The 7 Heads of the Beast

I'm telling you for sure, there is No, I said No, hope for the human race.

I'm watching TBN Network tonight. You know, Pat Robertson's TV station?

And the preacher of the night is talking about the Apocalypse and the 7 Heads of the Beast and all that bad negative superstitious shit these guys earn their fortune talking about. And this fool starts talking about the final piece of the puzzle that it is the last of the Seven Heads of the Beast. Egypt, Medea-Assyria, Mesopotamia, Greece and Rome are a few of the other heads. But the 8th and final head, the one we really gotta worry about, is... THE BAR CODE!
When you understand the Bar Code, you know that 666 is the main number presented by those little lines and that the whole system, when the Anti-Christ appears, will be turned into a system that tells where you live and (I suppose) who or what your favorite god is and now you know how they'll figure out who's been naughty and who's been nice and who's going to burn in Hell for Eternity.

Move over Manson!

If I was us, I start stealing stuff.

The Folk Music Center in Claremont, California

Bro Atom Bomb and myself were honored with an invitation to the Folk Music Center's 50th anniversary party in Claremont, California.

Boy are we lucky!

It was a casual night of singing and virtuosity by knowns and unknowns. It was a crowd of friends and neighbors standing and sitting among the FMC's many instruments and museum pieces, eating, talking and singing out loud. Jackson Brown, Ben Harper and Chris Darrow appeared and reappeared in different musical configurations with old folkies, musicologists, local sages and just plain joyful players and singers. All friends at an exquisite evening.

And when it was over, we all sang "Goodnight Irene", a bellowing loud and sweet crowd of crooners, songbirds, harmonizers and honest people with a singular purpose.

Death and Friends in Rio Nada

Eartha Kitt died today. She sang "Santa Baby" and I swear on Rudolph's incandescent nose that that song has been on the CD player for the last 12 hours, BEFORE I knew she had passed. I need to think of a way to market my special powers.

Our dear sweet friend Mikey B. died earlier in the month. He went through a great struggle concerning his health for the last year and a half and sadly, finally lost the battle. The last time I saw him, he had been out of the hospital for a few weeks after being laid up for a month or so and was volunteering at the hospital that my mother was in. He had seen her name on a patient list and had just been up to see her. A very sweet thing to do.

Mikey was an actor at the Missing Inn Dinner Theatre here in Rio Nada and was the main character in many great real life stories as well. He once played the Indian Chief in Little Mary Sunshine and we told him we would give him a hundred bucks if he would get a Mohawk. He agreed, we got the dough and our pal Snip gave him the doo. We were all in awe of his lumpy noggin.

Now Mikey was about 45 years old, 6'4'' with a head of naturally and tightly curled hair and a beezer to beat all beezers and now he had a 4" Mohawk. A sight to behold for any mortal.

Afterwards, we walked over to the Inn bar and hoisted a few in honor of Mikey's new found profile and then lolled out the front door laughing and giggling into the early morn.

The next morning, Snip calls and says "Is Mikey O.K.?"

And I said "As far as I know. Why?"

"I was listening to my police scanner about 4 in the morning and I heard the cops say they were chasing a large man with a big nose and a Mohawk down 6th St. behind the Missing Inn!"

If it was Mikey, he never mentioned it.

+++++++++

I had coffee with my old girlfriend Annie. She lives in the Santa Ynez Valley near Michael Jackson's old place. She is an exquisite painter, master gardner and gourmet cook.

She came down to see her sister Ava.

She also told me she wanted to stop doing art as an avocation and become a junior high math teacher.

I leaped out of my chair, jumped up and down hitting myself about the head and pulling at my hair and screamed "NO! NO! NO!! ARE YOU NUTS!!!???"

In my mind.

I hate to see anyone be distracted from their bliss.

I think she could be bigger than Michelangelo.

+++++++++

The other night I drank with four fellow punks from Licorice Pizza, a now defunct independent record chain in So. Cal. that we all worked at years ago. We are all 25 years older now. All have maintained a healthy margin of hair and teeth and the paunches are fairly discreet. We laughed uncontrollably the entire night. Then we hugged each other on the way out. Twice and thrice.

They were Dicky Mo, now of San Diego, Jonny Mantan of San Clemente, Robby Reading, who flew in from negative 20 degrees Montana, Greg the Photog from LA and Joe the animator, also from LA.

What noble and distinguished company I kept that night.