Cheesespread

King of the Blobs
(Note: This week it’s Cheesewhiz [a kitschy bodily function], with Pastor Loogash at the pulpit.)

It was no coincidence that Rach Sztahr, a dying hippie wiseman with a flowing beard, bequeathed me his kiddie music written in jail. I was of the “continuum,” and they said as much in two florid articles in the LA Weekly (preceding my concert at the historic Schindler House). For one day I was a “rock star"; it was like Queen for a Day, This Is Your Life, and that Richard Simmons “wish come true” show rolled into one.

My life story was in the big-town papers, although I was deemed an “acid casualty” (because four-way acid was cited as an influence)! Luckily, the LaPado baby waited until the last song to cry (unbeknownst to me, she was being held aloft behind me for eye contact with Christine).

We played in the back yard. After the show, cute girls in their 20s had me sign copies of the set list and include a phone number. One asked if I worked in the area, but, told I was visiting, yanked the paper away. Another gave me a business card (set designer). One stood in an open bathroom, but I had to pack up (a curfew).

I’d opened the show with Aleister Crowley’s recording of “Vive Le France” and made a white-wine toast in honor of Bush being in town. I was dressed in a navy Republican suit—but the tie only went to my sternum, and the shoes were green patent leather—and played like I was a presidential nominee.

I went on the radio (KXLU) with the same demeanor (though my songs began with belching). A Catholic girl interviewed me for the Loyola station and asked about the rubber knife beatings by a 100-year-old babysitter. I went on a second show; over tape loops and saws I did recitations about yuppie hit-and-runs in Frisco, a new coffee table book about dog waste, and the King of the Blobs (an amoeba with crown and cigar). The D.J. (the drummer from the Germs) was impressed with my knowledge of his perverse sacred-kiddie records. The apelike imp had Captain Hook hair, a Leona Helmsly hat, a fur-collared evening coat over pink jeans and platform shoes. He pointed out the many homoerotic innuendos in a Jimmy Swaggert/David & Goliath picture book record. The next day I walked to Griffith Observatory, but it was covered with scaffolding.

Weekly props
1. America’s Next Top Model … in a vomit bikini

2. Dog Eat Dogwaste

3. Charlie’s Angels: Full Frontal

4. Celebrity Death Match: Dan Elias vs. Chris Jessel