head and a hug, but he mismanaged the distance and lost the delicate balance of his equilibrium, weaving to and fro. The next thing you know, up came his liquid lunch all over the Bitcher's face. Whatta mess!

And Ward always seemed to be involved indirectly.

For example, there was the recurring 'coda' bit that took place in the boys' bedroom after June walks by the door with a john and pauses to remind the Bitcher to do his chores "or there will be no 'fireworks' for you tonight, young man" before heading off to the 'working' bedroom to ply her trade.

The Bitcher then usually turned to his older brother for advice, complaining about one chore in particular. Wally would be measuring out his baggies of heroin as he provided some perspective to 'the Bitch' during this Taster's Choice moment of brotherly affection.
Occasionally Eddie or Lumpy were there, having stopped by in need of a fix. But they were simply background fodder here, tying off and shooting up quietly or already on the nod in the corner.

The sappy Leave It To Bitcher theme music softly, slowly plays in 'there's a lesson to be taught here' style:

Bitcher: "I really hate emptying out Dad's vomit bowel, Wally"

Wally : "Gee, Bitcher, I know it's kinda nasty but shucks, I had to do it when I was your age. Just breathe through your mouth and look away from the puke. You're lucky, back when I was a little squirt like you, Dad could actually eat food and the stuff he heaved up was way more disgusting. I'll dump it out for you this time, I have to go down stairs anyway."

Bitcher: "Gosh, Thanks, Wally!"

Wally: "Sure. I remember what it was like to be a little goof your age. I gotta run down to the park now. Your pal Larry wants a taste and looks like he might be a potentially good customer of mine in the years ahead. Watch Lumpy, will ya? That's some potent stuff he's mainlining and Mom will clobber me if we have another O.D. in the house and have to call Dr. Bradley again. Remember that mess when Mary Ellen Rogers shot a speedball up here laced with fentanyl and died? Gosh, the medical examiner raised a stink and ol' Dr. Bradley almost lost his license!"

Bitcher: "Sure, Wally. Ya know, for a degenerate drug dealer, sometimes you're an okay big brother."

Wally : "Gee, thanks, Bitch."

Wally tassels his kid brother's hair with the usual goofy look on his face.
Roll Credits.


I'll admit, that particular scene wasn't taken whole cloth from my imagination - I have to tip my hat to Dad for some real life inspiration there. Thanks, Pops, I couldn't have done it without you.

The main story lines usually revolved around Bitcher's fires and trysts with Miss Landers or with June's burgeoning prostitution business. And boy was business booming, so to speak. Fred Rutherford served as her pimp and pretty much every other character regularly passing through Mayfield ended up as a client whether they be male or female, young or old.

I was 14/15 or thereabouts when pounding out these masterpieces. I miss the thrill of whacking the return/paper feed lever one last time and pulling the final sheet out of the machine, the mechanical moves putting an exclamation point on completion of my handiwork. Lots of strike overs and whiteout editing remained, of course, but still. I'd be all warm with either pride or the start of what became a peptic ulcer, my bare feet curled up under the desk in my room, toes lost in the orange shag carpet (hey, that was styling in the day and besides, I inherited the room and carpet from my sister).

I have no idea as to the quality of this shit. Somehow back then I was sure each piece was pure Gold, Jerry, Gold - goddamn genius in the eyes of this beholder. At least once I was done with the incessant editing, which I did to the point where you couldn't read the thing, with more whiteout visible than there was plain paper. Man what I could have done with a word processor.

Still, brilliant for sure. Had he started Inside the Actor's Studio (for you non-believers, not for actors only) back in the early 70s, I'm sure James Lipton would have killed for the privilege of asking me my favorite curse word. But alas, he was toiling on soap operas and I was a prodigy without a pedigree, destined not to be discovered.

Given I was the only one to ever see these masterpieces, and they are lost to the world now, we'll just assume I was right as to their worth and move on.


Lots of bad Dylan and Costello knock-off "lyrics" or "poems" also came off the Buzzard assembly line on the rat-a-tat-tat machine in the late 70s as I perfected my touch typing skills. I guess that typewriter and the work it produced represented my Ignatius Big Chief tablets through that period. The 'wisdom' of a teen locked in his thoughts, barricaded in his room, blasting out Costello and the Clash on the eight track, fingers emptying onto those clacking keys work that would rock the world. Or something along those lines.

In the end I'm pretty sure it was all pure dreck, but that's sort of beside the point.
BTW, if you don't get the 'Big Chief' reference above, shame on you: go out now, purchase a copy of A Confederacy of Dunces and read it at once.

Sense memory is a strange thing. All this from a glance at one of them sleek cling clang machines.