Painting Like Warhol

In 1969 my friend Joe Gator hand-painted his Chevelle SS white and slapped a ragged black slash down the middle. "It'll make it go faster." I think the BC High senior used the same paint as Warhol slopped over this BMW M1. Andy echoed Joe's comment, "I tried to portray speed pictorially. If a car is moving really quickly, all the lines and colors are blurred." Warhol had a common touch. According to http://www.anamera.com the first and only time this rolling work of art took part in a race was at the Le Mans 24-hour Race in 1979. It was driven by Manfred Winkelhock from Germany and the Frenchmen Herve Poulain and Marcel Mignot. They finished sixth overall and second in their class. Joe Gator only raced his Chevelle on Boston's Route 128. "Roadrunner, roadrunner." It never finished worst than last.

Visiting Frank Holliday in Bushwick

T'S THAT TIME AGAIN! BUSHWICK OPEN STUDIO'S Friday May 31 -Sunday June 1st 11am -6pm 117 Grattan Street #314 Brooklyn,Ny 11237 19172970083 L train to Morgan Street please come had so much fun seeing everyone last year. xoxo Frank Holliday http://artsinbushwick.org/ Frank's so cooll his last name has two Ls. He says to bring money. I can only afford beer.

FIGHTING FOR WHAT by Peter Nolan Smith

The CBGB's bathroom had many uses. The rooms' main purpose was the traditional release of body waste. Another was spray-painting or magic-markering a band's name atop the thousands of previous honorees of the toilet hall of fame. The inhalation of cocaine or heroin in the stalls was more popular than shooting up dope or speedballs.

The smell of the urinal kept all activities short and sweet. There was no mirror in the men's room, so self-grooming was reserved for the women's room. Its state of filth reflected Hilly's acceptance of sexual equality. He thought that his clientele deserved nothing better than the worst and that grungy atmosphere suited some people's desire just fine.

After all we were punks.

One night I was at the bar.

A red-haired girl in torn fishnet stocking and black plastic mini-dress ordered a JD and coke. Her hair was tousled by the wind and her mascara was ruined by tears. She wasn't wearing a bra over her billowy 38C breasts. A languid gaze betrayed her dabbling with 'ludes.

"Who are you?"

I told her.

Our dialogue headed in one direction and after two minutes she downed her drink.

"Let's go to the Ladies Room."

"Bathroom?" I had been that bathroom in CBGBs, but the men's room was a world-class hole.

"Yes, bathroom."

She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd.

I signaled to BG behind the bar to watch my beer.

The Cramps were on stage. Luxe was singing SURFING BIRD. The voluptuous redhead waved to the bass player. He gave a sardonic grimace and nodded to indicate that he had been there before.

As we passed the dressing room, the opening band called out her name.

"Brenda."

The redhead was popular with musicians. I didn't need to ask why.

We descended to the basement and the redhead led me into the ladies room. She pushed open the door to a stall and locked it shut.

"Keep your back to it and don't let anyone in." She dropped to her knees with the grace of a ballerina auditioning for SWAN LAKE.

I was single, 25, and a punk. We lived for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. This scene most certainly answered the sex part of the equation. A minute passed with her writhing on the tiles. She pulled down the top of her dress.

"When you're ready, cum on these."

I was good at following orders.

A man stormed into the bathroom and pounded on the stall's door.

"Brenda, you in there?" Only a boyfriend sounded that angry.

Brenda lifted a fingernail to her lips and stood to pull up her dress.

"Another time."

Heaven was not to be mine this evening.

"When?"

"Not tonight."

She kissed me and opened the door.

The man was my size and wearing a leather jacket and engineer boots. His eyes narrowed with fury.

"Brenda."

She laughed in his face.

"We were only doing drugs." She held up a packet of cocaine.

"Brenda's my girlfriend." He wasn't buying her lie.

Something about sex in a bathroom brought out my cockiness and I said, "Then that means you're next."

I thought it was funny and returned to the bar. The Cramps had finished their set. The bass player winked at me. BG asked if I had a good time.

"Good enough." Another two minutes would have changed my answer.

A hand tapped my right shoulder.

The gesture was a classic lead-in to a sucker punch.

I figured the hand had to belong to the boyfriend.

I ducked and a fist swung over my head.

It was the boyfriend.

I was too close for a counter-punch, so my hands reached out to clutch his throat. He responded with the same tactic. Within seconds we were choking each other to death. I couldn't breathe. He was in the same boat.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Brenda exiting with the drummer of the opening band. Her boyfriend noticed her exit as well. Unable to speak our eyes conveyed a call for a truce.

"You had enough?" He gasped for breath.

"Sure, you want a beer?" Neither of us were on Brenda's date list for the moment.

"Why not?" He leaned on the bar regaining his breath.

Guadalcanal and I became friends after that evening. We never mentioned Brenda. She became a cabaret singer with too much style to go to the bathroom with men, but at one time she wasn't bad enough.

Guadalcanal and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Like I said.

We were punks.

Sucker Punch

In the winter of 1967 I stood outside the parking lot of BC High with a Southie girl. The G Clefs were performing soul hits on stage. Debbie and I had danced to their version of MUSTANG SALLY. We were talking about school. Her eyes widened in surprise and I turned to see why. A fist of knuckles stuck my face. It was her boyfriend. He was from Charlestown. They didn't fight fair. I backed away from his next punch, but then my assailant was knocked out my another sucker punch. My older brother Frunk had saved me from a more serious beating. Frunk and I left Debbie to take care of her boyfriend and he said, "Guess we should call it a night." "That's a good idea." Charlestown boys traveled in packs. We went outside and got in my father's Olds 88. He was behind the wheel. "What's wrong?" "Nothing, just tired." My older brother was rubbing his hand. My father drove us back to the South Shore. It had been a good night, because I had learn everything is fair in love and fights. Debbie's boyfriend knew that too. ps foto is from the late 80s. Shannon Greer suckerpunching Albert. Something must have been said about that weird leather jacket.

Posh 16ish Parties

My friend stands on the balcony of his toney London house and looks down on the scrum of teenagers in his garden. The horde ousted KS to the garage with the three fast cars begging for a young man's hands on the empty streets of London. KS knows the art world like he knows the touch of his palm, but pubescent barbarians were not his forte and he emailed a trans-Atlantic SOS. "I'm in garage in my house and there are 30 drunk 15-17 year olds! help!" I was in London last year. My nephew Fast Eddie introduced me to his friends. They had a party. None of them were over 20. I was the life of the party until midnight. Too much bong. The next evening I attended a 16ish Posh Mosh Pit in Nottinghill Gate. Errol's young princess had a beautiful smile. E'ed into eternity. Around 1 Virgee was overcome by happiness. Errol and his wife ambulanced her to the hospital. I thought she was okay, but Virgee wasn't my kid. Tonight I sent the following advice to KS; don't turn off the toilet. or the beer two years ago my friend held a nottinghill gate sweet 16 party for his daughter. disco in the basement. beer kegs in the back garden. Rihanna on the stereo. Everything worked out in the end, because my friend looked out for his daughter # 1 and the girls # 2. "Fuck the blokes." He knew because he was one. Mind your own. And don't match them drink for drink. When you want them to leave go up to the DJ booth and put on your Lionel Ritchie CD I know you have one. That will get them to leave next time fly me over I can trash anyone's swag with a quip. "Nice shoes." Funny, back when I worked at the door, guys would freak about my insulting their feetware Otherwise stick wax in your ears and drop an E Nothing will get teens moving fast like a bad Charlie Sheen clone.

Holiday Inferno

A holy Iman dies in peace. He is astounded to be welcomed by St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

“Sorry about the no 77 virgins. In this heaven we spend our days in the glory of God, who is non-denominational. You’ll meet the truly blessed evolving into the truly blissed.”

The Iman accepts this heaven in all its goodness, but after a few weeks he goes up to St. Peter and says, “Heaven is great, but all those years on Earth when I was preaching about the horrors of Hell, I was often curious what Hell was actually like.”

“Pretty much as you envisioned it.”

“IS there anyway I can see it?” The Iman was more than slightly bored with the communal utopia of Heaven.

“Of course there is.” St Peter opens the Pearly Gates and points to a set of endless stairs. “You can visit Hell on a one-time visa. Two weeks. Do anything you want. You earned this holiday by all the goodness you create on earth. Get it out of your system and then return to the bosom of the Creator.”

“And I can go now?”

“Anytime you want?” St. Peter walks the Iman to the stairs. He is greeted by doe-eyed houris and escorted to a bar where Jimi Hendrix is playing LITTLE WING. Hitler painting the walls and Marilyn Monroe working upstairs in the Satan a Go Go. It’s great fun and time passes in the blink of an eye. The Iman says goodbye to everyone and climbs the steps to the Pearly Gates.

“So how was it?” St. Peter asks peering down the stairs.

“Not like I expected it.”

“Well, at least you got it out of your system. Back to the eternity of bliss.”

Unfortunately his holiday infected the Iman. He can’t stop thinking about hell. Heaven is all communing with the great oneness. He goes back to St. Peter and asks if there’s a way he could go back to Hell.

“Sure, but if you go you can’t come back.”

The Iman looks over his shoulder at the fleecy clouds and praying angels.

“No problem.”

“See you on Judgment Day.” St. Peter is all smiles like a dealer selling a hot shot and so is the Iman as he walks down the stairs, although this time the houris greet him with pitchforks. Fire laps his legs. His flesh is torn open by the demons.

“St. Peter, this isn’t the Hell I knew. Why’s it so different now.”

St. Peter shouts from the Pearly Gates, “That’s the difference between going someplace on vacation and living there.”

No Beer In Hell

Some things never change, especially if those in charge never change, and today the Vatican re-afformed that atheists such as myself are going to Hell to contradict the new Pope supposedly saying that non-believers could be saved through Christ if they do good. Hell is hell for the Holy Roman Church and in the words of the soul singer Curtis Mayfield, "If Hell's down below, then we're all gonna go." Not me, because I don't believe in Hell. Of course I'll be drinking cold beer before my death just in case there is a Hell, because there will be no cold beer in Hell. Only salty popcorn at a crowded cineplex with gun fiends shooting up sinners. Fuck the Vatican. There won't be any beer in their Heaven.