Tag Archives: 1980s

Michael Hendrick on The Clash – “I Made Joe Strummer Avoid Drugs!”

clashWorldly Readers,
We miss Joe Strummer. Today we listened to The Clash Live At Shea Stadium and it brought back all those years to the Punk Rock days. Joe’s star still shines bright. He will always be missed by many. He was a good man.
In 1980, the start of the Reagan Era, we bundled up and went to the Sears Store at the mall and stood in line to buy our tickets. That is what you did back then. If you got there early, you got a better seat – it was that simple. We ended up with seats around the seventh row or so…good seats but we must have arrived late since we cannot remember who opened the show.
In the early days of punk, band members made a habit of spitting on the crowd while playing live and the pogoing crowds reciprocated moistly.
Like standing in line, it’s just what you did.
With this in mind and the spirit in our hearts, we set out in the cold last days of February (a crueler month than April, really)to get some drugs for the show. Two things daunted us…Reaganomics and a dry spell, translated ‘no money, no drugs’. As oft happened, we ended up at the door of Crazy Timmy. Crazy Timmy is actually the only person so crazy that we don’t have to change his name here…like Ferd. Timmy had been tossed by the Armed Forces after some schizoid incident involving a stolen tank and a German village.
His Section Eight got him plenty of pills – all the wrong kind. Psyche meds were more primitive in the seventies and eighties. They made you fat and sleepy and depressed. Today we have much-improved meds which give wack-jobs the gumption to initiate a school shooting.
Timmy dispensed a variety of pills that we never saw before. Even Timmy didn’t take them but he had to get the prescriptions filled so he could keep claiming his full GI benefits for being nutzed. So we pocketed the crappy tablets. We went there to see if we could get some pot to smoke before the show, actually, but even Timmy had no reef. He bought an ounce a month with his VA check and then cut it up into thirty bags or thirty one, for each day of the month; then he would smoke his way through them in the first week.
The pills were an afterthought because we thought he may have something abuse-ably fun.
The main thing we recall is the solid front they put up; Strummer out front, writhing around the mic-stand as he sang, Paul Simonon laying down the bass with legs spread in shooting stance, Topper Headon banging away on the skins and Mick Jones up there with Strummer, playing off him.
They launched into the London Calling Tour and they rocked the Casbah. Michael Hendrick, who drove us to the show, launched a handful of lithium, depakote and other odd dopamine blockers directly at Strummer’s head. Strummer clocked them coming from his spot at the edge of the stage. He ducked to stage left without missing a note. Hendrick volleyed a second, smaller batch of meds at Joe, who avoided them by ducking to stage right.
Yes, Dear Friends, he avoided the drugs.
We were there and saw it happen.
A great show!
God Bless Joe Strummer. We are not sure about Michael Hendrick.

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One From Far Left Field And Past The Poetry Corner ~ repost

 Gentle Readers,

Today we bring you a bit of poetry that has been hidden for decades like a gem waiting to be found or a snake under a rock, coiled and waiting to strike. A recent discussion of the film The Doors left us wondering if our copy of the Jim Morrison poetry book The Lords and The New Creatures  was a first print or not.  It was on a shelf in the bedroom, so upon retiring last evening, we pulled it from the shelf to find it is a second printing.

However, we did find a few curious things sticking out from inside, one being a poem scribbled on a Chi-Chi’s mexican restaurant receipt and the other was a vitriolic poem, apparently written as an insult to Your Humble Narrator, and judging from the timely reference to Phil Donahue, a TV celebrity from the 1980s, we estimate it was written somewhere around that era.

This is a poem left by an ex. It could be an ex-wife, ex-girlfriend…sounds more like an executioner…anyway, it was fun to fall asleep laughing, really laughing hard.  The poem is quite an effort and since we always are the first to laugh at ourselves, we are more than eager to share. The poet shall remain unknown and un-named but it could be the same character who appeared in Issue 8 of Beatdom, assaulting Your Narrator with a rubber chicken.

Let’s read:

 My Mind is a wasteland

so is my cat’s eye’s. (sic)

Snow drips off my chest

as my nipples are licked.

Fire in my microwave,

frozen in my freezer –

just pull the plug.

Rat poison in my wineglass

better put it in it Mom’s, instead.

Go ahead and try to distract me

you piece of ‘naive crap’ Poet!

Go rub your balls on frosted glass.

No wonder why women lick tweeter

instead of peckers…

less of a distraction.

Slime covers my earlobes,

you are not good enough

to lick off.

My chickens (sic) is better

than a ton of your

‘let’s get in touch with

our feelings’ crap.

Who’s dick do you suck anyway?

Phil Donahue’s?

Well, folks, haha, that is it. Now we can remember why the Humble Narrator married her to begin with…the sense of humour!!!

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Poetry Corner (Warning XXX Explicit Material. Parents Be Warned!)

     Leering Letches and Creepy Crawldaddies,

     Today we ask our Gentle Readers to harken back to those wonderful days when porn was on paper and could be hidden under the mattress. The Golden Age of Porn produced many unique publications, such as the pictured issue of Al Goldstein’s National Screw.

     National Screw, like Playboy, was not only rife with lascivious and salacious material but was found to be ‘socially redeeming,’ thanks to essays by contributors such as William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and other highly-respected literary figures of the time. The upcoming issue of Beatdom takes aim at the same concept, only without showing close-ups of moist, pink labia in between photos of serious authors. With magazines like these, the joke used to be“I only buy it for the articles.” 

     Good, old smut has pretty much gone the way of the web, with programmes available which allow a user to insert penis into a device which simulates the sensations of the sex act, while watching a video that is synched-up to the ‘pleasure portal’. Just too weird for us at CFYSA…not only does it take away the fantasy that served as stimulus to ‘yank the carrot’, it masturbates you, too.  There are limits to what is good about being a DIY, ‘Do It Yourselfer’.

      That said, we are not sure what kids do these days. In the waning decades of the last century, sex was a popular way for men and women to pass time together. A common way to find and engage a partner in sex was to go to the public park system with beer and pot. Sitting on the lawn, near the parkinglot, a hedonistic type could smoke pot, become inebriated and when an attractive member of the opposite gender passed, ask her if ‘you want to party?’  Most often, we sat on the lawn along the lot, inbetween the parked cars and the Ladies rest rooms, in order to catch more traffic.

     One bright, sunny day, in the company of an idiot and former acquaintance named Chuck, we sucked down Rolling Rock beers and waited to meet some ‘company’. We were rather drunk that early Spring afternoon and our luck was not with us. Halter tops were a popular article of clothing for women to wear at the time and they were a good thing, in that they allowed a partial view of the breasts of the woman who wore one.

     A number of beers into the ‘party,’ Chuck (who is now a red-nosed, fat bastard who cannot even see his toes without a mirror) had a revelation, an inspiration…an original thought! Original thought can be a good thing in the minds of some people. In his mind, the logical conclusion formed that since we, as men, enjoyed the soft, white skin revealed by the halter, then it was only normal that women take just as much pleasure in seeing a bit of scrotum. If they show us theirs, they must want to see ours…this was his logic.

     While the display of wrinkly flesh did not yield results, it was worth a try. Your Humble Narrator did not try sunning his scrotum for fear of blistered balls but did record a partial account of the events of that day. And, so, My Confidantes, today we present a poem which takes us back to those Golden Days of the early 1980s… 

A Day At The Parkway

Jaws of flocks

of the shocked

dropped

as Chuck’s cock flopped

onto the top of the rock.

Like prunes?” he mocked.

The eyes of the cop

popped

as loose cumdrops slopped,

then dripped down the walls

of his fetid balls.

Me,

I read a book

and pretended not to look.

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