I fell asleep at about 7p last night and I'm "paying for it now." Up way too danged early, playing with old cassette tape of myself. Tweaking a few takes of "sketches" I've done, years ago. A disjointed, spastic, little slide guitar dance tune, "Ted Kaczynski Shack." It has nothing to do with That Crazy Guy. Instead, it's about a little "Gardener's Shed" I called home for a year or so in Fort Bragg, Ca.. The power was stable and people left me the fuck alone. Pretty much all I cared about that year. It was next door to a radio station, across the street from a health food store (for big bags of good coffee), grocery store, a laundromat, Rite Aid and liquor store within two minutes of the joint. The liquor store had cheap, good cigarettes, nudie magazines and reasonably priced booze. The grocery store was a pretty good, Mom and Pop kind of place, Rite Aid is Rite Aid, everywhere and a liquor store is your New Best Friend at 10:00 in the morning, if you have a hangover.
The Shack was kind of a "rooming house" sort of affair. Shared bathroom (Ew.) but, I lived in back of the main building, away from the smelly Old Guys that occupied the main digs. $300.00 a month w/utils.. 200 sq.ft., (maybe) Tiny House kinda' thang. (You shoulda' seen the look on the DirecTV installer's face) I had my two burner hot plate, a broiler oven and a microwave, Big-Assed Japanese Magnavox Studio Monitor T.V., a shitload of stereo and music gear on racks going up one wall, a bed, a little "deck" to sit outside on and a garden outside my front door. The only thing missing was a bait and tackle shop and a river to dip some preserved minnows into. Think: "Mudshark." The Shack was pretty groovy. There was a beautiful rose bush outside of the one, good-sized, window. A fully functional Twerp Cave. I've called stranger places: "Home."
I outgrew it, eventually, when I stated acquiring too many possessions to fit into it and bought a '77 BMW. I moved to Noyo Harbor after that. THERE was my riverfront, Ted Shack 2. Eventually, that place changed hands and The Evil Land Speculator From Oakland bought the place. Jacking up all the rents and stealing some of my 100 year old Redwood lumber, salvaged lovingly from a shed behind a Mexican restaurant, meticulously de-square-nailed, sanded and spar varnished (it really was 100 year old wood). I built shelving out of some of that same wood in my current compound: The Anchovy Ranch. Yes, I "name" all my domiciles creatively.
The Ranch is in an Apartment Building Full Of Crazy People in a "residential neighborhood" that's mostly single family homes. With an Out-Of-Town-Landlord/Owner. Just out of the City Limits. The "The End Is Near, Again" bumper sticker above my door scares away the Boogie Men/Women, cats and dogs. I nearly, except for a quick visual inspection, rented the place online. Craig's List. It was built the same year I was born. Solid ground underneath (handy in an Earthquake) and built with "flat-stacked" 2x4 lumber. "Truck Stringers" from one of the mills around here. Oak shit-house kind of place. Wolves cannot: "Huff and puff and blow the place down." They've tried.
House 1, Wolf, 0. Loose the hounds, blow fury and put sail to the headwind! There be Pirates here, Sunny Jim.
I "know" the guy that was the engineer on this album. Another "Internet Friendship." He's mad at me right now because I fucked off editing his book about "all the weird stuff that can kill you" out there in the Real World. It was just: Too Damned Depressing and I knew I was going to run out of red pens. Not like his intention was to "Write The Great American Novel" or anything...
I'm a pretty good Editor. I just didn't want to do the liner notes on Casual Death in The United States. So, I "fucked it off" until he asked me to send the manuscript back to him. I did. I feel about 30% guilty, 70% "relieved." I apologised. It's "over." (In MY World, anyway.)
Recently, I have "struck up a conversation" with a guy in L.A. that's a Gibson Factory Certified guitar technician. He's pretty interesting. He offered to "fix my '57 Les Paul Junior" if it ever needed any fixing. I already have a "Guy" that does that stuff for me, here in town. No names will be mentioned. No sales pitches, advertisements, come-on's, parties, disco's or fooling around. "This ain't no Mudd Club, or CBGB's..." Well, shit yea! There's going to be "fooling around." Lots of it. Doc "Fooling Around" Anchovy should be my full moniker.
No names. Except Hanley. He was a different matter. I feel licensed to talk smack about dead Best Friends anytime I feel like it. Especially if they were my Brothers more than my Friends. Hey, "what are Friends for?" "With Brothers like me, who needs enemies?" All that.
NO IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBERS, EVER. That one's: "set in stone." I may refer to them, generically, but their names will NEVER appear here. Most of my Family is either: "Mad at me or, afraid of me." Most of my family members think I'm: "Still riding around with a .45 and an Uzi on the car seat next to me with a trunk full of something illegal."
Note: It's a Dan Wesson Special in .44 Magnum, 3 turn, 10" barrel. Nothing illegal, anywhere around here. Period. Just a bit of "insurance" in a World Gone Mad. Vincent Price meets Dirty Harry in a dark alley and they're arguing near a dumpster, over a bottle of cheap wine. Everybody's got black eyes and bloody noses. It's a big mess... Cops and The Guy With The Bucket And A Mop are on their way to the scene.
The occasional "fronting out" of some musician I happen to know may (or, may not be) mentioned or a song posting of their's here and twain but, other than that, no names. Famous People I Don't Care About are "fair game." Open season, all the time, everytime. "Famous People I DO Care About" get the Family Treatment.
"Just a tar-paper cabin,
-somewhere up in the hills,
Someplace to write my letters,
-someplace where no-one will,
Call me crazy,
Say that I'm insane,
Nobody's got my number.
Nobody knows my name.
Down at The Ted Kaczynski Shack..."
Yes, it's my Copyright. NO, you can't steal the lines. Go sniff the carpet somewhere else. I'm always on the lookout for "Somebody To Sue," to paraphrase The Jefferson's. Or, a Gal named Sue. Something like that.
Nuthin' but Love, Babies. -Doc
p.s.- Wanna' watch a weird movie? "A Beginner's Guide To Endings." Harvey Keitel, Scott Caan, Tricia Helfer, Jason Jones, Paul Costanzo, Wendy Crewson. A Johnathan Sobol film. ****.5 Strange. I'm only a half hour into the thing and I know it's going to be funny, witty, VERY STRANGE and "worth it." Language, irreverence and violence warnings in effect. "Shit! It's: COLD OUT THERE," to quote Tom Waits.
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