Celebs Behaving Badly | Burbank Edition

This is an installment in a series of personal memoirs. See Celebs Behaving Badly and Celebs Behaving Badly: CalArts Edition.

Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

The gate at The Burbank Studios in 1976.

The gate at The Burbank Studios in 1976. Copyright © 2011 Seeing-Stars.com

Have you ever been to Burbank? Yikes! I spent some quality time there, back in ye olden days before it was a place where anyone actually wanted to live.

Remember The Burbank Studios, the place owned by Columbia Pictures and Warner Bros.? Lotta big TV shows and movies shot there. Once upon a time you could just walk in there armed with nothing but attitude. I did, repeatedly. There’s no better entertainment for free.

Security was indifferent and that place was porn to me. Stars everywhere! I even talked to some without them running away.

Wally World

One time I went to The Burbank Studios with my friend Wendy when she visited me in L.A. Neither of us had any money and we were looking for some cheap fun, so we drove straight to The Burbank Studios.

We parked on the street and headed for the gate. Wendy, never the brightest bulb on the tree, was skeptical that two derps like us could just, you know, walk into a place like that. She was from East Saint Louis, where the only hot stuff was burning tenements. “Just act like you own the place,” I told her.

As if on cue, Buddy Hackett walked past us and we coolly annexed the ass end of his entourage. The guards looked up long enough to be unimpressed before going back to their crossword puzzles.

We were in! We wandered over to the Western town, rubbernecking and smacking into things all the way. A TV show was shooting on Laramie Street. We stood on the wooden porch of a fake building, watching Blythe Danner pretend to have a Wild West snitty fit.

Danner was so adorable, the director felt bad about telling her she wasn’t acting petulant enough. There was laughter while they redid the scene a few times. When she finally got it right, the crew applauded. Where do I get a job like that?

So Wendy and I were intently watching this drama-within-a-drama when some guy sidled up to us on our fake porch and hit on us. Actually, he was pretty cute and very nice. He was actually Richard Thomas. Turns out the shoot we were watching was “The Waltons.”

Thomas tried really hard to befriend us. We kind of just went “uh huh, uh huh” and ignored him, being fixated on the bullshit happening across the fake street. I felt guilty about it later. But he made our trip. Thank you, John-Boy.

Laramie Street

Laramie Street

Norm Alden

Norm Alden

The Girl From S.T.U.P.I.D.

Norm Alden was a prolific character actor in Hollywood. You’ve seen him a million times. He was in everything. Back to the Future, K-Pax, Ed Wood, They Live, Semi-Tough, Tora! Tora! Tora!, “Mod Squad,” “My Three Sons,” “Falcon Crest,” “Mary Hartman,” “The Streets of San Francisco,” even “Gunsmoke” and “Lassie” for chrissakes.

I was lucky that he was a family friend. He and my dad were old pals. They once trespassed on Rudy Vallee’s estate to pilfer grapefruits.

Norm was a sweetie pie who overpaid me to babysit his smart, well-behaved kids in the Beverly Hills house exquisitely decorated by his hot wife, Sharon. How does this even happen?

For some reason Norm liked taking me with him to The Burbank Studios to shmooze peeps for work when he was between jobs. He knew everyone. We always cruised right through the front gate without stopping.

One of the times we went there, Norm and I invaded the commissary. It was jam packed with celebrities. Norm saw someone he wanted to remind that he was alive, so he parked me with a friend while he waded into the abyss to do what he had to do. I was drinking age by then, almost, and really didn’t need protecting, but Norm figured my dad would blow a gasket if I was kidnapped on his watch by B-movie Martians or whatever.

blazing-saddles-pie-fight-1372273854567193_animate

Anyway, this fellow Norm left me with was just another one of his showbiz buds. No big deal. To Norm. But when he introduced me to Fred Koenekamp, my jaw fell on the ground and stayed there.

Fred Koenekamp is a god! He was the director of cinematography for “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.,” my favorite TV show (also the cinematographer for Patton, Papillon, Billy Jack, and The Amityville Horror). Me, I was his biggest fan.

He obviously didn’t think of himself as a superstar with fans. He spent our whole time together looking around uncomfortably, and I blew my once-in-a-lifetime opp by saying… absolutely nothing. I couldn’t even manage “U.N.C.L.E.’s my favorite show! I love your work!” As I said: Jaw. Floor. Fred was awfully happy when Norm returned to relieve him from guard duty.

Fred Koenekamp

Fred J. Koenekamp and Franklin J. Schaffner in Papillon (1973)
Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images – © 2011 Getty Images

Fried Grasshopper to Go

Another time Norm took me to The Burbank Studios with my sister. She was a huge fan of the TV show “Kung Fu.” Norm knew all those guys, too. Next thing we know, we’re piling into a car with Norm and a show exec and David Carradine, the star.

Let me just clarify here that my sister would’ve cleaned Carradine’s shoes with her tongue. Also, it never occurred to her that Carradine (who tried to kill Gene Clark at Clark’s funeral) might in reality not be the uber-spiritual Kwai Chang Caine, he just played one on TV.

Okay. So we’re slaloming through legendary Hollywood backlots in a fancy car with my sister’s all-time number-one idol, David Fucking Carradine. While the adults sat in the front seat talking business, Carradine twisted all the way around to look at me and my sister in the back. By which I mean he nailed us with a horrifying, drug-fueled, crazyass bug-eyed stare that terrified my sister to her core. She never spoke of him again.

Caine finally gets some.

Caine finally gets some. Lionsgate © 2009

What’s in the Box of Sorrows, Jay?

Long ago, in a millennium far, far away, I was on the TV show “Let’s Make a Deal.” This happened because my broke friends and I imagined we could make money on game shows. Sure.

My chums Nancy and Don went with me to the NBC Burbank Studios (different facility from WB’s, same town), where we waited to be inspected on an endless line of idiots in dumb costumes. Of course ours were the best. I think Nancy was a clown and Don’s rig involved an appliance box. I did a Pippi Longstocking thing with my braids and a coat hanger.

Presently a guy walks up, points at me, and barks “You!” The security rope lifted and I ran gleefully down the long sidewalk to the studio door, thinking my friends were right behind me. They weren’t. Nancy and Don were still back behind the rope, making sad faces. I asked someone to let them in with me. He said, “No. Just you.” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was a live taping. I wasn’t chosen for The Big Deal but did score a Quickie Deal. In the last minutes Monty Hall walked straight up to me in the cheap seats. He was orange, which I won’t lie to you was scary. He asked me for my address book. (In ye olden days, people kept addies in little bound books. Everybody had one.) I won something like $5 for every entry in the “S” section. Monty handed me a huge wad of cash. I was thrilled!

As soon as he left, someone ran up and snatched the cash from my hand. “We’ll mail it to you,” he said and scrammed.

I was utterly deflated. And broke again. And now Nancy and Don were REALLY mad.

Eventually the show did mail me a check (it was maybe $60, but $60 bought a month’s groceries back then). Nancy and Don forgave me. And I saw myself on TV. And all I could think was “Ugh! I look like that?”

Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. © 2016 Sydney Schuster

Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. © 2016 Sydney Schuster

Burbank updates:

🐀 Norm Alden did get a part in “Kung Fu,” as Sheriff Crossman in the episode “The Praying Mantis Kills.”

🐀 A millennium later I tried to friend Fred Koenekamp on Facebook. He blew me off. In his defense, he’s about 120 years old.

🐀 Sadly, Laramie Street was razed in 1993 to build offices and a parking lot. “There’s really a squeeze on parking,” explained the supervisor of Warner’s studio tour.

🐀 David Carradine was arrested for assaulting a police officer in the 1950s, for shoplifting and pot possession in the 1960s, for burglary in the 1970s, and for pot possession and DUI in the 1980s. At Gene Clark’s funeral in 1991, Carradine drunkenly attacked Clark’s corpse and screamed at it before being dragged out. In 1994 he was arrested in Toronto for kicking down a door at a Rolling Stones concert. A woman he assaulted in 1974 while high on peyote sued him for $1.1 million. He died in 2009 from autoerotic asphyxiation.

Text and images not otherwise credited: Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Jody Whitesides | Just Looking for Some Touch

Jody Whitesides

If you haven’t heard of Jody Whitesides yet, well, you have now. And you’ll be hearing more.

At first glance he could be one of those Renaissance multi-hyphenates you love to hate — artist-producer-athlete-businessman-Josh Hartnett stand-in — and then you can’t, because he’s just so damned talented and funny. Politically savvy, too. Plus he bakes. Bakes! Scratch bread, scratch brownies, scratch pizza. I am not making this up.

Yeah, the guy totally cooks. Whitesides is a musician who plays, sings, writes, and produces. He’s got some cool videos on his website, and publishes his music on Spotify and iTunes. He’s so into process, he even makes instructional tech vids for musicians. And posts crazy gifs and vines on Twitter. That’s where I discovered him. And unlike a lot of popular Tweeps who can’t be bothered, he actually interacts with followers. Which is how I ended up at his website, being impressed enough to write all this.

Whitesides prolifically generates fun music that’s infectiously danceable. And he markets all his product himself, making him kind of a poster child for DIY music career success.

Before roaring off on said music career, Whitesides was a nationally ranked freestyle skier and BMX racer. Swapping his earmuffs for earworms, he went on to lend his voice for backing vocals to the Swedish hard rock band Talisman fronted by Jeff Scott Soto, and played some guitar for NKOTB’s Danny Woods. Whitesides has his own studio where he produced recordings for the comedy rock band Throwing Toasters and bass master Seth Horan, among others.

Until recently his bread and butter was scoring video games and film trailers, and creating anthems for various sports (notably “Do You Want to Play,” for the NFL and NHL) and TV shows (“Nightwatch New Orleans,” “Top Golf,” and Dwayne Johnson’s documentary series, “Hard Corps”).

Sounds like a sensory smorgasbord, right? It kind of is, but the main theme of his musical style is this: Nobody sits. His repertoire is a lush and expansive romp covering a wide swath: techno-dance and retro pop, acoustic and power ballads, and high-energy modern rock.

“I take influences from everything around me,” says Whitesides. He credits his artistic open-mindedness to a music teacher who once told him: “Mediocre artists steal from one source. Great artists steal from many.”

“I’ve held to that maxim,” he says. “No two of my songs are ever exactly alike. And no two people will generally compare me to the same artist. That becomes a Catch 22, but I’m okay with it.”

Whitesides, who claims he didn’t start talking until he was two, has plenty to say on his latest single, “Touch.” I listened to it and it’s tasty; you should too. Then I read his bio. That’s where I learned he’s a New Yorker who’s into bikes. Yo — what’s not to like? So I asked if I could interview him. He said yeah. Here we go!

Touch shoot, from Twitter

Q What’s the story behind Google refusing to advertise “Touch”? Is that specifically “Touch (Explicit)”? That was the best version! I love the Borg dancers.
A The official response was that the content of the video was “Too Adult.” It was for the clean version. I didn’t even bother to try advertising the explicit version. The weird thing is, no one is naked.

Q Your newest song, “Thump Thump Thump” — is it out yet?
A It is not out yet, but will be soon. It will be on Spotify!

Q How many/what kinds of instruments do you play?
A Technically I play about six. But I can pretty much play any stringed instrument in some fashion. Guitar, vocals, bass, mandolin, ukulele, percussion. I futz around on piano, drums, and kazoo.

Q What’s the most memorable gig you ever played?
A One time a group of drunk lesbians jumped up on stage and proceeded to grind all the members of the band. This was after they formally announced themselves while jumping on the bar in the back of the venue. It caused quite a ruckus and was entertaining for the audience. I did have to get them offstage once one of them nearly broke my teeth when she knocked the mic stand into my mouth while I was singing.

Q When you were younger, did your parents believe you’d make a living with music, or did they unsubtly push you in other directions? (Can you tell I hang out with musicians too much?)
A My parents never initially questioned my desire to learn to play. Actually, they supported it, probably because they were both artists of their own right. Commercial illustrator, and interior decorator. The one requirement was to attend college and get a degree. So I did. Then I went to music school. [Berklee College of Music and Musicians Institute] While they’ve never come out against it, there have been times when my mom has questioned if I should continue. The typical subtle hint type of stuff.

Q Major influences?
A Anything and everything I’ve ever heard influences me, for good or bad. While learning to play, I did focus on guitar god-type players — Hendrix, Satriani, Vai, Tabor, Wylde, Bettencourt. Once I graduated from music school, I started concentrating more on song writing. That’s a whole different ballgame from being an awesome guitar player.

Q What’s the best advice you ever got?
A “Never quit.” However, there was a teacher at music school who did say: “Never get a day job! You’ll get too comfortable and music will become secondary.” Sure enough, many friends from music school did end up getting day jobs, got comfortable and quit. I took that to heart. Never got a day job.

Q Share some things on your bucket list.
A Win the WSOP Main Event. Mountain bike the Rockies from Canada to Mexico. Start an annual New Year’s Eve event. Tour all 50 states with my music, then tour the world. Restore an old car. Learn to fly a plane.

Q What kinds of bicycles do you own? Specifics, please. Bike junkies here.
A I have a Specialized mountain bike and a Cannondale EVO road bike. I also have a JMC Black Shadow BMX bike that I used to race as a little kid. The big kid in me still likes to ride it around now and then.

Q The skiing — were you on the national team? Pro sponsored? Spend any time at the Olympic Training Center? (The caf slop! Cement beds! Prisonish WCs… Asking for a wistful ex-USAC official.)
A As a skier I was nationally ranked but never on the U.S. team. I had some sponsors over the course of my competitive skiing career. I’ve been to the OTC, but not to train. I wish I had made that level — I missed it by 1/10th of a point, one place out of making the team.

Q What kinds of goodies do you bake besides brownies and bread? Where did your love of kitchen arts originate?
A My most famous dish would be pizza from scratch. I make the dough, the sauce, and on occasion the cheese as well. I’m much more into cooking. My mom had my sister and I fend for ourselves by having us use recipes out of a children’s cookbook. Mom is an excellent cook too, but wanted us to be self-sufficient in the kitchen. A skill that has certainly impressed members of the opposite sex.

Q Got any pets?
A I do have a dog. His name is Dorian. Many people think he’s named after The Picture of Dorian Gray. He’s really named after a mode of the major scale — Dorian.

Q Desert island, five entertainment must-haves, any media.
A:
1. A guitar, to allow me to entertain myself with writing songs.
2. An internet connection.
3. From #2, I’ll be able to watch movies.
4. From #2, I’ll be able to read books.
5. From #2, I’ll be able to listen to other people’s music.🙂

photog: Brian Gerber

Jody spots the drone bringing his Amazon delivery.

Jody Whitesides’ website: JodyWhitesides.com
Jody Whitesides is on IMDB
Jody Whitesides on Twitter: @JodyWhitesides
Studio photographs © 2016 Brian Gerber
Twitter photograph © 2016 Jody Whitesides
Everything else here Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

guitars

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Celebs Behaving Badly | CalArts Edition

This is an installment in a series of inconsequential but entertaining dish. See Celebs Behaving Badly and Celebs Behaving Badly: Burbank Edition.

Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I went to California Institute of the Arts. It’s an experience I can’t believe I survived. They really didn’t care what anyone did as long as no one got killed.

Giant penis graduates from CalArts. Copyright © 1976, © 2016 Brian Bailey

Monkey Business
My friend Diane Buckler was a raving beauty and inveterate people collector. (Also a damn fine photographer and barrel of fun. She once dragged me to a Holiday Inn disco in King of Prussia, which we turned inside out. They never recovered.)

One of Diane’s gazillion friends was kin of Groucho Marx — I forget which one, probably his grandnephew Gregg Marx (Gummo’s singer/actor grandson, he starred in “As The World Turns”).

One day this fella took Diane with him to visit Groucho. Old and sick by then, he was still a card-carrying letch. She was shocked when Groucho leered at her and wheezed, “Hey, little girl! Want a CHEESE SANDWICH?” But she laughed so hard about it later, his deathless invitation became her personal catchphrase.

Diane Buckler (right, as her alter ego Adrian) and one of her many friends, Craig (not Gregg). Photo Copyright © 2016 Diane Buckler

Diane Buckler (right, as her alter ego Adrian) and one of her many friends, Craig (not Gregg). Photo Copyright © 2016 Diane Buckler

Children of the Corn
I had the dubious honor of knowing too many children and siblings of famous people. Most were needy, narcissistic whiners accepted by the school because their parents paid cash. You could ignore them, but at your own peril.

Case in point: I was once the object of a masterful defamation campaign orchestrated by the otherwise talent-free spawn of an Oscar winner. Why? Because I made a funny joke about her friend/my roommate who always blabbed nonstop about sex (and was standing right there, btw, blabbing about sex). The joke? It was about how she was always blabbing about sex. Neither they nor any of their zombie pals ever spoke to me again, which was perfect.

Another one of “them” was autistic. By which I mean seriously-fucked-up-Adam-Lanza-autistic. Never spoke to anyone, ever. Except for that one time when a cadre of pompous Disney suits arrived to steal free ideas for DisneyWorld. They called a student assembly and they talked and begged, very self-importantly, to the sound of crickets. Until the autistic guy started yelling every word of the script of Escape to Witch Mountain.

Chris Lemmon was not one of “them.” He was fairly low-key about his lineage. You either knew who he was or you didn’t; Chris never shoved his genealogy in anyone’s face. He was sweet, cute, and unpretentious — all Oh, it’s time to toilet paper the provost’s car? Let’s go! And he could play a piano like he was born doing it.

We had a totally unlicensed bar on campus, Cafe Musique, where he would play and (yes!) read poetry with us generic types.

“We used to do all sorts of illicit things there, not the least of which was my piano playing and incessant yodeling and mauling of perfectly good music,” Chris recalls fondly.

One of Chris’ Cafe Musique partners in crime was my friend Tom Knechtel’s friend Jane Koch Gagle (she runs the Pacific Ballet Dance Theatre now). Tom often created crazyass costumes to use on his art models; he says that one day “I burst into Jane’s dorm room to show her an outfit I’d made,” and unexpectedly found Chris and a stranger standing there. All Tom saw of the stranger was his back, but he panicked. He knew it was Jack Lemmon, and Tom was dressed like a monk, so he fled.

Tom Knechtel became a celebrated West Coast painter and professor at Art Center College of Design. The L.A. Times said he commands “the draftsmanship of the Renaissance masters.” An understatement, IMHO. His wonderful work is in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, and the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco.

Chris Lemmon eventually went into the family business, even though he majored in classical music. It was preordained, I guess, considering he grew up all Hollywoody. I loved his TV show “Duet.” He’s been in tons of movies and TV shows, plus a stage production that he wrote (and composed the piano score for!) called A Twist of Lemmon. It’s based on his literary memoir about his father. Opening in London’s West End soon, too.

Good guys. Good stuff.

Tom Knechtel embraces the monastic life. Photo copyright © 1976 Don Booth

Tom Knechtel contemplates the monastic life. Photo copyright © 1976 2016 Don Booth/Tom Knechtel

Chris Lemmon and a friend. Photo copyright © 2016 Christopher Lemmon

The Fabulous Stains
My dorm suitemate was Megan Anderson, an actor (I think). Megan was constantly screaming at someone, “Don’t call me Meg-un! It’s Meeg-an!”

Don’t-Call-Me-Meg-un had a large collection of Jacques Brel records (quel bore) and a best friend, Randall Edwards (she’s a girl). Randall’s very good friend was Ed Harris (definitely not a girl).

Randall was a crazed Bruce Lee fan. She would frequently explode into my room, ranting passionate declarations of love for Bruce, who alas was unavailable. She was inconsolable when he died without her permission. I finally had to move out of the dorm. Randall became a soap star. Megan’s probably on a street corner, yelling at people.

But back to Ed. He and Randall had no place to go to run lines or whatever, so they often used Megan’s room that adjoined my bathroom, a raging vortex of inappropriate sounds. Ed was no Bruce Lee, but he was certainly one superfine hunk of manflesh. There must’ve been some chopsocky cosplay going on. A lot of weird noises emanated from that place. Also a lot of used condoms.

pollock-poster

Copyright 2000 Sony Pictures Classics

What’s That Smell?
For the six people who don’t already know, CalArts was the brainchild of Walt Disney. Walt, of course, was the Disney family’s visionary; his brother Roy, not so much, and he’s the one everyone got stuck with after Walt died in 1966. There was a terrifying rumor that Roy wanted to monetize CalArts by charging visitors to ride around in trams and watch the artists at work. And if that didn’t pay off, Plan B was to turn the campus into a shopping mall.

The territory was a sump of rich mythology. Like the Mickey Mouse pornos allegedly drawn by Walt himself (which turned out to be real; I saw them). The Holy Grail of CalArts myths, though, is also the creepiest, and in hindsight maybe the easiest to understand. It was rumored that Walt was cryonically preserved when he died, so that he could be revived in the future when a cure for cancer was found. We were always looking around for him. Where better to stash a body than a remote desert locale?

Officially there’s no forensic evidence that Walt’s on ice somewhere. However, there’s this

CalArtian Mark Edward is a professional mentalist, seance performer, and popular television consultant. He says that before Walt died, “there was a lot of conjecture among fans and my fellow magicians about why it was taking so long for Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion to be completed. [Twelve years to design, six more years to build.]

The Haunted Mansion at Disneyland

The Haunted Mansion at Disneyland

“I was going out with a girl whose father owned a top-of-the-line refrigeration company with a lot of government and scientific contracts. One night, when I was at dinner at their house, he took me into another room where he rolled open a blueprint of The Haunted Mansion. He pointed out an area that was curiously set aside from the rest of the ride and marked with a large X. He asked me what I thought of that. He further told me that this particular ‘room’ had its own independent self-sufficient power supply, so that even if the entire city of Anaheim’s power was cut off, this one room would continue to operate.

“Odd, to say the least. It was his job to deliver the tons of high-tech equipment to this site the next day. In one of the strangest dreamlike events I can remember in my ’60s experience, he asked me, ‘Why do you think they need this equipment I’m selling them?’

“I didn’t have a clue, other than maybe it was ‘cold spot’ technology to ‘haunt’ the house. Only years later did I learn from CalArts sources the myth about Walt being frozen. One wag said when I told him, ‘Why not? Walt Disney certainly had the money and the will to do it.'”

Illya-cracy
CalArts rents itself out to a lot of TV shows and movies as a set. Officially the reason is to impart firsthand knowledge to students about TV/film production, but really the school just wants money. One of the shows that shot there was “The Invisible Man” starring David McCallum.

Let me just say this: I adore David McCallum. “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” is one of my all-time favorite TV shows (I own the entire boxed set), and I never miss  “NCIS.” I watch The Great Escape every time it’s on TV. I’ll even watch that one “Sex And The City” with him in it. Love love loves me some David McCallum!

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

But back to CalArts. While the alleged purpose of whoring itself out to Hollywood is to provide students with filmcraft knowledge, we were nevertheless banned from “Invisible Man” sets. I guess they were trying to protect their super secret technology from people who were about to make Star Wars: Episode IV and “Star Trek: TNG.” Or maybe McCallum had suffered more than enough frothing teens during his U.N.C.L.E. tenure. Whatever. We never even saw him just walking around the place. I mean, everybody goes to the can sometime, right?

Anyway, one day I learned McCallum was secretly stashed in an empty conference room, secretly waiting to go onto his secret set.

A guerrilla paparazza even back then, I barged in with my Instamatic.

I was shocked to find McCallum alone in the room, sitting quietly in an old lounge chair, wearing the show’s “secret technology” — a Chromakey mummy suit. Basically the same “secret technology” that suffocated original Invisible Man Claude Rains in 1933.

I clicked away at my hapless idol. And then my mummy, David McCallum, spoke to me.

“Your pictures won’t come out without a flash.”

I was ecstatic! And then I fled before someone could throw me out. (And yes, my pictures came out black.)

Bonus points: I also got to meet the legendary Jackie Cooper, who was just walking around the place like a regular person. He played Walter Carlson on the show before Peter Gunn took over the role. Cooper was very kind and nice, although he did have a deer-in-the-headlights look, probably because everyone else wanted to meet him, too, all at the same time. Who wouldn’t?

NASA ain't got nothin' on this.

Above: David McCallum in “The Invisible Man.” Copyright © 1975 Dynamite Magazine

Illya Kuryakin on a mission.

Illya Kuryakin on a mission.

Go to the Head of the Class
New York painter Miriam Schapiro was a cofounder of the CalArts art school and its groundbreaking Feminist Art Program. She’s been called a figurehead of the art world, a feminist pioneer. Actually, her greatest talent was self-promotion.

Mimi definitely was a lot of things, but feminist wasn’t one of them. She was petty and vindictive, and wore her contempt like a mink stole. Her favorite students had parents rich enough to buy her paintings. She was cruel to others entrusted to her tutelage.

Part of her feminist art curriculum was something she called “consciousness raising groups.” In practice they were bully sessions during which entitled girls (they did a lot of self-portraits) brutalized less advantaged ones. Participants would break down in tears while Mimi sat there impassively.

When I was in the Feminist Art Program, I somehow got on Mimi’s shitlist. Without explanation she cut my contribution to the program’s Women’s Art Festival project. The companion book, Anonymous Was a Woman, contains letters from famous artists to Mimi’s students; my name appears in their salutations, otherwise I don’t exist. (The book, which Mimi edited, makes no sense whatsoever. It contains many self-portraits. Also many photographs without captions or proper attribution. Mimi copyrighted everything in her name. At the very end, for any readers still awake, there’s one page perfunctorily thanking everyone who did all the work.)

The project broke to lots of publicity. At the same time, Mimi publicly unveiled a new collection of her own artwork for sale entitled — shocker! —  “Anonymous Was a Woman.”

No one would tell me why I was disowned. I did make the mistake — fatal, in retrospect — of mentioning during group that I’d run out of money. Shortly thereafter Mimi saw me returning from a job interview and insulted my clothing. (Conservative skirt, blouse, low-heeled shoes. She called me a whore. WTF?)

Mimi also tried to keep me from graduating. My transcripts from another college mysteriously disappeared from my record file, and two weeks before graduation I was informed that I suddenly didn’t have enough credits.

To Mimi, her inexcusable behavior was normal and acceptable. No one ever interceded. The school’s president was Bob Fitzpatrick, who later mismanaged EuroDisney into bankruptcy; the dean of Mimi’s department was her husband, the abstract expressionist painter Paul Brach, whose lectures were self-aggrandizing extravaganzas of name dropping. Paul and Bob had other fish to fry.

I never complained formally about Mimi. But others did. A groundswell of unhappy campers easily explains her increasingly disturbing behavior.

There were some students who’d transferred to CalArts to study with artist Judy Chicago, the Feminist Art Program’s original codirector. Chicago had founded the very first Feminist Art Program, a thriving Cal State University enterprise that Mimi hijacked. After enticing Chicago to relocate her program from Fresno to Valencia, Mimi banished Chicago and continued the program solo. Chicago’s students were horrified.

You can read more takes on Mimi’s program here. One student dropped out because “there was too much emphasis placed on group projects and complications. One book was enough.” Another regretted joining because of all the “fights, disagreements, jealousy.” Another learned that “women can be just as exploitative of women as men.” Another said, “we could not get beyond personalities and create a lasting support system.” “It was clear to me,” deadpanned another, “‘artist’ is a dead profession.”

At least 25 percent of the group bailed. One casualty ended up in a sanitarium. Another ended up dead. (Connie Marsh. Google her.) Mimi knew a PR bonanza when she saw one. She invoked Connie’s memory at every opportunity, like a martyred saint. Connie’s photo appeared — right next to Mimi’s — on the cover of Anonymous Was a Woman. Listen, I knew Connie; I liked her. But there were non-dead group members who deserved to be on the cover and weren’t. They found out after the book came back from the printer.

Anonymous Was a Woman book cover

Anonymous Was a Woman book cover

I’m being charitable when I say it’s criminal to subject children to this kind of stress. CalArts must’ve agreed because Mimi and Paul soon hauled ass back to New York.

A couple of years later I ran into Mimi in SoHo. She pretended not to know me. I assumed it was because I wasn’t famous enough to impress her retinue. But later someone in the loop told me I was being punished for daring to quit her worthless program.

Oh. I didn’t reenlist for Part Two of Mimi’s dumb vanity project. Who needs a program about free expression that censors people?

I will say Mimi was a talented artist — also a con artist who hitched her wagon to any horse going in a lucrative direction.

Mimi Schapiro died last year, and some of us didn’t care.

Miriam Schapiro gives a lesson.

Miriam Schapiro gives a lesson.

CalArts extra credit points:

🐀 Judy Chicago retaliated by eclipsing the Feminist Art Program with her masterwork The Dinner Party, and redlining Mimi Schapiro out of documentation of their seminal Womanhouse project. Mimi was entirely edited out of the Womanhouse film by Johanna Demetrakas and completely ignored in Molly Haskell’s Village Voice review of it.

🐀 During a graduation party, CalArts president Bob Fitzpatrick was thrown fully clothed into a pool by the CalArts pottery teacher.

🐀 When Roy Disney died in 1971, the CalArts tourist trams and shopping mall mercifully died with him. Walt’s body is still MIA.

🐀 Bacon points! Ed Harris played Paul Brach’s best drunk friend in Pollock.

🐀 CalArts has a bookstore. I asked them to carry my book Dead Spot. Their response: “Fuck no! Please check the box indicating your donation of $50, $500, or $5000.”

🐀 Just before his death, Groucho Marx left instructions that he be buried on top of Marilyn Monroe.

Text Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Zombie art © 2016 Gabriela Gonzalez/artescritorio.com

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Celebs Behaving Badly

Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

So you know how I always humblebrag about all the famous people I’ve met, and then veer off into an Emily Litella-ish rant about Soviet jewelry? Thought you might enjoy some actual celebrity dirt, so here you go.

(This is part of a series. See Celebs Behaving Badly: CalArts Edition and Celebs Behaving Badly: Burbank Edition.)

Bridge Over Bongled Water

When I was 13 I was a rabid Simon and Garfunkel fan. They performed at my town’s convention center, back in ye olden days when concert security was one guy with a flashlight. If you knew where the stage door was, you could ambush the objects of your teenage lust. Which is exactly what I did after S&G’s concert.

At the time I had a business painting pictures of cute things on river rocks that I sold in boutiques. Most people used them for paperweights. So I painted Simon’s and Garfunkel’s portraits on two rocks, which I presented to them as they ran in terror to their waiting limo.

Simon was actually quite gracious about being handed a heavy blunt object. Of course he was confused and thought me insane, but he smiled a lot. Garfunkel was further away; I had to throw his rock to him. Apparently this sort of thing happens to him a lot. Perceiving that I was throwing a rock AT him, he picked it up from where he let it crash to the ground and nailed me with it. I’d never heard an adult curse like that before.

Bonus round: Years later, my mother-in-law reported seeing Garfunkel get into another limo with his wife. She was so clutzy (or hammered, your pick) that my MIL could see her tonsils from up her skirt. Along with everyone else on that well-lit, crowded Manhattan street. Stay classy, Art.

Art Garfunkel and Mrs. Garfunkel step out.

Art Garfunkel and Mrs. Garfunkel step out.

The Man Who Fell Into My Floorthru

Back when actor Candy Clark was still lukewarm from American Graffiti, I lived in Los Angeles. My boyfriend at the time was her brother. Her boyfriend at the time was Nick Roeg, the director. To give you an idea of how tight we were, she claims to not remember me even though I was her sister-in-law for, like, eight years.

Call that what you will. I call bullshit. In a 2015 interview about The Man Who Fell to Earth, Clark said this about one of her doubles: “They hired this older actress and I thought, wow, that David Bowie is pretty brave — he was making out with her and she was about 60 years old.” The older actress whose name Clark couldn’t remember was her mother.

So Candy invited herself and Roeg to my place one Thanksgiving. I was young and broke and lived in a modest apartment in West Hollywood, when WeHo was still a hellho. Lenny Bruce lived there too, but not at the same time. My landlord swore it wasn’t the apartment where Bruce died, but I think he just said that so tenants wouldn’t bug him about the angry ghost in the coat closet.

Anyway, there wasn’t enough food to go around at this party, or even chairs. Clark arrived wearing a dress that took up my whole living room and Roeg, who clearly wished he was someplace else. (He was directing Clark and David Bowie at the time in The Man Who Fell to Earth, and this was not the kind of networking he enjoyed.)

Apparently they had no place else to go. They hijacked my intimate party, holding court in my parlor with most of my guests crowded around them like a trash fire. I spent the evening with my besties on a couch as far away as we could get without leaving.

Bonus round 1: Around this same time, Clark reportedly also swapped fluids with David Bowie , Ed Ruscha, and Mikhail Barishnikov.

Bonus round 2: Clark subsequently was incinerated by a hack-phobic demon in Amityville 3-D (1983) and ingested by The Blob (1988). Somehow she survived to sell autographs at hot rod rallies.

Bonus round 3: When Clark was shooting The Man Who Fell to Earth, I visited the set and met the incomparable Rip Torn. He’s very nice, and handsome.

Schadenfreude Bacon points: Roeg directed Art Garfunkel in the awful Bad Timing (1980).

Candy Clark takes a meeting.

Candy Clark takes a meeting.

I Am Tootie Hear Me Roar

When I lived in L.A. I worked at a store in Hollywood. One day showbiz poobah Jeff Wald swaggered in and screamed at everyone for no reason. (Wald managed Sylvester Stallone, David Crosby, Stephen Stills, George Carlin, Donna Summer, Flip Wilson, and a mountain of nose candy — $100,000 of it per year, in 1980s dollars.) He was dressed like a pimp. Everyone ignored him.

Eventually he left. Not for nothing, but we were relieved. In 1983 he tried to kill his ex-wife’s fiancé with his Maserati, with their 10-year-old inside. Helen Reddy (the ex) trashed Wald’s car with a mop while Wald’s bodyguard encouraged him to shoot her with his .45 stashed in the glove. I was never a Reddy fan before that. Wald also broke into Reddy’s house (kid in tow), breaking doors and windows and fleeing with $35,000 worth of stuff, including a Chagall print and a shotgun.

The well-traveled Wald was arrested for shoving the shotgun into the mouth of a Sahara Tahoe picketer, and he knocked out Rod Stewart for making him wait for a hotel room in Hawaii.

When Wald ODed in 1986, the only hospital that would admit him was Cedars-Sinai, and only because he’d built them a clinic.

Schadenfreude Bacon points: Wald married Candy Clark.

Jeff Wald and Helen Reddy

Jeff Wald and Helen Reddy making friends.

Royal Pain

You remember Jane Powell, the MGM contract starlet from so many forgettable films of the ’50s. No? Probably the most famous were Royal Wedding and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and that’s not saying much.

She was about 50 when we met, and very tiny (her Wikipedia stats say 5’1″, but that’s wildly optimistic). I was an indie fashion designer at the time. One of my customers, Wanda, owned a boutique on Sunset Strip, and one of Wanda’s friends was Jane. Actually, it was more like Jane waddled in one day and started ordering Wanda around.

Anyway, I had made an awesome custom dress for Wanda, who was a size 4. Jane saw it and wanted it. Not one like it. She wanted the exact same dress, cut down to fit her size 0 frame. Understand that this dress was engineered without any straight-line seams, like a baseball, in two difficult fabrics (silk and suede), to fit someone much bigger.

Wanda and I got into a big fight about it. She said she’d never hawk my stuff again if I didn’t do this thing. So I did it. Rebuilt the custom dress for Wanda into a custom dress for Jane. There was no CAD then, and a lot of the work involved hand stitching. It was the most elegant pain in the ass I ever attempted.

Fast forward to the fitting. Jane hated it. One of her hips was higher than the other, causing the hem to hang unevenly. It could’ve been fixed easily, but she decided to use it as an excuse to throw a temper tantrum and storm out. Hey, when Hollywood stops calling, how else ya gonna get any attention?

There was no way to resize it to fit a normal human, or even Wanda. And that’s how she got stuck with a size 0 custom dress that would fit no one ever. She hung it up in her store, but I have no idea if she ever sold it because I never spoke to her again.

The dress I made for Wanda and Jane.

The dress I made for Wanda and Jane.

How Wanda saw Jane (left); How Jane saw Jane (right).

How Wanda saw Jane (left); How Jane saw Jane (right).

The skirt I made for Jane (left); Jane's skirt from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (right).

The skirt I made for Jane (left); Jane’s skirt from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (right).

Greatest American Hero

I used to be a USOC-licensed bicycle racing official. I worked many races where Lance Armstrong competed as a junior drug monkey, before he won 47 Tours de France. The officials would arrive at the race venues all excited to be there, for they loved their sport. Then they’d obtain the start list and see his name on it, and go “Ohmygod Lance is here ugh.”

Lance Armstrong smells a fart.

Doug McClure or Troy Donahue (I can’t tell those guys apart)

Okay, this isn’t really my story, it’s my friends’ story which makes it hearsay, but it’s true and too funny to leave out.

Couple of my friends in high school, Laurie and Susan, they were like twins. Creepy alien twins, but cuter. Went everywhere together, had secret codes only they knew, laughed hysterically at stuff nobody else thought was funny. They were adorable.

I don’t remember how the following situation came about, but one night they were in a bar, in a state where the drinking age is 21. It was a bowling alley or something. They were maybe 17 at the time.

Also darkening this bar was red-nosed ’60s icon Doug McClure, or Troy Donahue. (Google them.) Although his showbiz shelf life was long expired, he alas had not and was still inadvisedly hitting on jailbait. He badgered Laurie and Susan relentlessly. They thought this hilarious and blew him off, repeatedly. He was obstinate, and kind of angry. He kept sniffing them and they kept ignoring him until eventually their ride came and they split, laughing hysterically.

Doug McClure and Troy Donahue. You figure it out.

Doug McClure and Troy Donahue. You figure it out.

Grouch-In-Chief

There was a restaurant I loved in New York that I visited a lot. Felidia, on 58th Street. They serve Italian food. Not the spaghetti and red sauce kind. The other stuff.

One night I was there with the better half, quietly enjoying a fabulous meal until the party at the next table got out of hand. Damn, they were loud. Look-At-Me loud. Someone at the table would say something, and then someone else would crush any spontaneous social interaction by demanding (loudly), “What do you think, Morley?” And then famed Canadian newsreader Morley Safer would hold forth interminably about something nobody cared about. Very loudly. Then they’d start all over again.

We would’ve scrammed early but the food was too good to wolf down.

Above: In his 2009 60 Minutes interview with Vogue boss Anna Wintour, Safer called her a bitch four times.

Princess Boogedyboo

One day I was standing on a long line at a big post office in Manhattan. The woman in front of me was squirming and twisting relentlessly, slinging her bags around, dropping stuff and picking it up, and generally having shpilkes over absolutely nothing. While everyone else waited quietly, she looked around nervously, like she expected them to assault her. Nobody did. Nobody cared. In fact, few people have ever been ignored so definitively. At length I realized she was Phoebe Cates.

Related posts:
No Degrees of Separation | My Date with Kevin Bacon
End of the Eighties | Walter Monheit
Joan Jett, the Queen of Rock’n’Roll, Finally Gets Crowned
Memo from the Dead Zone | 1986 World Cycling Championships
Doesn’t Harley-Davidson Make Training Wheels?

Photo Credits:
Art & Kim Garfunkel © 2004 Mitchell Levy/Globe-Photos
Candy Clark © 1976 British Lion Film Corporation
Jeff Wald & Helen Reddy © Hollywood Reporter
Jane Powell’s uglyass skirt & Christmas photos © 1954 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer 
Lance Armstrong © 2015 EPA/European Pressphoto Agency
Doug McClure © 1962 National Broadcasting Company
Troy Donahue © 1960 Warner Brothers Pictures
Phoebe Cates © 1994 Ardican Films

Text and all other photos Copyright © 2016 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on Amazon

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

More Great Adventures in Cheap Wine

Copyright © 2015 SYDNEY SCHUSTER

My last posts about liquid refreshments were such big hits, here’s some more!

wine

And now, the bad news. 2012 wines blow.

What 1929 was to the stock market, what 1963 and 2000 were to presidential debacles, what 2001 was to the demise of the Fourth Amendment and 3,000 people who mostly weren’t bothering anyone, 2012 is to wine.

I say this because every single 2012 I’ve tried — and there is no nice way to put this — sucked so loud I needed earmuffs to drink it.

Flat. Bitter. Mediciney. Weird colors. I will not touch any more 2012s with a barge pole. Unless someone gives me one for free, in which case I’ll cook with it. Maybe. 2012s are not — repeat NOT —  going to improve with age.

Why? A good question. And I have a theory. So permit me to winesplain.

Before you suggest that perhaps my neighborhood packies park their stock too close to the radiator, let me just say this: All wines usually aren’t bad at once.

That means the problem with the 2012s is something else, something way bigger. (Although the radiator thing is pretty bad too, and it actually happened at one store I used to frequent and don’t anymore.) That’s why this is such a disaster. Being a wine aficionado without being a dick is hard enough without obstacles like this.

As you know, we here at Casa Loco are ardent fans of cheap good wine. We consume it like pop. We don’t care if it has a screw cap. We’re fond of spritzers and goofy cocktails. It’s not that we don’t have refined palates. It’s just that, for the most part, expensive wine is wasted on us because we’ll drink it with corndogs.

Until 2012 it was easy to score cheap delicious wines from all over the world. It’s stupid not to. Our go-to winners were Berco Do Infante Regional, a $6 super-Tuscan-like red from Portugal that I just adored, and a bangin’ $9 Medoc from Chateau Haut Queyran. Good stuff! Until 2012. Our first bottle of 2012 Berco mostly went into the ragout. There was not a second. And after we cleaned out the 2011 Haut Queyran Medocs, the store didn’t get any more.

Chateau Haut Queyran

Chateau Haut Queyran Medoc

An endless parade of 2012 swill ensued, along with my theory: I suspected 2012 was the first year wine growers got slammed by climate change, and it was major. Too much heat or cold, too much rain or not enough, hail in deserts, shorter growing seasons. The result: a uniform awfulness of product beyond description (and the reason I didn’t post about wine for a long time).

I figured I’d interview some real experts to get the poop, because I was going there anyway.

Everyone should have a wine store like my favorite, owned by two guys (Terry and Terry, I am not making this up) who sample everything they sell because they, you know, care. So I can always ask Terry, “Is this any good?” and they’ll answer “Yes!” or “Maybe get this other one instead.”

Anyway, I asked them what’s the deal with the 2012s. There was a lot of whispering and shoulder shrugging, followed by crickets.

Okay. So next I visited the Interwebs to see what I could find about the death march that is 2012 wine. Here ya go:

It turns out 2012 was a benchmark year in wine fails. According to this lady who clearly knows more than I do, European vineyards were ravaged by bad weather in 2012, “leading to what could be the worst grape harvest in 50 years.” Crop damage was so widespread, some fancypants French and Italian vintners, such as Château d’Yquem, wrote off 2012 altogether rather than produce crap wine.

So much for Europe (and my beloved Berco and Medoc). Unfortunately, I endured equally vile stuff from South America, so don’t believe any PR blather about what a great year 2012 was for their malbecs and carmeneres. It wasn’t. Although some whites took somewhat less of a beating. We did get all the way through a 2012 Concha Y Toro sauvignon blanc magnum. Not terrible, just meh.

Now if you’ll recall, 2012 also was the year Hurricane Sandy destroyed most of the east coast of the US and seven other countries, so don’t expect anything good from them. Not that I was such a fan, but Martha’s Vineyard and Newport do produce wine that some people actually don’t mind drinking when it doesn’t taste like lighter fluid.

Over on the left coast, 2011 was the start of a rough streak for the Northwest. Which makes me sad, because Oregon and Washington state wines had always been among my favorites. I remember a pre-climate change Columbia Crest Two Vines shiraz so divine, it made me weep. RIP, my friend.

Northern California wines got T-boned too, with their climate-related slide starting back in 2010. Out-of-control wildfires aren’t helping them, either. I’d bag Napa and Sonoma brands for now. Also Central Valley. The current drought there pretty much ensures they won’t be producing anything promising any time soon.

Reportedly SoCal wines dodged the ick bullet. But I tired of them a while back — the whites are too minerally and acidic for my taste, the reds too big and unnecessarily complex, and most are stupid expensive.

Doubters: Check out this chart below from Wine Folly. It only covers 2004 to 2011 vintages, but the point’s pretty obvious.

Vintage Badness Chart

Vintage Badness Chart

For what it’s worth, this guy here swears some 2012 German wines aren’t so bad. And while Australia had smaller 2012 crop yields due to drought, they’re not necessarily nasty-ass ones so don’t dismiss them out of hand if you can afford the jacked-up prices.

Now if one were to ask me, I’d guess that many 2012 wines that did make it to stores are “special blends” cobbled together from leftover dregs of previous years and recent rejects that in a million years would never have made it into any bottle. Except, obviously, in an emergency. Which clearly 2012 is. And I’m guessing the few 2012s that don’t suck aren’t really made from 2012 harvests.

Mystery wines to try at your own risk

Mystery wines to try at your own risk

I’m telling ya, it’s been a long year waiting for reinforcements to replace the dogshit 2012s that still bogart the store shelves. So it was with great emotion and gratitude that I flung myself upon the 2013s that finally rolled in and, just last week, a 2014! I was so happy to see it, I took a picture.

Frontera malbec

Frontera malbec (above) is a long-time bargain fave here at Casa Loco. (If you have a choice, 2014 is better than 2013.)

And now you know what torpedoed 2012. Take a moment. Breathe. Then buy something else, okay? Anything else. Thank me later.

Herewith are some wines that are affordable, available now, pretty damn tasty and, most important, not 2012s. Enjoy!

🍷Tricky (Rabbit) Reserva Sauvignon Blanc/Carmenere blend (white, from Chile) 2013 $11.49
🍷The Bean Pinotage (red, from South Africa) 2014 $12
🍷Concha Y Toro Frontera Malbec (Argentina) 2014 $10 magnum!
🍷Concha Y Toro Frontera Carmenere (Chile) 2014 $10 magnum!
🍷Black River Malbec (Argentina) 2014 $12 magnum!
🍷Hedges Family Estate CMS Red Blend (Cab/Merlot/Syrah from Columbia Valley, Washington state) 2011 $12
🍷Lab Vinho Regional Lisboa White Blend (Vital, Arinto, Moscatel, and Sauvignon Blanc, from Portugal) 2013 $6
🍷Lab Vinho Regional Lisboa Red Blend (Castelao, Tinta Roriz, Syrah, and Touriga Nacional, from Portugal) 2013 $6
🍷Slavcek Sivi Pinot (white, from Slovenia) 2014 $13 (a splurge for a bargain wine, and totes worth it!)
🍷Mandrarossa Nero D’Avola (red, from Sicily) 2013 $10
🍷Purato Nero D’Avola (organic red, from Sicily) 2013 $13
🍷Tilia Bonarda (red, from Argentina) 2013 $10
🍷Fairview Goats Do Roam (Cote du Rhone-style red blend from South Africa) 2014 $10
🍷Segura Viudas Brut Reserva Cava (bubbly goodness from Spain) 2014 $11
🍷Mionetta Prosecco Brut (bubbly goodness from Italy) $13
🍷Terrilogio Primitivo (red, from Italy) 2014 $10
🍷Morgan Cotes du Crow’s (syrah and grenache blend from Monterey) 2013 $18 — well worth the splurge!)
🍷Ninety+ Cellars Old Vine Malbec (Mendoza, Argentina) 2014 (earthier) and 2015 (cleaner; Lot 23 is awesome) $11

wine

Copyright © 2015 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.
DEAD SPOT on Amazon

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party video advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Joan Jett, The Queen of Rock ’n’ Roll, Finally Gets Crowned

joan jettThe only person happier than me that Joan Jett was inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame on April 19 — finally! — is Joan Jett. The multitasking sex goddess is WAY overdue for this accolade.

Not for nothing, but Joan is an icon. For real. I’ve been an unapologetic fan since she was a Runaway.

Like every good Joanaholic, I’d always wanted to meet her, despite that old adage about meeting your idols being a bad idea. I have to admit, having met many of mine, that it’s kind of true. Joan eluded me, but we almost met many times. Ergo, I’m at a loss for how to calculate our degrees of separation. You decide!

When I lived in the West Village, a scarily reliable source (my busybody neighbor) insisted Joan lived on the next block. Never saw her. Then for three years she and I lived in the same suburban town, a few blocks apart. We even went to the same chiropractor. Somehow we never collided. I heard the local post office had one of her gold records, which they’d taken down during a renovation and not replaced, but I did ask them about it, and it is a thing — a thing I stood a few feet from in the dusty box where it was cavalierly abandoned by unworthy civil servants. Then we both moved back to civilization, she to a building not far from mine that I passed six days a week — before she moved in and I moved away. I did have one fun Joanless close encounter, when I shared a pizza at the beach with a woman whose brother wrote “Too Bad on Your Birthday.”

Ever the good Jettster, I’ve been to a gazillion Joan shows. I used to try to find out where she was signing autographs, but I was always too late or at the wrong place. At one show I had an in with the backline company, but all’s I got was an autographed CD from Kenny Laguna. I mean, he’s adorable and I appreciated it, but he’s not Joan.

So what’s that? Like, three degrees? Two? Whatever. We ain’t dead yet, me and Joan, so I guess it could still happen.

I sent Joan an email once, asking her advice on band marketing websites because she was one of the first to have one. I received an autoreply saying something like “Joan gets an awful lot of mail, she’ll get back to you.” She never did. That was seventeen years ago, but it’s okay. Joan was likely too busy fighting the good fight to wade through terabytes of gushing emails.

If all you know about her is how she fought with the Runaways and their cretinous manager Kim Fowley and rude industry execs (she had to sell “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” out of her car trunk after 23 record companies rejected it, and then it became No. 1 on Billboard‘s Hot 100 for 7 weeks and the number 3 song of 1982, neener neener), you’d have a pretty good idea about her scheduling issues. But Joan does USO shows and benefits, like for PETA and Farm Sanctuary. Plus she saved a 3-year-old from drowning in the ocean. I mean, how many people do all that in their spare time?

Joan Jett is a force of nature. She works incessantly. She made three platinum and gold records. In response to the “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” brouhaha, she founded Blackheart Records in 1980, making her among the first women ever to start a record company. That very elite group includes Vivian Carter (Vee-Jay, 1953), Sylvia Robinson (Sugar Hill, 1979), Florence Greenberg (Tiara, 1958), and Estelle Axton (Stax, 1958).

Joan also produced three movies, and many albums by The Germs, Bikini Kill, Circus Lupus, The Vacancies, and L7. She toured with The Police, Queen, Aerosmith, Tom Petty, Cheap Trick, the Ramones, Motörhead, Def Leppard, Green Day, Alice Cooper, Van Halen, Heart, and The Who.

She does some other stuff, too. If you didn’t see her awesome 2014 Hall of Fame performance with the surviving members of Nirvana, you must be dead.

It would’ve been enough for me had she stuck to music. But I was just agog at her star turn in the 1987 film Light of Day. She was luminous. Geez. If you ignore the secondary plot about the annoying mother, it’s a wonderful, painfully truthful depiction of gritty bar band life in the pre-Internet Midwest, with actual musicians (Joan, Michael J. Fox, Michael McKean, Trent Reznor, Paul Harkins, Jimmie Vaughan) playing the fictional ones. The soundtrack is bangin’, natch. Paul Schrader directed it (as well as some of my other favorite edgy flicks — Cat People, Auto Focus). Schrader said of Jett: “She’s phenomenal.” If you haven’t seen Light of Day (or even if you have), do it today.

light of day cast photoMany film reviewers expressed shock that The Queen of Rock ’n’ Roll can also act, but it should come as no surprise. (Did you see her on Walker, Texas Ranger? Holy shit!) She played Columbia for over a year on Broadway in The Rocky Horror Show. For cryin’ out loud, she was a professional performer before she could legally drink. She founded The Runaways in 1975, when she was a mere 16.

Since then Joan has faithfully, unflinchingly championed the empowerment of women. The guitar, the leather, the snarl — it’s all showbiz, baby. Yeah, she’s the queen of that, too. I’ll never forget one of her concerts years ago, where a bunch of JJ wannabes were picking fistfights with each other, trying to out-Joan Joan. Their mall gear and decal tattoos were no match for Joan’s divine glam punkness and couture S&M outfits, designed by the likes of Norma Kamali in the old days and Saint Laurent today. Those stupid girls didn’t get Joan, and never would.

Joan is not mean. She’s a true pioneer. She made it possible for female rockers who followed her to actually have careers in an industry that had been a male preserve. While clueless suburban debs were kicking each other in their tragic Riot Grrrl misinterpretation, Joan was kicking down doors for real women who totally got what she was about. And it changed everything.

At the induction ceremony, Miley Cyrus said, “all of us are going to experience people who try to tell us who to be and what to be. Fuck those people! Instead of changing for all those people, if you don’t like how the world is, change it yourself. [Joan] made the world evolve, her life and her success is proof that we can’t stop evolving.”

English translation: You da bomb, Joan! Congrats on your Hall of Fame induction. You’re my queen!

Joan Jett - The Kamali Years

Joan Jett – The Kamali Years

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Text Copyright © 2015 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Photo 1 Copyright © Corporal Steiner / corporalsteiner.tumblr.com
Photo 2 Copyright © TriStar Pictures
Photo 3 Copyright © Getty Images
Photo 4 Copyright © TAFT Entertainment Pictures/HBO

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party  advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Memo from the Dead Zone | 1986 World Cycling Championships

Let’s take a trip back in time. The year: 1986 — the last and only year the US was allowed to host UCI World Cycling Championships since 1893. You’re about to find out why.

In the mid-1980s I was a columnist for the greatest cycling magazine ever, Bicycle Guide. They sent me to cover the Worlds in Colorado, and the following is my report. Consider it a little taste of what to expect next year when, for better or worse, the Worlds return!

That’s right, in 2015 the World Cycling Championships road race is scheduled for Richmond, Virginia — a state with hurricanes, tornadoes, hazardous seismic activity, toxic waterways, 31 Superfund sites, doctors in tents instead of modern clinics, a governor convicted of 11 felony corruption counts, and police who tried to force a teenager to have an erection to prove they saw it in private emails they spied on illegally. Yup, Virginia is for lovers. And, uh, racing.

 ★★★

MEMO FROM THE DEAD ZONE
originally published in Bicycle Guide, January/February 1987
Text and Photos Copyright ©1987, ©2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER

Colorado Springs, America’s largest small town, wasn’t quite ready for the Worlds. After all, who else would sic police dogs on the World Pursuit Champion and ask you not to ride your bike in their hotel rooms?

***

I’m no good with small towns. I need large quantities of food at odd hours, department stores open ’til 9, all-night newsstands, winos who wipe your windshield because gas stations won’t, and 24-hour greaserias serving rotgut coffee. I’m a New Yorker. Bite me.

In the pantheon of small towns that should be avoided, Colorado Springs may be America’s largest. Its population, mostly somnambulant, consists of 375,000 tropes who seemed utterly unaware they were hosting a major international sports event.

Upward of 100,000 bikies had been making World Championships-related reservations since the previous January, but by August the Springoids remained staunchly oblivious even as cycling interests mainlined $10 million into the local economy. Few area businesses benefitting from this windfall reciprocated by donating primes to the Wheat Thins Mayor’s Cup street races, pretty much the only recreational entertainment available (and organized by David Pelletier, a savvy non-USCF East Coaster, natch). Because, you know, … duh.

Me, I saw the planets lining up upon my arrival at my fancy B&B, which was more like a dorm in hell. The headmistress saw our bikes and demanded to know — wait for it — if we intended to ride them in our room. Huh?!

I tried to imagine her scenarios: The next track session is three hours away and every restaurant in town is closed (yes, that happened): “Honey, I’m bored. Let’s ride bikes around the room!” Or I’ve just met some interesting people who also shlepped bicycles along, like the Italian team (that happened, too): “Hey, let’s have some fun riding bikes around my room!”

Soon the headmistress found out I was press, which resulted in surveillance of my “gourmet breakfast” plate. Her “inn” publishes and sells a collection of its “special recipes” (too special to actually waste on guests, apparently; I was never served any). My leftovers (ie, everything — hippie moderne crap!) elicited a stern lecture from the management, who considered that a smart way to avoid bad publicity.

I have to tell you, this grub nouvelle was everywhere, like acid rain. And they couldn’t even get that right. Hungry bikers turned militant as they searched in vain for bacon and eggs and burgers, and starved altogether from 3 to 5 pm and after 9, when Colorado Springs rolls up its streets — even when 100,000 tourists blow into town, dying to burn $10 million.

The city has exactly one diner (which I discovered on my way out of town) and barely enough late-night eateries to count on one hand. These establishments are distinguished by religious graffiti in the restrooms and menus featuring airbrushed, highly idealized photos of food-like matter. The pictures came in handy when the Japanese team (whose English was better than ours) failed at verbal communication with the waitresses, who eventually took orders by pictures. That is, after they finally stopped laughing and got up off the floor.

Where's the beef?

Where’s the beef?

Basic math

Ever notice how the ratio of small brains to small towns is in direct inverse proportion? I went sightseeing by bike and a local passed me in a tricked-out RV, yelling “Go Germany!” The jersey I wore was yellow, with my New York City club’s name on it. The Germans wear silver ones (East), or white (West). With German words, usually. Go figure.

I was luckier on my ride than others. Another hayseed drove his car over Olympic track star Shaun Wallace, and the police sicked an attack dog on world pursuit champion Tony Doyle. (Said Doyle after winning the pursuit gold with the teeth marks still visible on his calf, “I’ve got three legs he could have bitten. I’m glad he chose the one he did.”)

The Russians rode their bikes over to K-mart and were orgying inside when some hoods swiped their rides parked outside. Their bikes were recovered only because sharp-eyed neighbors noticed the $2,000 custom Colnagos with Cyrillic decals parked beside the Carrillo’s trash. [$2000 was a LOT of money in 1986. — ss] Sensing something not quite right about that, they called the cops, who clearly need all the help they can get. They never did find the $25,600 worth of equipment stolen from Campagnolo’s service truck.

Colorado Springs — a national treasure

No, really. Where else would contractors build bleachers to seat 8,000 by balancing them on little piles of sticks and sand? Where else would an elite international audience be expected to sing “Home on the Range”? Where else can you spend $100 on dinner and get food poisoning? (The Broadmoor, y’all — plan accordingly.) Where else would the Soviets end up in the Satellite Motel?

It’s somehow fitting that the United States Cycling Federation* is HQed in Colorado Springs. As small-time as small-town operations get, the USCF was unfortunately the organizer of this event, and mired in provincialism to the bitter end. First they blew a deal for network TV coverage. Then they let sponsors paint advertising directly onto the brand-new, state-of-the-art track surface at the US Olympic Training Center, on which many racers subsequently slipped and crashed. They mounted signs on all the velodrome’s rails, blocking most paying folks’ view. They recruited redneck road marshals who’d never seen a bike race before, much less hoards of hardcore bike racing fans, with whom they interacted like the Berlin border patrol. There were a lot of fights.

Strategically placed advertising is key to viewing enhancement.

Strategically placed advertising is key to viewing enhancement.

Judging by how late the town got the event memo, I’m guessing the USCF dropped the ball on publicity, too.

The one thing that was micromanaged was the press. The Federation demanded that we send in passport pics for mandatory photo IDs, which the Federation immediately lost. Then the USCF generously reshot them, thoughtfully providing a broken laminating machine to seal the magic passes. I call them magic because, although they looked alike, women’s prohibited them from bringing anyone inside the press area, while men’s allowed access by their entire families plus their analysts, stockbrokers, refreshment dealers, Akita trainers, et al.

Olympic and World Champion Jeannie Longo looks for an exit.

Olympic and World Champion Jeannie Longo looks for an exit.

A night out in paradise

Every convention has its party scene and this Worlds was no different. The only thing was, utterly no entertainment was provided for athletes or press, so improvisation was necessary. The trick was finding a decent location for a party.

One nightclub deejay proudly informed me, “I’m from Iowa, and we’re at the same level musically as New York.” Sure. Whatever. He demonstrated by spinning up a stupefying disco cacophony of stuff listened to in New York by people who wear vinyl pants and shower caps.

I pounded the buckaroo meat beat until I struck gold. Everyone else seemed to have found it first — including the hardhats, food designers, RV fans, waitresses, merchants, graffitists, thieves — even the deejay from the other club was there. One townie flew at me out of nowhere, shrieking that I better dare not take the empty barstool that was obviously hers because she’d left her wallet on it while she was gone. Like, to reserve it. I am not making this up.

The track events had just concluded and the biciclisti were there, too, boogying with a vengeance. The crème de la crème of sports proceeded to rout the scum de la scum of Colorado Springs. By midnight the townies had retreated in disgust.

Closing time came and went (too many receipts to skim). The morals squad came and went (not enough paddy wagons). Into the wee hours the bikies danced on the tables, danced on the chairs, danced on the bars. Had there been rafters, they’d have swung from them. No big deal, our clueless bartender assured us. “It’s always like this on Ladies’ Night.”

The next day I called it quits. A simpatico native asked to beam up with me.

“The people who live here think the UCI championships are an annual local event,” he told me, incredulous. “They’re already talking about next year.”

Call it a hunch, but I’ll bet it’s a cold day in hell before Colorado Springs hosts another Worlds. And that’s just fine with me.

Many-times Tour de France winners Laurent Fignon, Bernard Hinault, and Jacques Anquetil (and some guy) at a Colorado Springs press conference, wishing they were someplace else.

Many-times Tour de France winners Laurent Fignon, Bernard Hinault, and Jacques Anquetil (and some guy) at a Colorado Springs press conference, wishing they were someplace else.

Text and Photos Copyright ©2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
May not be reproduced without permission.
*In 1993 the USCF was incorporated into USACycling. It didn’t help.

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