The Ramones Are At My Door

Gather ‘round kids, I’m going to tell you a story about the Ramones, yes that Ramones, the original punk band, and how they showed up at my apartment door one night.

But first, you need to understand who the Ramones were to me and to my compeers and really to anyone with a pair of ears. As an east coast transplant, for me they were the kids next door who done good; they were the boys in the garage who hit it big; they were the nice guys who found a lucky break with a great sound. As far the scene that I was in at the time, some punk bands demanded a whole lot of commitment to feel a part of them, like tattoos, spiked hair and ripped clothes. The Ramones weren’t like that, there was no flash and no pretense. They didn’t portend a cult-sense to appreciate their music. They were every syllable punk rock and roll. And it wasn’t by accident.

We could all agree on the Ramones.

In the 1990s, I was living in the foothills of Hollywood. It was a decent place, nothing fancy but clean and safe, certainly for Hollywood standards. There was a pool, so many of the tenants knew each other and we were all pretty friendly. A new girl moved in, down the hall and on the same floor as me. She was odd, for sure, loud, needy, and a bit whiney. She had “a caretaker,” was how the apartment building manager described the guy who was always with her. He seemed like he was just some guy who made sure that she didn’t fall off her bar stool when he wasn’t falling off his own. Even though I wouldn’t testify to this in court, there was definitely some kind of “substance” involved. We’ll call her “Cathy” because no one else did and that wasn’t her name. I don’t remember the caretaker’s name. What I remember most about him was the first time that I met him when they had just moved in and were new to Los Angeles. It was on the roof of the apartment building during the LA riots in 1992 as we all watched the city ablaze. Hollywood Boulevard looked like Kuwait and the news copters overhead were almost deafening. There were no cops to be seen anywhere. Cathy’s caretaker, scrawny wet-noodle of a guy, puffed up and started talking shit about how he could hold his own, “Let them try to get in here, I’ll stop ‘em at the front door. Blow some heads off…” Not the sound mind you want to be around in an already tense situation. His bloviating ignited some other testosterone-carrier to mouth off about what he was holding, and then the next guy started—and before you know it, they were all giving an inventory of their ammo and arms. The whole conversation had me on edge, being as we were all stuck so close together. Scrawny caretaker guy won the pissing contest by claiming that he had three 450 magnums and a machine gun with a couple of magazines. It could’ve been all talk, but someone on that roof was telling the truth.

Cathy and the Noodle weren't real social. They didn’t mingle well with others. I always assumed that they preferred the company of their substance. They were loud and then they’d turn it down, and then they’d be loud again. I heard rumors that Cathy was an old friend of the Ramones, she grew up with them or something like that in Queens. She was in some kind of car accident with one or more of them and she got quite messed up and they took care of her. They helped her out. Every so often, she’d disappear for a month or more at a time. One day the caretaker was taken away on a gurney and we never saw him again. One time, she was gone for a couple of weeks and left her apartment door wide open with the radio blasting. It was a couple of days before anyone went in there. I poked around, was too curious not to but I didn’t touch anything. The place was in much better shape than I had imagined. She had nice framed photos of herself (not looking at all like she did at the time) with different people, family maybe friends and some might’ve been members of the Ramones, but I couldn’t be sure. No one in the photos had their signature hair styles or fashion sense and I know that they didn’t always look like that themselves. So, they might’ve been old friends and taking care of Cathy.

Eventually, Cathy got a dog. And that dog was going to get lonely, so she got another dog.  During a brief elevator trip we shared, Cathy was taking her dogs out for a walk and told me how they were going to help her get her act together. I mumbled “good for you, good for them” or something equally inane.

I never saw her with the dogs again. The dogs didn’t go away. The two cute little white Pekingese pups were holed up in her apartment. She’d lock them in her bathroom when she was out.

Cathy’s bathroom window faced my bedroom window with the pool courtyard below which echoed sound. Specifically, it echoed the sounds of the two forgotten pups in Cathy’s bathroom. The dogs yelped and cried and this went on for weeks. I talked to the apartment manager about it and she talked to Cathy. I left notes for Cathy about her unhappy puppies. I called the animal control bureau. They wouldn’t do anything unless someone actually saw abuse.

August 6, 1996, I was about six months into a year-long migraine headache when Cathy was out for the entire day and evening and the doggies were locked up in their bathroom. I was confined to my quarters with a cool towel over my eyes. It was me and it was them. And then it was me versus them. Around midnight, it was them versus me with the dogs winning. I don’t know exactly what they were winning but it felt like they could run off with my sanity as soon as that bathroom door opened. If it ever opened again and they’d shut the hell up. Oh, damn you Cathy and your problems. You’re nothing but another damn self-centered drug addict. I have problems too. “Shit,” I’d curse Cathy, “the woman is a mess and she breeds her problems into everyone else’s life and blah blah blah.”

It was church quiet in the building except for the two yelping Pekinese pups. I was wide awake and miserable as no medication could provide relief, with or without the Pekinese. It was no surprise when at 3:00 AM I could hear Cathy coming into the building on the first floor and rumble her way up the elevator and down the hall. She was cursing, there was talking, and some falls. I got up, put on a robe, and opened my apartment door and stood in the doorway and waited. Suddenly, I was Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched. When did this happen to me? I had no time to think it through I needed to straighten out Cathy about dog care.

Cathy barreled down the hall, bouncing off the walls, and I stood in the doorway with my arms folded over my robe. When Cathy was in front of my door, I called her name. She wasn’t alone. Cathy stopped, looked at me with her tear-stained donut glazed eyes and jello’d knees. Hey ho, Cathy was with the Ramones. I swear as I am breathing, the five of them stood there, two of them holding up Cathy.  I immediately recognized Joey and Johnny, I’m not sure if the other two were C.J., and Marky or one of them might’ve been Dee Dee. Mrs. Kravitz adjusted her tone (which, as a friend pointed out, only made me all the more like Mrs. Kravitz). I said something along the lines of, “you got to do something about your dogs, they’ve been barking and crying all night.” Feigning selflessness, I added, “It’s not good for them.” Cathy stumbled and mumbled, “Help me, they’re trying to kill me.” It was clearly drunk bitch babble. The four gentlemen and they truly were gentlemen, apologized profusely. They promised that it’d be taken care of and the dogs would not bother me again. I thanked them. Yes, after more than 12 straight hours of yapping Pekinese, I thanked them.

Yes, I wanted to shout after them that once upon a time I had been cool. I wanted them to know that I wasn’t always Mrs. Kravits and that if it wasn’t for the gawdforsaken migraine that I might have been at their show that night.

It turned out that was the night of their last gig. They must’ve just come back from the Palace (a few blocks away). I know one biographer has stated that after the show, without many words, they each left the theater on their own and went their separate ways. Not exactly, first they had to take care of some lose ends at Cathy’s.

There was no end-of-the-tour rowdy party that night, as one might imagine. Cathy’s apartment was quiet. I heard them leave, not together. They were soft footed and soft spoken and, it seemed to nosy neighbor Mrs. Kravitz, they left one at a time, on their own. I don’t know what happened to Cathy and which one of the Ramones she grieves the most.

I never heard the dogs yelp again. Cathy still had the dogs, maybe she stopped locking them in the bathroom.

I’ve witnessed fame drag people down like a tidal wave, destroying exactly what made them famous. I saw the Ramones on the other side of that tidal wave and they stood up like good people on a journey.

A couple of years later Joey Ramone died. It seemed unbelievablethat he could be here and then gone so soon. Then Johnny died. Few years later,Dee Dee was dead. Now Tommy is gone. There are no more original Ramones. There are memories of some local kids who did good; the garage band that hit its mark; nice guys who found some luck on their road. No doubt there were bumps on that road and some harm was done along the way. Who doesn’t hold bruises from a reckless youth? But that 3AM encounter confirmed for me that without a doubt,they were nice guys who hit it big and hit it fast. They held their own and took responsibility what they did.

They have responsibility for making a generation ‘wanna be sedated’ while causing major adrenaline rushes. They made a lot of people very happy. Their music will survive and can drown out any yapping dogs.

Happy journey guys! Bark bark.

Too Many Rockaway Stories For Public Consumption

A respectful nod to Charlie Haden, who also died this week. Unfortunately, Charlie never showed up at my door.

Love the moon. Don't know if that's my noctural instincts kicking into demand mode or if it is a simple love of the moon. I wanted to pay particular tribute to this beautiful harvest moon. The camera cooperated nicely and then I found this lovely poem (by Lucille Clifton) which has nothing to do with the moon and yet they go so well together. Here's to another harvest and another turn of the moon.

Not Much of a Bathing Beauty

Age ^III

People shop for a bathing suit with more care than they do a husband or wife. 

The rules are the same.  Look for something you’ll feel comfortable wearing

 and allow for room to grow.    –Erma Bombeck (1927–1996)

            I’ve never been much of a bathing beauty.

I’m not shy, I’m modest. One thing that has not changed over the years is that it has never been easy for me to get comfortable going out in public wearing what really equates to fancy spandex underwear.  I failed miserably as a Beach Bunny and as a Surfer Chick

. 

            Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done plenty of UVB damage.

In one of my yesteryears when I was hanging out at the Jersey Shore with some kids from the Honduras, I spent so much time in the sun that I got phlebitis. My legs swelled up like huge water balloons. Richard Nixon had phlebitis—but Nixon was like a hundred years old and I was just a stupid teenager.  These Honduran kids had skin like hot cho

colate and I stood out like a marshmallow. By the end of the day, I was a red-hot mess unable to sleep, pee, or walk.  I cried all night, praying for something that I didn’t necessarily believe in: mercy. Relief eventually arrived in the form of a Valium and a shot of something warm and tingly. 

Today I regularly check my skin for signs of mercy from my misguided, and yet not regretted, youth.  

When I saw this Erma Bombeck quote I was struck by the similarity to one of my own “theories” in life.  Hey, put enough candles on the birthday cake and you too will have an abundance of theories to keep you warm at night. 

My theory, based solely on observation and conversation, is that some of us (if you’re reading this you are already “one of us”) will take better care of our cars than we take care of our bodies. Think about it. Or maybe it’s just an L.A. thing and I have lost all perspective of the rest of the world.

 For instance, I have a respected friend who is able to keep two cars running, insured, and up-to-date and yet his teeth are literally breaking down. He was lax on the necessary upkeep on the ever important pie hole, trap,yap, blower, word hole, whatever you call it—it’s damn important. My friend is looking at about two to three months of serious work and close to a 40K tug on his bank account. Though oddly, he told me that he’s been saving for this inevitability for quite some time.  If there was a way to calculate, I’d like to know how much he would’ve spent over the past couple of decades (just in dollars, not counting anxiety attacks) to do the necessary upkeep on the 'grill of his ride.’  Just a thought.

As an urban woman I am reminded on a daily basis the pure frailty and challenge of surviving much less having a full set of pearly whites. We are in scary times. Healthcare is a commodity, not a right.  If you really want to be smart, to be politically active, to be on the correct side of left—you need to make every effort not to become a subject of the very system that will eventually consume you and everyone you hold dear. Turn healing over to the machine that sees you as nothing more than a number followed by a series of numbers and the ever important bottom line number and your personhood will not matter.  You will no longer have a voice in the discussion about the quality of your life.

You’re a person not a number. If you’re anything at all like me, and I’m thinking if you’ve read this far we might have something in common, you’ll be mightily pissed off when you get treated like a number.  You’ll want to shout, “I’m an individual, I have unique needs and likes and dislikes. . . “ and on and on you’ll rant, but the numbers keepers do not hear you. Our best option in these tenuous times is prevention. Make our best efforts to prevent a crisis in health, automobile, relations, and anything else that spins your world. Times have changed since Benjamin Franklin’s days—an ounce of prevention could now be worth a lifetime’s fortune.
 

When I hung out at the Jersey Shore, long before Snooki and that gang were born, we didn’t know about sun protection and such stuff.  The closest we got to sun protection was making out under the boardwalk.  I don’t know if anyone makes out under the boardwalk anymore. Our world has become so polarized it seems everyone sits in their own corner with their own view.  We even have good SPF’s versus bad SPF’s.  

I don’t advocate a puritanical life of total temperance, room temperature weak tea and confections in the shade. I’m talking about exercising common sense, free will, and being pro-active with our health. Use the information that has come our way and knock that Snooki on the side of her over-tanned over-teased head with some good sense.  She won’t listen.  I know that because I wouldn’t have listened either.

In certain circles I also hear talk of excitement, adventure, risk, and to love with abandon. That’s all good too. But people are fickle and life can make us cynical so to counterbalance the thinking-about-life game, we mustn’t forget Richard Nixon, phlebitis, and all the other consequences that might await us.

My sun damage is already done and perhaps the dye has been cast on the future health of my epidermis.  That’s okay, I like hats. I like knowing that if my skin turns hard and blotchy I will have earned it the old fashioned way—by youthful indiscretion.  Put enough candles on the birthday cake and you too will have earned perspectives that are unique to the consequences of your youth of sex, drugs, rock, athletics, studying too hard, driving too fast, drinking too much too often, or sitting alone and never taking a risk.  

If Erma Bombeck was sitting here with me right now, I’d assure her that today I look for the same qualities in a bathing suit that I need in a man.  I look for flexibility with my flaws.

#

                                                                                         

Bye Bye CRA

Too much going on for me to say much at this moment.

I'll let the good folks over at Hollywood-Highlands entertain and bring you up to speed on what's important and what is funny.  They don't mean to make a joke of the powers in city hall, it just happens naturally.  It all seems so organic.  Maybe it's improvisational (with the right props, of course).  Whatever you call it, it shows a lack of respect for our first amendment rights (you don't have to be there for your rights to get kicked around).  H-H call themselves oddballs.  Others have said "gadflies" and I've heard them called much worse.  I prefer to call them successful wags.

The great news is that the California RDA (Redevelopment Agency), including LA's own CRA, is history.  Gone.  Kaput.  CRA was the worse use of public funds and probably the most damaging organization to hit the middle class.  With the CRA dissolved, no more areas will be declared "blighted" and families tossed on their butts to create "development" (note: shopping malls, high income housing, mixed use properties).  More wealthy people became richer and fatter and more bloated through RDA funding and dirty backroom deals due to the CRA.  And more working class people had the rug pulled out from under them, their homes seized (not from foreclosure, this was done through "imminent domain") as a result of the same development plan.

That's the beginning and a grossly abridged version of the whole story.  Check out Hollywood-Highlands for the end of the story. 

Red-Hot Cigarette

Red Hot Patriot: the Kick-Ass Wit of Molly Ivins 
(at GeffenPlayhouse)

                The play lives up to all the hype surrounding the incomparable Molly Ivins.   Crisp and tight writing by journalists, and twins, Margaret Engel and Allison Engel quickly transports the audience into the sharp edged world of Ivins.  Equally crisp, and slightly sparse, staging (by John Arnone) helped and under the direction of David Esbjornson, I could almost feel the newsprint on my fingers. 

I learned a bit more about Ivin’s personal life, her key relationships, specifically her father “the General,” than I expected and less about the source of her “kick ass wit.”  This is Molly Ivin’s biography. While her story is at least as interesting as anything else on stage these days, the play is not really ‘about’ her wit.  It contains a good amount of the real Molly Ivins wit and repartee to make the 75 minutes move quickly and enjoyably.   It’s only gingerly theorized that Ivins spent her life, consciously or unconsciously dedicated her professional career responding to “The General.”  When in fact, the real Molly Ivins had so much more to say and I’ll just accept that some things, like the “kick-ass wit of Molly Ivins” must remain a mystery.

I love Kathleen Turner.  She is one of the few actors who can, in my book, do no wrong.  I wish she had quit smoking cigarettes about 10 or 20 years ago.  It was difficult to hear her and when I was able to hear, it was a bit painful to listen to her. 

I still recommend that you see this play.  It is refreshing in this time of watered-down, pristine, journalism and propaganda scantily clad as well researched editorial.  What Molly Ivins represents to me is the courage it takes to say the obvious and the fact that she had the ability to spice it with that kick-ass wit never cheapened what she had to say.  She said the truth over and over again.  And I miss that. 

I miss cigarettes too, sometimes.

Here's an Idea on How to Reduce the Deficit

This is an open letter to the Joint Select Committee-- the members of Congress who have the unenviable task of reducing the deficit. We all hear horror stories about the necessity for cuts to Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid. We hear elected representatives fighting to protect the 2001 and 2003 tax breaks for the wealthiest Americans. No one has mentioned the obvious place to begin all this deficit reduction-- the expenditure created by our representatives. We don't need to cut Government programs as much as we demand cuts to Government overhead. This includes salaries, benefits, office furniture, entertainment expenses, all the perks that members of Congress have grown accustomed to but don't really need. The American people are asking for congressional prudence before they touch one red-cent of seniors and disabled dollars. They need to come back to earth with their own salaries and benefits packages and join the rest of us taking "a hit" in this economy.

Please participate in our democracy, sign your name and repost for others to do the same.

Thanks!

They want a focus, focus on this: Step back. Let the people work this out peacefully

We must not allow the oligarchy to uproot the important Occupy movement.

Tax payers, registered voters paved those streets and built these city halls. This is OUR government. Dianne Feinstein, Councilman Rosendahl, and Mayor V must be put on notice that they work for us. The people are speaking now. 

I understand the oligarchies resistance and confusion because we gave them the keys to the castle a long time ago.  We elected so many corrupt politicians who have skewed the game by changing laws and deregulating or allowing "self-regulation" (what a disappointing joke that turned out to be).  Our representatives favor the corporate power structure.  The temptation was too rich and the opportunities too obvious and it's just the way human nature works sometimes. 

Before we, as a society, become anymore czarist, let the people speak.  Let the people be heard.

It is a long and arduous process to find their message.  They are doing this by consensus and we haven't seen anything done by a genuine honest consensus in a long time.  They don't teach this stuff in business school.  But the Senate and Congress have not worked efficiently to change things for the better any quicker. 

The people who think they are in charge need to sit back down and listen. No matter how long it takes or how creepy it looks or how bad it smells. It's not much different than giving birth, only this is a birth of new thought.  It will be painful and dangerous at times and not everyone will promptly accept the new born-- some will call it a bastard.  It makes it no less of a life.

They want a focus, focus on this:  Step back.  Let the people work this out peacefully.