Shoeless Billy Mays

Originally posted August, 2009

Say it ain't so, Billy ... Coke? Meth, I could see (it's the people's drug, after all, and you were nothing if not a man of the people).  But elitist coke?

Could it be the rat-ah-tat-tat, slam-boom, loud and superfast patter was not nature's gift to you, Mr. Mays?

Man. Bummed.

This is for me like finding out Joe DiMaggio was corking his bat!

If Billy could be seduced by the dark side where does that leave the other pitchmen and women?

Are any of them clean?

ShamWow Vince?   The Snuggie Lady?   The Liberator Catheter 'Cath' Chick?  Billy's partner Anthony?

Do the television advertising executives need to institute mandatory drug testing?  (I mean apart from the ones already in place for legal drugs a particular shill might be hawking.  When the Viva Viagra men's glee club force down those blue pills like they were tic-tacs, that doesn't count.)

This Mays-as-cokehead revelation could be just the beginning.

Next thing ya know, pictures will start popping up in the scandal rags of all our favorite pitch people gallivanting at the annual Infomercial Players Convention in Vegas, caught-on-camera snorting lines off a dead hooker's ass using Liberator Catheters as straws.

And then of course cleaning it all up with the help of some OxiClean and a few ShamWows.

It would end up being like the old Chicago Black Sox Scandal, only now 'as seen on TV.'  'The scandal with sleeves!'

Grainy home movie footage will follow - Paris Hilton-style - going viral on the net:

[Scene: Some Vegas Hotel Suite, final night of the Infomercial Shill Shabang Convention. Vince, Billy, Anthony, Snuggie Lady, and 'Cath' are bent over the king size bed, all wearing multi-color Snuggies and snorting blow through long catheter tubes, the dead hooker sprawled out below them serving as receptacle for their illicit consumption.]

Zoom in.  Assume Les Stroud of Survivorman is operating the camera. What?  Hey, he's got lots of camera experience!  And he knows how to deal with snakes and jaguars and bears, which might come in handy here.

Shamwow Vince is rattling on at hypersonic speed straight into the camera, nude except for his red Snuggie and his headset mike, pacing around all crazy-armed wild-eyed energy and dilated pupils: "Look at that mess. That's blood running out of my nose, mixing with the grey matter oozing from that dead hooker's head there.  It's soaking right into the carpet - that's gonna leave a mess (and evidence). Ya gettin' that camera guy? But with some OxiClean - wanna spray some there Billy? .. and a ShamWow, it sucks it all out - no muss, no fuss, no cops."

Then Vince pulls out his SlapChop and an Eight-ball and proceeds to chop them up a few more lines of Bolivian Marching Powder.  But only after getting into it with Anthony, who wants to use a Smart Chopper for the job instead, claiming it wastes less 'product' and results in a 'finer' drift of snow, free from the 'rock' left behind by the SlapChop.  Toe to toe, fisticuffs at the ready.  Gotta give it to them, even ripped out of their gourd these boys are loyal to the brands they so proudly represent.

The Vince/Anthony tussle resolved (both Choppers would be employed), the gang hunkers down for a few more snorts of coke and - what the hey, it's a party after all - a line or two of the finest Afghani smack.

Vince stands up again suddenly and half struts/half weaves toward the camera - you awake, Les?  His TV rap tattooed to his psyche, ol' Vince can't help but let his buddies know that like all things, this party is time-boxed: "If ya hurry, ya can have a taste - for the next 20 minutes, or until this hooker starts to smell, cause we can't be doing this all day, people."

'Cath' is already agitated by the other pitchmen and their wasteful use of her catheters - why not use a rolled up $20 like normal people?  Vince's sharp tone and clock watching have put her over the edge. "All day?!? We can't be doing this all day?!?   It's only 5am, ya hooker beatin' Eddie Haskell-lookin' shithead! - Now, I gotta go 'Cath'"  Vince doesn't back down from her.  "Not in here ya don't - in the toilet with ya, Cath, ya urinary tract wacked bitch!'

Every once in a while the Snuggie Lady pops her head out of the blue velvet 'Snugcoon' that envelopes her as she lay 'cross the sofa in the corner.  Just as quickly, she grabs another handful of pills from the candy dish and washes them down with a tug from the half gallon bottle of cooking sherry she keeps clenched in her fist.  The others know not to disturb her (or even to glance in her general direction). Oh, no - that wouldn't be wise: she'd been huffing Billy's Orange Glo all afternoon and is in no mood for socializing.

Enough fun and games, time to feed the hooker into the Magikan trash disposal system that Anthony and Billy had brought along for just this purpose. That'll tidy things up just right. Maybe a little 'energy booster' before cleanup - "Hey Liberator Chick, pass over another 'cath'!"

[End Scene]



Of course, this is all just wild speculation about a future that nobody wants. The consequences of falling down that slippery slope from high atop the Infomercial Celebrity Ego Mountain. I can only hope this scene remains firmly in the realm of fiction.

Consider it a forewarning - a cautionary tale, if you will, of the ultimate price paid when putting too much pressure on our heroes and taking away their P.T. Barnum-fueled innocence. For in so doing, our innocence shall be taken as well.

Vince and Billy have been tarnished by scandal, let's hope they don't take the whole ship down with them.

Shiny Boots of Leather

It's a shame that two of New York City's most historic rock and roll haunts now only exist in cyberspace - namely Max's Kansas City and CBGB.

I was too young to have made it to Max's but was lucky enough to see several shows at CBGB, albeit long after its hey day as home to the Ramones, Blondie, Television, New York Dolls, etc. in the mid-70s (just after Max's first closed).

Max's was a regular hangout of the Velvet Underground, along with Andy Warhol and crew and one of the places to play in the late 60s and early 70s. Jim Carroll practically made it his second home as he illustrates in his book, Forced Entries. It's a deli today, which is a crying shame.

Why mention this? I was re-reading the Lester Bangs 'bio book' Blondie. Lester was, at least in my opinion, the best rock and roll writer the world has known, and one of the best writers of any kind. Not enough people know of him, certainly not those under a particular age. Sadly, Lester passed on much too young in 1982 and though he left a rich body of work behind, much of it is maddeningly inaccessible, save for a couple of compilations. The best of the compilations - and most commercially successful - is Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, put together by a buddy of his and another pretty good rock writer, Greil Marcus - if you haven't read it, I highly encourage you to pick it up.

Lester worked for a number of magazines in the 70s, including Rolling Stone (where he was fired at least once) but his voice really took root in the pages of Creem Magazine (God, I wish I had saved my copies from that period). Creem was an irreverent rag out of Detroit, 'America's Only Rock and Roll Magazine' it proclaimed on each cover. Creem now sadly also only has a life online (of course, it certainly isn't alone in that equation). Lester did get some posthumous exposure when Phillip Seymour Hoffman played him in Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous but his work is largely incarcerated in those Creem back issues.

Anyway, I got off track again, as I'm wont to do.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah - Blondie.

Lester was was a subversive motherfucker by nature. The Blondie book he had been hired to write was supposed to be a typically shallow fan bio, published only to take advantage of their unexpected success in the wake of Heart of Glass. Lester, though, had other plans. He used this relatively high profile exposure as a bully pulpit in order to preach his special brand of punk religion. He confused and infuriated the publishers (not to mention Blondie) but it's a great read. He talks about the roots of punk and in particular the Velvets and Max's and Television, the Dolls, Patti Smith, Ramones and, yes, Blondie at CBGB.

Screw the boring ass Museums that dot NYC (with a sponsor's exemption for the Guggenheim, which is kinda rock'n'roll in its own right) - I would pay dearly to be able to visit this kind of history outside the pages of a book (no matter how well written it might be).

Ahh, but that's not right.

Rock and roll isn't like other art and maybe trying to fit it into that mold would be the worst thing that could happen: you become - well, you become the Hardrock Cafe.

Max's is better off as a deli. After all, what's more New York than that? Except for perhaps the fate befallen the CBGB building, once Patti gave the final concert there in October 2006 and the doors closed for good as a rock joint.

First CBGB was shuttered/abandoned and then it became a high-end fashion store. NYC is very well known for plenty of both. The fashionistos left the club graffiti and playbills in the bathroom intact as a shrine for the richies to marvel over when they need to take a piss while shopping for high priced John Varvatos clothes and fragrances.

Andy Warhol would smile. That's very NYC indeed.

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.