MoonPie, Cherry Mash Memories, and Icebox

          Do I really want to go? How long does roller derby last? What will the crowd be like? Questions I was asking myself up to 2 days before the event. I could not argue with the price, $9 a ticket plus fees. I skipped a rock across Facebook to see if it would create any waves. Nothing but flatness, oh well, why the hell not go? As a kid from the late 60’s, early 70’s–my mom, brother, and sister would stay up past midnight on Saturdays and watch Roller Derby. If Mom couldn’t sleep, we got the green light.

          We watched prime time television, NBC, ABC, CBS, KTVT (local independent), the news, then Johnny Carson highlights or a b-rated film usually horror or Sci-Fi. At midnight, the local NBC affiliate covered live, local wrestling. Mom would pop popcorn and open a few bottles of RC-Cola. A special late-night treat was roasted red skin peanuts, MoonPies, or Cherry Mash. If Dad stayed up, he would funnel a handful of peanuts down the narrow throat of a bottle of RC then chew them down with cola. We all cringed, but when I tried as an adult, it was delicious.

          Before Pro Wrestling went Hollywood with Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Rowdy Piper, Rick flare “The Nature Boy,” and “MachoMan” Randy Savage; before extreme production values, character gimmicks, and fireworks, the personalities were usually 40, 50-something year old men in black tights or just a large Speedo with grandma sensibilities. Effects amounted to cheers and jeers from the crowd and a loud single chime bell. I can still hear it, especially when things got out of control and an excited scorekeeper chimes in with desperate and syncopated, random J.P. Sousa. The talent wore black lace-up boots. The strings almost reached the knee and the wrestlers punctuated stomping with a double apostrophe. On occasion, the ticket would have a masked visitor or guest from another city federation, Los Angeles, Chicago, or Miami.

          The local hero or villain (POV) was Fritz Von Eric. He wore the black tights. His bulbous nose reminded me of Karl Malden’s on The Streets of San Francisco, but bent far to the right, an obvious flesh-medal of honor. He was in his fifties, 6 ft. or so, heavy set not fat but svelte, with a deep raspy voice. He talked fast, and at low volume, I could only catch every 3rd or 5th word. The interview was always the same, a description of how he was going to maul a rival next weekend. Fritzy would call them out, and occasionally (probably during rating sweeps), the opponent showed up in a suit that barely fit, a conservative tie, and in a mask or not. Inevitably the opponent would steal the microphone, and they would trade epitaphs. Von Eric’s signature move was the Iron Claw. He would grab an opponent by the skull above their eyes and squeeze them into submission with his thumb and fingers. He had enormous hands. We knew it was coming, and anticipated it with wide eyes. Of course bigger names from around the country could break free and reverse submission on Fritz, but it was rare. We all wanted Von Eric as a neighbor, coach, or uncle.

          After wrestling, if Mom was up for it, or we were still awake, NBC broadcasted Professional Roller Derby from around the country. Fort Worth didn’t have a hometown team, so my favorite was the Bay City Bombers. We didn’t have rollerblades or even neoprene wheels. Our skates clamped onto a shoe with a key, and road rough on eight, side-by-side, metal wheels. Watch out for those rocks. They were slow and loud, but that didn’t stop my brother and I from imitating blocks and fakes that we saw in the derby. We didn’t have safety gear either, so we only mimed falls and over the ring tumbles. As boys, if frustration led to anger, it was common to suffer blood-rash abrasions or large black and blues from surprise bumps or revenge shoves.

          I’d never witnessed a live Roller Derby bout until 35 years later. It was a pleasure to watch my childhood favorite, the Bay City Bombers skate against the L.A/San Diego Firebirds. Kezer is a small stadium in Golden Gate Park seating about 5000. A third of it was blocked off for a rescue dog demonstration between bouts, but the place was filled to the brim, 3500 first-timers and long time fans turned out. The event announcer said it was a record crowd.

          The teams skated onto the 45-degree banked, wooden oval with exciting fan fare, screams of joy and elation for the Bay City Bombers; and jeers and boos of spite or spikes for the LA/San Diego Firebirds. The pros are not young tattooed wonder-kin punks, bobbing and strutting their feathers to impress the alpha mob sensibilities. No, the pros are tough 40, 50-year old men and women with paunchy guts and grey hair. ”HOLY ABEC-5, thrashers, how they can skate.” I hope I am as nimble, engaged, and can take that level of abuse when I catch up to them.

          Anticipation heats up the small stadium, so fans strip-off coats, sweaters, and shirts. The bleacher style seats are hard wood, and synchronous stomping is an acceptable, even encouraged form of appreciation. The rules are simple. Two teams of women, 5 each, skate two rounds then the male teams skate two, and repeat. Two skaters on each team are Jammers. Each wears a stripe helmet and starts at the back of both teams’ packs skating together. The jammers attempt to break though the pack then lead it. If successful, the Jammers chase the pack’s tail, and for every opposing member they pass and lap, their team scores a point. The first jammer to score controls scoring for the rest of the jam, and can call it off anytime by putting their hands on their hips, signaling to the refs that they are done. Penalty points are possible in extreme cases and penalties can include time out on the bench.

          The Firebirds took advantage of more than one three-to-five bout. The rules for penalties are like smoke. Not precise in definition, but obviously a fire when the refs smell it. The primary offenses are unnecessary rough stuff or skating against the anti-clockwise flow. Of course, if the Ref doesn’t see it, then it didn’t happen. When the opposing team is sprawled out all over the ring or over the top rail, a maximum score is possible when a jammer laps the opposing team multiple times.

          The infield is not allowed to interfere with the jam, but if the 3 Refs are breaking up a fight on the opposite side of the track, anything goes. The coach of the Firebirds, Icebox, meddled on the sly many times. A big man, 6’2, 300 lbs. shaved head and a long reach, Icebox–cool as a cucumber, unconcerned, following the action as it loops round the track–wandered to the inside-edge and pulled down two Bomber blockers. The Refs were busy and saw nothing. The Firebird Jammer scored 10 points.

          During a men’s team jam, Icebox jumped into the center of the track, held his arms straight out to his side, so two Bomber jammers, who could not alter course fast enough, hooked their throats on his arms. The close-line is an old school wrestling move. Boos and jeers filled the stadium for several minutes, as the Firebirds scored two points. In a following jam, the Refs were retrieving a Firebird from atop the rail, when Icebox attempted the close-line again on two Bombers. He hopped on the wood too soon, and both jammers jumped into the air arm-in-arm, floating/flying parallel to the ground, and landed 16-wheels to Icebox’s fruit-box. He when down hard with the skaters on top of him, bringing the crowd to it’s feet.

          Anytime he knocked a male or female Bomber down, Icebox turned to the crowd or referees and lifted his open palms to the rafters, “what me?” A true showman of the game, he heckles the Bombers and their hometown fans at his fancy. Several chants rise up from the crowd.

          “Sit down Icebox.”

          “Out, out, throw the whale out.”

          “Back to LA, LA land looser.”

          Icebox relished harassing the women’s team, but karma will soon smack him. During a women’s jam, the team captain is 3rd blocker with both Firebird jammers closing fast. The Bomber jammers were tripped up and joined the front of the pack to block. The captain, Lall O., looked over her shoulder and forward, over her shoulder and forward, setting up to reinforce a double block for two teammates. Icebox is up on his feet again near the track edge, yelling instructions, and while the referees are following the jammers, he looks away as his foot slyly bumps Lall’s lead skate, then runs back to his seat. She pitches forward and over-corrects, pitching backwards. Her hands roll above her head as she attempts to correct again, but it’s too late. She falls hard and knocks down the other two blockers. The Firebirds score six points. They quickly call off the jam as the rest of the Bomber’s bench jumped to their feet.

          As the Firebird Jammers roll around to the Bombers side of the track, they are both tossed over the rail and a melee ensues on the concrete. The referees jump off the track and stadium security braces for the crowd. A mob is up on its feet, moving towards the action, and seeking revenge. At the same time, the women’s Bomber captain, Lall O. is up, recovered, and rolls down into the Firebird infield. She endures a steady stream of put-downs from Icebox. She skates over to him and offers a towel for his bald dripping head. He takes it, but the epitaphs continue. Lall O. leans into his face; “BAM!” her right fist arcs wide from out of nowhere, and lands squarely on Icebox’s cheek. He’s on the ground and out. The referees bring the skaters under control while security and stadium administration admonishes the crowd. The announcer threatens to disqualify the Bombers, if the crowd does not take its seat.

          The men skate last. Revenge is sweet, because in the last jam, in a synchronous move with help from the women’s infield, the Bombers shove all the Firebirds to the wood, as two Bomber jammers fly in and out around the pods of flying fists, elbows, and wheels. The Bombers score 20 points and the match is over. Bay City Bombers win and are now half a game out of first place.

          It’s hot and my face is red; sweat pours from my forehead, and my black t-shirt is soaked. I catch my breath, I am tired, and my vocal cords are tightening up. I walk down to the track and shake hands with several of the bombers. Icebox passes by, so I pat him on the shoulder and congratulate him for wonderful showmanship and sportsman-like conduct. IMO, even though the Firebirds lost, Icebox deserves the match wheel.

          Wow, professional roller derby is more than I ever imagined. Will I attend another game? Bombers 60, Firebirds 40, hard bench no back, spit, thumps, scrapes, hyperbole and pathos, 16 wheels to the groin, screaming your lungs out for 2 hours and 45 minutes = catharsis. And, I am still hoping for a Pro Wrestling, heavy metal opera or musical: how about Rammstein, Serj Tankian, Apocalyptica, Queens of the Stone Age, or Audioslave; or even, the Chili Peppers or the Beastie Boys? David Bryne?

          The next Bay City Bombers, SF match is 25 April at 8:00 P.M. against the Brooklyn Red Devils. “Glamour, fishnets, and lace come to the Bombers.” Will call opens at six, doors open at seven, and warm-up starts at 7:30. Get your tickets early, and if Will Call show up when the box opens, because if the turnout is like the last match, you will have to wait at least 30 minutes to get your tickets.

I need the equinox to pass.

          Is it I or is this seasonal change draining the energy out of ambition and momentum? I can’t seem to get anything done. I am not hollow, just low energy. Every year around the vernal equinox, I have problems adapting to the non-angle of the sun or zero tilt of the planet. I am listless at best. I am easily caught seeking pointless searches or infinite rounds of Majong (3.5 minutes at the most difficult level.)

          Today, I think I spent 3 hours searching for a revolving bookcase for the living room and a unified soap dispenser for the shower. What the fuck? I am shrinking and organizing my household again? The OC is strong when my energy levels are low. It is an excuse not work on something difficult. Although I feel I am progressing towards a utilitarian, semi-automatic urban lifestyle, deliberation, distraction, or delusion–maybe, I’ve all three at once?

          I want to clear clutter in our 1920’s shower stall, and I am attempting to shrink the Skandia bookcases. They are old and showing their age, discolored and dinged up, and although extremely flexible, too tall for earthquakes. A compact, high density, revolving bookcase is not in fashion. I’ve found them in Italy and Denmark for $3k-7k, and I can’t justify the expense for convenience. I could build one, but I don’t have space or enough experience.

          I am at Gallery Café on Russian Hill across from the Cable Car Museum. I had to get away from my obsession, and thought I could get the next chapter in Feather in the Tar. Every sentence I write is clunky at best and passive at worst. I correct and the soul goes out it. I plan to attempt ambitious text/graphic hoop jumps (too much ambition?), and my lack of energy triggers fear and doubt. I don’t know if I can do what I envision, and I am not looking forward to the let down.

          Even music cannot dispel this stupor. First, I try the Oyster Band, Little Rock To Leipzig (in the spirit of the holiday), 2nd I try the Bad Plus (too slow), 3rd Jim Noir, title effort (too vapid), so I settle on Pink Floyd, Meddle, and chug tepid coffee.

          I probably should have spent the day in a self-induced coma. I just want to get through it as quickly as possible and return to the demons of my dreams: such as spiders, prison guards keeping me out of hell, nude final exams when I never went to class, or showing up at old jobs looking for a schedule and there I am.

          I could join the green beer up-chuck with Irish whiskey and green hair, but I’ve a blood test and physical in two days. I should stay sober. Damn, no green, no jig, no pinches, and no blarney kisses. I need the equinox to pass. I need a vacation. I need to sleep and dream.

Feather in the Tar: Foreplay

          “It is not so much what I know but who.” Seven answers.

           “Enough with the riddle-speak,” she pokes him under the left pectoral. “What…do…you know about a murder at the Bridge Motel on Lombard?”

           “Like I said Em,” Seven replies.

           “Lieutenant Inspector Cochran to you,” she moves closer to Seven. Her face is flush and breath hot with the scent of Kona. Her eyes are cold.

           “Lieutenant, we don’t have time for this limp dick.” Sampson steps to the side and puts his arm between them. “Coch,” he squeezes in between them as in an angry rou jia mo, and faces her, “we’ve got to get to the Marina; the chief is waiting.”

          Cochran exhales, “OK Sams, let’s go.” She turns to face the front of the elevator. She inhales then exhales slowly, deeply again. Sampson reactivates the elevator.

           “Bardo,” she says without looking at him. You come with us and tell us everything you know.”

           “I have a client.”

           “They’ll have to wait.” She replies. The elevator opens and she turns toward them before they exit, “unless you want to spend the afternoon in the drunk tank.” She turns around and motions towards an entry gate officer. “Conroe, come here.”

           “That is not necessary.. I’ll call and reschedule.” Seven says. He takes his cell phone out as the three leave the Hall of Justice. “Hello Alicia, I’m going to be late.”

           “You’ve never called me that,” Genie answers her cell phone.

           “I know, but something has steamed up in homicide.”

           “WHAT?” Genie squeals in the mouthpiece.

           “Everything is fine. I will see you tonight at my office. I’ll call later to confirm.”

           “Am I in trouble? I didn’t do anything.” She reiterates in the same pitch.

           “No, no, everything is fine. We’ll talk later. Calm down.” Seven mutters into the mouthpiece, low enough not to be heard and loud enough to appear normal.

           “OK, but don’t forget. I can’t take this much longer.”

           “Don’t worry; it will work out. It will be fine.”

           “OK, bye.” She sniffles.

           “A twitter kitten?” Cochran asks as she slides into the Ford next to Seven in the back seat

           “Uh, yeah, she doesn’t want to loose her husband.

           “Stinky snoop,” Inspector Sampson sniffles fake tears.

          Sampson pulls the brown Crown Victoria out into traffic on Bryant, but keeps glancing to the rearview mirror. The talk around the crapper is that Seven Bardo stuck it to the Lt. and I don’t mean in the biblical way. I don’t know what the fuck she saw in him, but while working on a high profile murder case involving a City Supervisor’s daughter and a street punk, a ganja gimp from the Haight. Bar-douche stole the spotlight and saved the stupid teenager.

          Lt. Cochran had her dead to right for using marijuana and 80 percent sure of murder. The 17-year old was hanging out at the entrance to Golden Gate Park with her meth-boosted boyfriend. He got in a screaming match with another dealer over remarks the other loser made to his girlfriend. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and pulled out a gun. He squeezed off a shot into a tree, and a scuffle insured. Her boyfriend killed him, but not until she kicked the other dealer in the balls.

          The doper blamed the girl, and Cochran had her fingerprints on the weapon. Undercover and on his own, while Cochran was processing the girl into the system, Seven recorded the truth from the doper. The punk was bragging to his buds about how to fuck and toss a rich lawyer’s daughter. He got it all on pocket video. He thought he was helping her out, but the girl’s father danced on Cochran’s shield.

          Seven showed up in the press conference, although he didn’t plan it, and Cochran was suspended with pay, a forced “vacation for a courageous officer in need of rest,” quoted the Chief. Emily has never forgiven him.

           “The Bridge Motel,” the Lt. breaks the forced silence, “Mr. Bardo, what do you know about a murder at the Bridge Motel on Lombard?” Sampson looks to Seven then Cochran.

           “I’ve heard about a witness, Lt. Inspector Cochran.” Seven says.

           “Cut the shit,” she says, “what do you know?” She spits, but doesn’t yell. Sampson checks the rearview again.

           “I know that someone broke into room number 202 and murdered a local bartender.”

           “How do you know the room number? Were you there?” She asks.

           “No, no. Where they’re any fingerprints or strange tracks? Where did they lead?” Seven inquires.

           “Did I say anything about quid pro quo or even a handshake? I’ll ask the questions and you’ll answer, with the truth.” Cochran snipes.

           “’I’ve never lied to you.” Seven says.

           “How do you know the room number?”

           “A friend contacted me about the murder and I am doing them a favor.” Seven replies with a empty professional tone.

           “Answer the damn question, snoop?” Sampson barks, slows and pulls to the curb. “Or, I’ll stop the car and remedy it.”

           “Ok. Ok.”

           “How did you know the room number?” Cochran iterates. “Who told you and why?”

           “A friend of a friend…”

           “DAMNIT.” Sampson pulls into and blocks a driveway in the Marina. “I’ve had enough.” He opens his door and exits the Ford, slamming it. Inspector Sampson pulls Seven’s door open and leans over to grab him by the shoulders when Lt. Cochran intercedes.

           “Calm down Sams, there’ll be time later.” She exits the Crown Vic and walks to the entrance of the apartment building. She shakes hands with a blue suit (fresh, just out of the academy, he blushes; he’s heard about her.)

          Bardo stands up out of the back of the car, and Sampson turns around and pushes him back down. “We won’t need any help. You stay where you are, snoop.”

           “Come on Inspector.” Emily says as the rookie holds the door open. She enters and shakes her head.

           “Ya know ass wipe, no one would care if you got a few bruises or broken nose.” Sampson slams the door shut and locks the car.

          Seven waits until the two are out of site and reaches through the protection screen with a telescoping forceps. He unlocks the door, exits, and walks to the entrance.

           “Sorry sir, no entry.” The rookie stands in his way while holding the door shut.

           “Come on officer, you saw that I’m with them.” Seven begins to push.

           “Sorry sir, NO entry,” the blue uniform bolsters.

           “Ok, I’ll wait.” Seven says. He walks to the corner, looking back occasionally at the blue pillar.

          The officer lifts his radio microphone to his mouth and looks in the opposite direction. Watching for the blue’s glance, Seven dashes around the corner of the building. He makes his way to a city access door, and tries it. No luck. It’s an old lock. It has some fresh scrapes, so he’s probably not the first to jimmy it. He takes out a pair of surgical gloves, then his pale blue private library card. It is old school, extremely thick, but not brittle. He wedges it in the weather strip, manipulating it as little as possible, and open-says-me. He opens his wallet to replace the card, but the business end is coated in a slippery jelly. He sniffs it, sweet but oddly chemical like from a butcher store or renderer’s kettle. He wipes it off on his jeans and puts it back in his wallet.

          The hallway leads to the apartment power meters, breaker boxes, and trashcans. The light well has a steal fire escape running to the backdoor of some of the apartments. He lifts the lid of a trash bin, reaches in, and pulls out a tied 3-gallon bag, it drips. Seven slowly creeps up the ladder of steps, gently trying not to shake the building. He doesn’t want to draw any attention. He hears the officers on one floor and then they move upstairs. He climbs another flight and listens to a fiery discussion.

           “Why the fuck did you bring that fucking PI with you Cochran?” The Chief of Police says. “Hasn’t he screwed you enough?”

           “Sir, he may be a witness to the first murder?” the Lieutenant answers.

           “We don’t bring witnesses or suspects to a second crime scene Lieutenant. Why didn’t you bring a damn reporter while you were at it?”

           “No sir, yes sir.” She says.

           “Report to me as soon as you get back to the station Lieutenant Cochran. We may have to do something about those stripes.”

           “Yes sir.”

           “Sampson, you make sure; you’re in it up to your eyeballs.”

           “Yes sir.” Inspector Sampson says.

          A herd of heavy footsteps moves down the stairs. Seven waits for them to fade then opens the door to the inside corridor of the apartment building. Slowly, he looks around the corner and can see activity at one end. He walks into the hallway carrying the plastic bag, and another blue suit stares at him. Seven looks away and whistles Mingus, Better Get it In Your Soul. He swings the bag back and forth as he walks towards the officer.

          Seven turns his back and mimes opening the door across the way. Lt. Cochran shouts out from inside the open apartment, “Officer Johnston, go get me some more bags out of the trunk of my car.”

          The officer turns and looks in the apartment, “yes mum.”

           “And, make sure the dipshit is still down there.”

          The officer jogs, down the hallway and rounds the first banister, keys jangling quieter and quieter. Seven drops the bag, turns, and enters the apartment. No one is in the entry hall. He looks in the living room, empty. He walks down a short hallway to two doors, one is closed, and he can hear the tear of tape and murmured voices from the other.

           “Time of death, Raymond?” Cochran asks.

          Seven pokes his head through the door. The forensic examiner is pulling a long, sharp temperature probe out of giant mound of gelatinous flesh.

           “Judging from the unusual condition of the bodies, I would say about 5 days.” Raymond says as he stands up. He accidently kicks the bed.

          The smell hits Seven just as blood drains out of his face. The mound of flesh jiggles like chilled deep fryer fat, and muck billows over the edge of the bed like a waterfall. His vision closes down to pinpoint then blackness. He hears a shout as he falls backward into space.

           “WHAT THE FUCK is he doing here? Cochran shouts.

           “Sir,” the blue suit returns with the bags. “There is no one in your car.” The officer looks down to his feet. “Oh.”

NX35 Music Conferette

For early ears of March jammin' to SXSW, check out another event in Texas.
Click on program for more info.

          For all you music hepcats in the i-space, if you’re travelin’ to the Lone Star for SXSW, you might want to add an early stop to the junket. Denton, Texas, home to a world-renowned music curriculum at UNT specializing in jazz, will host the 1st annual 4-day indie rock conference on March 12th.

          The Conferette takes place at 12 participating venues all within the walk able 4-block area surrounding the Denton courthouse square. The daytime conversations series features a chat with Harvey Pekar, comic-book writer, American Splendor, on the new experimental jazz.

          For more info, click on conference program above.