Hotter Than Hell

Between 2001 and 2006, I’d secretly hoped that my friend would drop dead. Well, perhaps “hoped” is a strong word, but my reflexes would have slackened considerably had his frame, say, wandered under a falling piano or against an electrified fence. Although the man claimed relatively sound health, even the heartiest of souls forget to look both ways when crossing the street, especially when nudged nonchalantly into traffic. Normally I’m not an evil man, but these and other scenarios of demise remained wildly vivid like an endless ‘Faces of Death’ montage. Ultimately, should the Reaper have dragged his sickle to Connecticut during that five year window, the chest bumps would have begun seconds after the Cloak of Doom’s Amtrak ticket was punched for his return trip from New Haven to Hell.

You see, my friend was planning to be buried in a Kiss Kasket, or so the rumor mill assumed. Yes, a Kiss Kasket, for the man aiming to piss off generations of his family, living and unborn, by subordinating himself to “putting the X in sex,” female objectification, and chest hair grown amok. After interring four grandparents and a few stray aunts in unadorned steel and fiberglass, the prospect of placing rose sprays over a fully laminated coffin with KISS FOREVER emblazoned across the front and an image of the face-painted band on the lid, seemed an intriguing thumb in the eye to conformity. More importantly, receiving the eucharist to “Beth” during the ensuing mass presented a once in a millennium opportunity.

Within my own rehearsed choreography, I anticipated throwing devil horns – that ubiquitous headbanger hand sign – after concluding the eulogy (and basically everywhere else that day); prosthetic tongue dangling halfway to my nipples while crushing blood capsules in my teeth like I’d just gnashed through a dead horse in the rectory. For those unfamiliar with Christian funerals, the aforesaid events would be construed as “disrespectful” to the sanctity of the church, family, faith, God, and basically anyone in a nursing home on Planet Earth preparing to keel sideways. But at a Kiss-themed funeral, the disrespect would occur from not doing them.

For enthusiasts of Goyim-fronted kitsch and/or male make-up, $4,500 ($5,000 autographed) would have scored a rectangular box proclaiming one’s devotion to “rock and roll all nite,” presumably deep into the inner rings of Hades. In his penchant for shameless promotion, Gene Simmons – demon and marketing genius alike – also presented the container as a dual-use cooler or small refrigerator. In others words, if one were to best the odds of pancreatic cancer or the flesh-eating Ebola virus, the casket could begin a successful barbecue tour, contributing to alcoholism while keeping hamburger meat on ice. And if your ailing grandfather wasn’t a fan of arena rock, himself holding out for the Perry Como estate to introduce their own laminated model, you’d leave your family one less issue with which to concern themselves on your fateful day of reckoning. As for your ball busting friends, well, better Kiss than Winger, I suppose.

The funeral business has made strident inroads since an impoverished Tom Hulce (as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart) was unceremoniously dumped into a gaping hole, a perverted and disgraced pauper. In Florida, where humans move to die, warehouse clubs proudly hawk caskets of all styles, alongside their expansive selection of tires, electronics, and mustard six-packs. And creativity abounds freely, as specialty manufacturers have designed coffins to resemble gym bags, guitar cases, cigar humidors, and even yellow dumpster bins(!); assuring your surviving family that if they didn’t consider you an asshole during waking years, this representation would destroy any lingering fondness after your ditch was dug.

On a pleasing note to close an otherwise uncomfortable topic, I no longer wish death upon my friend, not if he’s relegated to the same hexagonal container as everyone else. Where’s the originality in a few refrains of “Amazing Grace” and a procession of black Town Cars? The Kiss Kasket may have been a cheap shot at tasteless publicity, but in this age of inelegant egotism, at least it served a purpose. For all the criticism mounted against him, Mr. Simmons remains a bassist second, but a brilliant salesman first and foremost. His exploits may be derided, but his tagline was marketing gold: “I love livin’, but this makes the alternative seem pretty damn good.” Spoken like a man with a few extra bullets in his love gun.

Be Funny, Be Wry, Bea Arthur

Poor Bea Arthur, ravaged by a cancer unbeknownst to her quietly rabid fan base, and eventually lowered six feet under a career marked by stupendous comic timing and brilliant dry wit. Perhaps it was the manner in which she cut through absurdity with a flippant wave of the hand and cleverly pointed quip – shrewdly gaming the less sophisticated ruffian with a sarcasm-soaked dismissal – or that gravely voice more suited for a geriatric sex operator; but whatever the attraction (from those, which logic dictated, should not be attracted), Ms. Arthur had rightly steered a talent for droll retorts into a financially rewarding canon of work. Armed with a resumé of near legendary hyperbole, her towering frame projected the authority to uproot mighty sequoias from their base, to batter airplanes like King Kong with a single swat of her enormous hands, to trample the intellectually doltish with a Sasquatch-like stomp and husky laugh. New York born, she was virtually immortal and self-assuredly invincible; a Broadway diva, a sitcom star, an Amazonian gigantess, all without compromise.

This writer’s first exposure to Ms. Arthur was via ‘Golden Girls,’ the sitcom for incontinent octogenarians and young viewers alike. Every Saturday, the prehistoric and the adolescent could equally bond over well-crafted humor showcasing four mature women of varying temperaments and intelligence sharing a Miami home. As divorcée Dorothy Zbornak, Arthur was the perfect straight foil to Betty White’s dunderheaded Rose of St. Olaf, Rue McClanahan’s sassy tart Blanche Devereaux, and Estelle Getty’s brazenly unfiltered Sophia Petrillo. Although McClanahan’s unbridled sexuality – as spun through the lens of a post-prime southern belle cougar – was tempting for those trolling the upper end of the MILF spectrum, I’d have been much more comfortable (if, say, a shotgun were held to my temple), unclasping Arthur’s tightly hooked collars, thus resigning my life to buttoned-up blouses and matronly scowls. After all, beauty fades and dumb is dumb, but funny lasts forever.

Breaking from the usual dollop of self-serving egotism, The Bastard assumes a back seat when saluting Man of The Century (20th, that is) Bea Arthur. Comedy need not descend into the curse-laden or unrefined to extract hilarity. Sometimes the biggest laughs can be found in the most unassuming of androgynous beanstalks. Bea, may the light of heaven reflect eternally from your geode brooch.

And with this eulogy, dear reader, be sad. Be disheartened. Be dismayed over the loss. But be not dispirited, as memories be forever salvaged on celluloid. And for that, be thankful. Yes, be delighted. In fact, be singing. Do-be-do-be-do. Bea Arthur.

Mickey Rourke: He Needed The Money

Although The Bastard is generally averse to hats, it finds one to tip in honor of Mickey Rourke’s acceptance speech at the Independent Spirit Awards. Casting aside the sycophantic mania which oozes along Hollywood Boulevard – that bedazzled plastic strip of stars – Rourke played it direct, truthful, and smooth. That’s “smooth” in an ass grabbing, cattle calling, sideways grinning manner; certainly not in deference to the contours of his face, repeatedly bludgeoned in a destructive boxing comeback then reconstructed by “the wrong guy,” as the performer claims.

Without warning, Rourke emerges from the discount bin as the star to shotgun a beer with; your ideal wingman, the ultimate loose canon, yet amusing enough to keep the seats adjacent to him occupied (assuming he kennels his yapping chihuahuas). In this lowbrow setting, safe from predictable celebrity diatribes on hybrid automobiles, global warming, or the perfection of Venezuela under Chavez, it’d be fascinating to pick the man’s brain over his “Elvis On Acid” mansion, or the 45 minutes spent administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on his late dog, Beau Jack. Yet behind the awesomely bad facial surgery is an actor’s actor free of self-aggrandizement, a man who scraped through the trenches after a quick cup of coffee in the studio machine of the mid-80’s. By dismissing all confetti-strewn movie glamorama, not to mention declining the lead roles in ‘Pulp Fiction,’ ‘Rain Man,’ and ‘The Untouchables,’ Rourke engineered a perfect downward spiral, proving that absolute rejection of any system – whether out of principle or arrogance – is a career death knell. The rough-hewn artist discovers quickly the link between success and compromise. He quickly adapts or he fails magnificently. Rourke chose the latter route, mixing a destructive lifestyle with all the trappings of early fame and disproportionate wealth. Respecting second chances, today we salute Mickey Rourke, not for his acting abilities (or social disabilities), but for being, well, Mickey Rourke; bluffing the last hand in a browbeaten poker game and remarkably winning the pot. And isn’t that sometimes enough?

So thank you, Mickey, for your uncompromising permanence. Cutting aside prissy niceties was your better forte, and we applaud your candid acknowledgement of the motion picture system that’s received you back, Prodigal Son style. Never one to pussyfoot in the politically correct arena, your “thanks for the money” closer is the most refreshing swath of honesty and agnosticism to grace an awards ceremony in years. By now it’s assumed you’ve moved out of that $500 a month shoebox and re-routed your life with a new set of toy dogs and STD-clear prostitutes. In closing, we raise our champagne glass and chug the bottle in admiration, in spite of the bridges you burned, in spite of everything. Somehow, that principled arrogance claimed a rare triumph. And it must feel good. After all, the food orgy in ‘9 ½ Weeks’ was one hell of a long time ago. No matter the future, you’re always welcome here.

* * * * *

Applause is equally warranted for Rourke’s name-check to Eric Roberts, brother of Julia, and banger of countless women in low-budget direct-to-video atrocities. In all manner of roles, Roberts’ gusto for over-acting and extreme coitus was a magnetizing facet of late night cable during my impressionable undergraduate years. Whether playing vengeful fencers, moronic crooks, or cocky radio DJ’s, the actor's work is punctuated by such commanding machismo that it not only suspends belief, but lends itself to titanic locker room chortles. It also nabs him an official entry in the Urban Dictionary. Namely, as the trite but telling “Eric Roberts Fuck.” And is there a better punctuation of sly masculinity than the checker-playing lothario from the “Mr. Brightside” video? Rhetorical question. Of course not. If Mr. Roberts is trolling your neighborhood, you put your wife under house arrest. Immediately. Don’t be stupid.

Navigating The Badlands of E Street

Tiring of the unabashed praise for Bruce Springsteen, The Bastard takes a more objective view in the below long-form piece.

Face east, if you’re ever down the shore at the southern end of Kingsley Street, between Lake and Cookman Avenues in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Ocean leaning, this marks the 36,000 square foot graveyard of the flattened Palace Amusements. Alongside the ghosts of Ferris wheels and carousels, shrieks of bygone children swirl hauntingly in the drone of crashing tides; venerating an era when fun seekers by the thousands would soar, spin, and fly in this coastal escape, trading domestic banality for cotton candy and ice cream. Now derelict, the site’s lasting relevance is its link to preternatural runner and scrappy Freehold hero Bruce Frederick Springsteen, buried under the boardwalk and picked apart by gulls twenty-six years earlier, piece by piece.

Asbury Park, crumbling seaside resort and gritty music mecca, served as the inspirational canvas for a young E Street Band in the early 1970’s. Still blighted by the racial tension of that age, and victimized by industrial decay and blanketing economic ruin, the city is now enmeshed in a pseudo-rehabilitation; one where faceless luxury apartments abut yawning vacant lots, and the hulking steel skeletons of planned and abandoned projects lord mightily over empty streets. It was here, in this beachfront amalgamation of contradictions, playland of rusted amusement arcades, that the earliest embodiment of the band thrived. Mike Appel – original manager, producer, and master of ceremonies – encouraged the free wheeling spirit and Dylanesque rhyme which colored elegies to boardwalk life both seedy and romantic.

Each member of E Street was showcased powerfully in those days, permitted to excel as an individual force within an organically evolving milieu. In other words, this was no mere backing section told to shut up and support the lead man, but rather a juggernaut of equals, complementing the stream-of-consciousness poetry jammed so tightly into each stanza that it was suffocating. Appreciate the complex phrasing and challenging time changes of the early song canon, demanding more than a passive eavesdrop. This was anything but derivative verse-chorus-verse material, yet not without its flaws. Hacksawed passages coupled with awkward self-indulgence peppered the worn edges. Nonetheless, the sum of all parts remained genuine. It was real. It let the salty air fill your lungs if you took a deep enough breath.

The fables were born from experience, themselves a sagging portrait of the neon city by the sea beckoning fun seekers into its ever-morphing hall of mirrors. And woven in these threadbare tales were the cruelties of chewed dreams and spent chances. Behold the carnival of restless souls: Madame Marie got busted, Mary’s dress swayed, the Fish Lady baited, Wendy wrapped her legs, Jane said goodnight, Magic Rat lost his clout, Spanish Johnny drove in, Rosalita came out. Where the greasers tramped the street, where beneath the city two hearts beat, where Billy slowly dug in his cleats and took Diamond Jackie in the Cadillac seat. We heard the Vibes Man play his deepest blue while Bad Scooter tried like hell to find his groove. Through death traps, suicide raps, turnpike operas and alley ballets. Barefoot boys kissing good night and golden heeled fairies in a real bitch fight. No saints in this city, no nickels, no pity. Just bruised arms, broken rhythm, and beat up old Buicks, and girls dressed like dynamite.

Sadly, the vision which engendered Springsteen’s first album trifecta was quashed in the mid 1970s. A lawsuit waged against Appel cited, among other things, contractual fraud. Of course, each coin has two sides, each argument its biases, but the judicial combat left our singer hardened, cynical, and sick. Enter Jon Landau with a new promise, a revamped vision extending beyond the trappings of familiar hemi-powered drones. Unlike his predecessor, Landau favored a decidedly streamlined approach. A dumbed-down, commercially viable, mainstream sound which would earn Springsteen worldwide acclaim and enormous riches while decimating the collaborative instincts of E Street. Stripped away, record by record, were the lively narratives, vibrant lyricism, and unique instrumental workouts in favor of clichéd generality. Artistic merit was fast eclipsed by rocketing superstardom; a deal with the devil for a comfortable life. And as part of that treaty, a loss of the defining boardwalk localism for a broad-stroked attempt at becoming the red, white, and blue, bandana clad American Highwayman.

Thanks to Landau’s lowest common denominator framework, our hero was hastily transformed, even appending an uncomfortable bible-belt affect to his voice. The consequent sound was syndicated not only for the swamps of Jersey, but for the small towns dotting every prairie crevice of flyover country. Spartan tales of woe became difficult to swallow as Springsteen’s balance sheet ballooned exponentially, blinded by the light of celebrity. He was now a brand, a marketable shill for every independent farmer facing agricultural conglomeration, each Midwestern auto mechanic staring down the barrel of an assembly plant closure, and every long-haul trucker praying for his last load. Hypocrisy at its ugliest. But it didn’t fool me. Not for an instant. I knew Bruce was sick. Mentally debilitated, physically wracked, and emotionally deluded. One wonders if the boys at Billboard caught the ironic adjustment as he burned up their charts. All too suddenly the revamped E Street Band became, to borrow our Asbury allegory, a lavish condo encroaching on the spirited funhouse. And look, I get it. He did it for the money.

You would’ve too.

In late 1982, the real Bruce Springsteen passed away at the age of 33, replaced ad infinitum by The Boss, a howling American icon of small town car washes and Main Street parades, of glitter face paint and flag waving corner stores; a political, controlling egotist with a jarring rockabilly wail. Earlier relevance abandoned, E Street now functions as a tight, rhythmic shell, an affluent troop of session players shuffling blindfolded through the motions – albeit with remarkable versatility – tour after tour after tour.

Admittedly, I bought into The Boss. I still do. He’s shrewd, charismatic, and in fairness has penned enough radio-friendly anthems and introspective slow burners to fill a few shoeboxes. Given the opportunity, this writer would gladly soak in an acclaimed concert. After all, The Boss believes he’s creating his best work. Now. And he makes us want to believe him, peppering his records with integrity in our age of bubble gum pop dreck. If you look hard enough, some semblance of the old magic even exists, it’s just been repackaged with a slicker sheen: less frilly accoutrements, more meat and potatoes. That’s how business works, no hard feelings. Nevertheless, it’s a long way from Thunder Road when you’ve sold out in a back room palm greasing; your very own “meeting across the river,” desperate for fame, elastic with image, but killed in the darkness on the edge of town.

Earth To Aliens: Where Is Steve Perry?

Can the extra-terrestrials who snatched Steve Perry from our planet, please return him to the Journey microphone? No one steered mulletted devotees toward truck-stop euphoria quite like that prancing fool. No one. So it’s anybody’s guess why the NASCAR militias haven’t threatened intergalactic reconnaissance. That said, while our beloved Portuguese son now hangs by the ankles in a cryogenic chamber, a succession of open-chested burnouts keep the Bay Area chicken rock rolling faithfully along. Hipsters be damned, Journey still dispenses overproduced kitsch as reliably as the milkman leaves quarts for grandma, the UPS guy tags your wife, and your semi-retarded friend (who never split town) offers you rides to the mall. Given that moustached meat eaters and their spawn continue ejaculating to “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)”at fist pumping decibel levels, IROC-Z’s will forever roar in tribute to the 28th best-selling band. And the rest of us, well, we’ll remain mired in our daily routines, living just to find emotion.

Nonetheless, for intelligent aliens, nothing says “sloppy work” like beaming Steve’s larynx into a shaggy-haired Filipino at the NFL Super Bowl Tailgate Party. Envision the chaos of “ERROR! ERROR!” echoing throughout the spaceship command center, warning sirens ablare as E.T.’s kinfolk hurriedly yank levers and bang flashing buttons; a vexing dread hanging over their antennae. Meanwhile, our Philippine hero – trademark tenor perfected – vamps it up for thousands of city boys and small town girls, never aware of how narrowly he escaped laser incineration.

And please (deep sigh), let’s not have the racial conversation today. Let’s just not go there; it’s too pedestrian for the high-minded types perusing this treasure trove of influence. Everyone knows I love Asian people. Positively love the bastards. Believe me, I’d never let a white man within fifty feet of the engine assembly for my automobile, and I damn well wouldn’t trust a horde of Caucasians to manufacture my audiophile gear, serve me a plate of runny Chow Mein, or remove embarrassing stains from my dry cleaning. Entire dissertations could be penned on the marvels of nail salons, massage parlors, and bukkake, if only I wasn’t preoccupied writing this nonsense. Hell, General Tso even gets the occasional dinner nod in my outdated kitchen, assuming his soldierly place at what always feels like The Last Supper once greasy indigestion roils the innards.

Yet Steve Perry continues to rot in a hellish vortex. Joking aside, if anyone has the customer service number for NASA, or better yet, Stephen Hawking’s cell, now would mark an opportune time for disclosure. With Hawking’s comprehension of the space-time continuum and black holes (not to mention his thoroughly awesome DECTalk DTC01 voice synthesizer which would give Frampton and Sambora wet dreams for decades), he’s the reigning scientific colossus among mere mortals. Doc Brown excluded, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to manage Perry’s interstellar rescue and atmospheric re-entry in a DeLorean DMC-12 – flux capacitor in tow, Mr. Fusion in trunk – careening into the last Fotomat on earth. Because frankly, Steve, it’d be good to have you back. Lovin’ a music man ain’t always what it’s supposed to be. But I’m holding onto the feeling with the rest of the streetlight people.

S.O.S. To The World

The 2009 Golden Globes marked the disquieting re-appearance of Sting – master of pretention, occasional jazz bullshitter, and reluctant Police vocalist (yes, money talks) – modeling an uncomfortable beard. Uncomfortable for his audience, it should be clarified. And in fairness, I’m not making comparisons to the questionable panache of Rutherford B. Hayes, who sported a gnarled bird’s nest on his face while proudly serving in the Oval Office, mouth buried beneath years of knotty twine, happily wearing the sandwich crumbs of a decade; but for those who know Mr. Sumner as a fair-haired musician famous for his ode to prostitution, not to mention as an epic sexual deity to be feared by mortals and porn stars, this new adventure down the hirsute highway seemed to raise more than a few eyebrows in the Beverly Hilton.

Bizarrely, the new carpet was dyed a powerful black, along with the rest of his thinning mane. And when I say black, understand that I mean black as fuck, matte finish. As in Just For Men Black As Fuck, or Grecian Formula Machine Shop Blend. You know, the one that requires a haz-mat license at point of purchase (ask for it behind the spray paint cage). Squint hard, and it looks like a tantric fungus is devouring our favorite egotistical bassist’s head. Sweep history aside, and it’s too easy to assume that the Coast Guard found him lying beneath the Exxon Valdez, bottle smashed, message lost.

Fortunately most children were asleep as the network waited until nine before airing the feed, smartly avoiding FCC ire. Now I don’t have kids, but I’d imagine the sight of a wolfen man who looked like he just gargled tar could scare the bejesus out of most kindergartners. Be afraid.