Certain things just naturally give me the creeps: clowns, chimpanzees, Victorian dolls, my dad's collection of antique farm equipment. But I never fully considered the disturbing visual power of choo-choo trains until yesterday, when I drove my special ladyfriend Tammi Jo to Union, IL to tour the Illinois Railway Museum. As you are about to witness, it's a place where H.R. Giger meets Thomas the Tank Engine. So let me punch your ticket for an express trip on the Hell Unlimited.
If you dare.
Baking in the sun, the moaning cast iron of yesteryear.
Submitted for your approval: a carnival car. Imagine it creaking down the track bearing a load of sweaty clowns in dripping greasepaint.
Why the plywood? Was it for our safety, or theirs?
See the conductor for a berth on the Iowa ghost train.
You rock historians may recognize this long-gone Michigan passenger line as the one that gave Grand Funk Railroad its name.
And now for the morgue of decaying locomotives. I dare you to camp out here overnight.
In railroad vernacular, this spike atop the carriage truck is called the "Jesus pin" -- because when it breaks, it's the last word you'll hear.
Enjoy the passing Burma Shave signs -- while the friendly barber aboard sharpens his straight razor on the strop.
Lucky you! The train isn't crowded, so no wait in the dining car.
Even during the austere days of the 1970s gas crisis, discerning masculine automotive consumers demanded vehicles with panache; rolling manifestations of the owner's machismo that let the ladies know I am here, drink me in. Sure, for the carefree young fellow with a dime bag and a burly 'stache, there was the custom van. But what of the mature gentleman swinger who desired more in the way of understated musky automotive elegance?
Luckily an entire automotive subindustry arose to fill the market void: enter the age of the custom Neo-Classic. They had names like Zimmer, Clenet, and Panther. One company resurrected the Stutz marque. Disco Era interpretations of 1930s Duesenbergs, Auburns, and Mercedes, these fiberglass masterpieces featured long hoods sporting side pipes (functional or not), bucket headlights, claxon horns, wire wheels, sporty vinyl opera window landau tops, and none of the quirks associated with actual antiques. Underneath were modern Ford and GM chassis, which meant A/C and 6-way power leather seats and Sinatra on the stereo 8-track -- plus you could stop by Jiffy Lube for an oil change on the way to the Early Bird at Red Lobster.
A match made in heaven! They were perfect hoopties for cruising for chicks at Del Webb and the Arthur Murray dance studio, and soon began popping up at retirement condos coast to coast.
Sadly, most of the industry died off by the late '80s, but there are several national clubs keeping the Neo-Classic flame alive. And, if you're anywhere near Boca Raton or Palm Springs, it's fairly easy to pick up one of these low-mile creampuffs for a song. So put on your Jack La Lanne golf jumpsuit and take a trip down memory lane:
Stutz Blackhawk - a neo-classic fit for a king. Namely, Elvis, who reportedly owned several. Here's Evel Knievel's Stutz in the driveway at Graceland.
Vying for the title of King of the Neo-Classics was the behemoth Zimmer Golden Spirit. Be careful parking it, you callow valet, lest I thrash you with my swagger stick!
The Clenet, reportedly designed by mysterious Euro playboy Alain Clenet. Swank! Second pic is the entry-level Clenet Gammel.
From England came the sporty Panther. Half the time it works everytime!
Made in Washington state, the "Thoroughbred" was a fairly faithful-looking repro of an Auburn Boattail.
Hewn from the rock of King Arthur - Excalibur! Here's the ravishing Excalibur Tiffany, and an elegantly graceful Excalibur stretch.
For pure over-the-top presence (and killer name), it's impossible to top the Wisconsin-made 4 ton Mohs Ostentatatienne:
The 1970s neo classics had an impact on one-off customs as well, particularly those targeted at executives in the skin trade. Check out this awesome 1980 Eldo, complete with leopard skin landau. Me likey!
So here's a tip of the highball glass the Sun City playas of 1975. May your Golden Spirit live on!
Anybody who knows my special ladyfriend Tammi Jo knows that she enjoys her some relaxin'. And to enhance that relaxin', she has assembled a mighty fine stack of relaxin' wax culled from area estate sales, garage sales, and curbside trash pickups. From time to time I'll be dropping a post spotlighting a selection from her collection of vintage hi-fi LP audio traquilizers. With the help of Mr. Cratedigger, I'll eventually be putting together a mix for your listening pleasure.
Tammi Jo's first selection is the provocatively titled "Fire Down Below" featuring a legs-akimbo Rita Hayworth gallivanting about in a disturbing 40-pound fiberglass bathing suit:
This LP was in support of a forgettable 1957 flick of the same title starring Miss Hayworth and Robert Mitchum set in Trinidad & Tobago (tagline: "Torrid, tempestuous Irena...the spark that turned the tropics into a blazing cauldron of passions!"), and features calypso-lite performed by a decidedly domestic cast.
From the liner notes:
"Here are a dozen favorite artists, a dozen songs, a dozen syles, a dozen different kind of musical kick, all igniting into one mammoth long-playing, smoking, roaring blaze of rhythm and tunefulness that go to your head -- 'cause there's Fire Down Below."
Tammi Jo Sez:
"Don't worry about 'Fire Down Below' causing smoke damage to your nether regions, ladies. Despite the torrid cover art, this collection of low-key syncopation is more about the occasional pleasant hip twitch than uncontrollable tropical hot box. A worthwhile turntable selection for late afternoon cocktails."
From the deepest reaches of my archives, some junk I wrote for SpinTech Literary supplement in 1998.
The South has served as both subject and muse for many of America's
creative giants. Twain, Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Steven Foster,
Louis Armstrong, Robert Penn Warren; each took inspiration from Dixie,
each reveling in its bittersweet contradictions. In that spirit, I
offer these Haiku as my own small paean to the South. The parts of the
South that don't have Starbucks, anyway.
BEAUTY
Naked in repose Silvery silhouette girls Adorn my mudflaps
REMORSE
A painful sadness Cain't fit big screen TV through Double-wide's front door
OPTIONS
Unemployment's out Hey, maybe I can git on Disability
MOTHER AND CHILD
Crusted in boogers Stained with Kool-Aid, baby has face Only Mama loves
BLAZE
Distant siren screams Dumbass Verne’s been mowing with Gasoline again
A NEW MOON
Flashlights pierce darkness No nightcrawlers can be found Guess we'll gig some frogs
EXUBERANCE
Joyous, playful, bright Trailer park girl rolls in puddle Of old motor oil
ALONE
Seeking solitude Carl's ex-wife Tammy files fer Restraining order
DESIRE
Damn, in that tube-top You make me almost fergit That you're my cousin
HATRED
I curse the rainbow Emblazoned upon his hood Goddamn Jeff Gordon
OFFERINGS
Tonight we hunger Grandma sent grocery money To Robert Tilton
DRAMA
Set the VCR Dukes of Hazzard Marathon Starts at 9 O'Clock
DEPRIVED
WalMart toy aisle Wailing boy wants rasslin' doll Mama whups his ass
NO SIGNAL
White noise, buzzing static Call Earl; damn satellite dish needs new descrambler
IMPOUNDED
Sixty-five dollars And cyclone fence keeps me from My El Camino
GATHERING
In early morning mist Mama searches Circle K for Moon Pies and Red Man
PRIDE
Grinning, he displays The nine hundred beer cans that Fill his pickup bed
ENIGMA
Rusty paradox Half Camaro, half Trans-Am Yet it will not run
MYTH
In ancient legend Once lived singing fish much like Big Mouth Billy Bass
SEDUCTION
Impassioned lovers Probing erotic limits In Hardees drive thru
CHOICES
Jax, Falstaff, Lone Star? I ponder cooler specials Ahh, Pearl $2.19
WINTER DANCE
Whirling, spinning, free S-10 skates playful circles On parking lot ice
PAIN
Burning agony Dale got his rattail stuck in Hot weenie roller
DEMANDS
Mustang decal reads Attention: Ass, Grass or Gas Nobody Rides Free
IMPRISONED HEARTS
Tammy excites Wayne With edible panties at Conjugal visit
CREATIVITY
Carl made backyard pool From old pickup bedliner Wisht I thought of that
CUCKOLD
Her ultimatum: You ain't spendin' my money On no damn race car
Like all males in my age cohort, every day is a struggle to deal with the same angry, burning question: where are those jet packs we were promised in the 60's? Because let's face it: without them, the rest of our so-called modern technological "marvels" -- like nanobots, iPhones, and Roombas -- are merely the bitter fruit of Science's shameful legacy of failure.
But now, just in time for Cinco de Mayo, and on the heels of Earth Week, reader Brian Knotts forwards the latest in South-of-the-Border transportation technology: personal strap on Mexican rocket helicopters!
That's right -- honest to goodness personal flight technology from our science amigos to the south. Brian writes:
Technologia Aeroespacial Mexicana (TAM) has designed a strap-on helicopter. Tiny rockets on the tips of the propellers eliminate the need for a tail rotor, making it possible for the device to be worn on a human body.
Longtime readers know that I'm an enthusiast of rocket-poweredpersonal transportation, so you can imagine how happy I was to learn of this breakthrough. I suppose I was a tad disappointed the design utilizes a whirring, 2000 rpm rotor blade rather than pure rocket thrust, but science often involves compromise. As long as it cuts down my travel time to the liquor store, who am I to quibble?
So here's a big thank you to Brian and a grande gracias to Technologia Aerospacial Mexicana for restoring this hardbitten cynic's faith in the future. Andele! Arriba!
Over the years the music industry has provided the listening public a treasure trove of musical excrescence, but only an elite few deserve recognition as instruments of torture. I humbly offer a few examples of these Olympian earwigs. Please feel free to offer your own suggestions in comments.
Caution: not safe for work. Not safe for home. Not safe for anywhere.
Click if you dare.
UPDATE CAUTION: NOW CONTAINS 27% RUPERT HOLMES ADDITIVES
White Plains -- My Baby Loves Lovin'
Terry Jacks -- Seasons in the Sun
Bo Donaldson & the Heywoods -- Billy Don't Be a Hero
Captain & Tenille -- Muskrat Love
Tony DiFranco & the DiFranco Family -- Heartbeat (It's a Love Beat)
Bobby Goldsboro -- Honey
Sammy Johns -- Chevy Van
Debbie Boone -- You Light Up My Life
RUPERT HOLMES UPDATE
For whatever reason (I blame trauma), I neglected to include the astonishing cannibalism-stalking-alcoholism soft perv rock oeuvre of Rupert Holmes in the initial posting. Consider it fixed, and you're welcome.
The Buoys -- Timothy
Written by Rupert Holmes and performed by the Buoys, the soft rock pride of Wilkes-Barre PA. Perhaps the finest cannibalism ballad ever to reach the top 20.
During the winter, it takes copious doses of stupidity to keep me from going batshit insane. That's why I and my youthful companion Hawkspawn headed north Sunday to join a group of like-minded individuals at Lucky Bob's Slot Car shop in Milwaukee, for the 3rd Annual Slots of Doom sponsored by the Primates Car Club. Believe me, nothing calms a Stage 4 case of cabin fever like high speed, 1/24 scale road rage. Skoal!
In the 1968 Blake Edwards comedy "The Party" (alternative title "Hollywood Party") Peter Sellers plays a bumbling bit part extra who accidentally gets invited to a wild Hollywood shindig. Mayhem and pratfalls ensue.
Tonight is my Peter Sellers moment.
Coop and Ruth have been invited to a party at the home of their friends George Meyer and Maria Semple. George is a writer and producer for the Simpsons who credits include the Simpsons Movie (including the smash hit "Spider Pig"). His wife Maria is also a writer and producer who has worked on a number of sitcoms. Between them, 17 Emmy nominations and 7 wins. Maria's also the daughter of Lorenzo Semple Jr., another Hollywood writing notable who was largely responsible for creating the 1960's Batman TV series and wrote Sean Connery's final Bond movie, 1983's "Never Say Never Again." Meyer and Semple are avid collectors of Pop Surrealist art, including a few pieces from Coop. Tonight they are throwing a farewell party, as they will be moving in a few days to a new home in Seattle. I've been accidentally invited to tag along.
After lurching through traffic along the 10 and the 405, we snake up Mulholland Drive to a narrow road leading up a mountain, packed bumper-to-bumper with parked Priuses. "Maybe we should grab that spot," I suggest. "Haven't you ever been to a party with valet parking?" laughs Ruth. Hell, I've never been to a party that didn't have a plastic bucket for keg donations.
When we arrive at the top of the mountain we are greeted in the driveway by a winsome member of the Valet Girls, the troupe of hot fembot parking ninjas who are handling car management for the party. "First non-Prius of the night," she says of Ruth's Benz. Apparently the big new automotive trend in Hollywood is conspicuous non-consumption; I marvel at the irony of eco-hairshirt hybrid shitboxes being parked by supermodel servant girls. I also marvel at the valet's shapely hinder.
Then, there was the house.
This is Ursa Major, the estate built by the late Wilt Chamberlain in 1971 as a rival to Hef's Playboy Mansion. It is also the site where Wilt famously claimed to have carved 20,000 notches in his bedpost. The sheer mathematics of it beggars belief (2 different women per day for 27 years) but who am I to question? After all, he was the Hall of Famer. And with an original interior decor like this, he was obviously all business when it came to entertaining female guests.
George and Maria bought Ursa Major from Chamberlain's estate in 2002, after which it underwent a major renovation/restoration taking several years to complete. Sadly, the purple fur waterbed sex room is
gone, but the house is now returned to its original structural glory.
When we enter the Brobdignagian 14-foot front door we are greeted by George; a lanky, bearded Ichabod Crane topped with a bowl cut. Warm and cordial and disarmingly goofy, he's not at all what I had expected in a big shot Hollywood producer. We chit-chatted with him for a few moments before I was distracted by a couple of huge Robert Williams canvases hanging on the wall.
After grabbing a few hors d'oeuvres we head out on an alcohol safari. On the way we soon encounter the lovely and gracious Maria. Next, Paul Reubens, better known to many as Pee Wee Herman. Coop and Ruth have met him before, and introduce me. Seems like a nice enough fella, who compliments my 1950's vintage glasses. After grabbing drinks (Rum and Coke for me) we all go off for the 50-cent house tour.
Apologies for the crappy underexposed cell phone pics, but not wanting to appear a hick tourist from Iowa I arrived without a proper camera. Okay, maybe I am a hick tourist from Iowa, but I don't want it to be any more obvious than necessary. On with the low-resolution show.
Master bedroom, bigger than most houses, and overlooking the distant LA skyline. I remark that the very air here is redolent of Wilt DNA, but I am told that the remodeling contractors removed most of it using ultraviolet searchlights.
One holdover from the Wilt era -- the mirrored skylight ceiling above the bed, allowing Ruth to snap a quick self portrait.
We head downstairs for more drinks. While waiting at the bar behind a gaggle of gals, one strikes up a conversation. "Didn't you come here with Coop and Ruth?" she asks. "You're not one of them fucking right wing Republican assholes are you?"
I look around uncomfortably.
"I told Coop that if George Bush knew who he was, he would throw him in jail and have him SHOT in the fucking HEAD."
Discretion being the better part of valor, I explain that I am merely the wastrel son of an Iowa hog baron, here only for the debauchery. I tip my hat, grab my rum & Coke, and head out for more sightseeing.
The wing of the house containing George's office also houses some wonderful fanboy objets d'art, like a few of Coop's ink pieces -
as well as a load of original comics and cool weirdo advertising junk. Vote Kibaki!
The real stunner was the collection of Soviet space program items, like this stenciled escape hatch door (MAN INSIDE! HELP!) and an actual control panel from an orbiter. Used by real cosmonauts, in actual outer space!
After reloading our highballs glasses we find the Wilt Chamberlain shrine. I had forgotten that a young Wilt toured with the Globetrotters for a time before going to the NBA. On closer inspection, I discover the poster is for an exhibition in Waterloo, Iowa.
Another paean to Wilt in a hall bathroom: high contrast 70s nudie babes. Wocka chicka wocka chicka.
Back over in the conversation pit, refreshed with more rum, Coop and Ruth introduce me to their friends Kate Flannery and Chris Haston. Chris is a photographer at NBC, and Kate's a cast member on "The Office" who started her career as a member of the Second City improv group in Chicago. Nice conversation about the Windy City. Then, strangely enough, I spot somebody I (sorta) know -- screenwriter / blogger Roger L. Simon. We had previously talked on the phone several times but never in person, so when I introduce myself he seems rather flabbergasted. And, perhaps, nervous. Despite that, he introduces me to his wife Sheryl and we chew the fat about the blogosphere. In hushed tones, lest we provoke more rage from Progressive Entertainment Industry Lady.
More drinks. A few more minor celebrities spotted, like Mary Lynn Rajskub, Chloe from 24. Most of the people here are writer types, from the Harvard Lampoon mafia that have controlled much of the comedy d0cks in Hollywood since the dawn of Saturday Night Live. George is a former editor of the Harvard Lampoon and wrote for SNL before joining the Simpsons. I meet several other Lampoon alumni including Michael Ferris. With all the writers in the place, a lot of the talk about the recently settled strike, and the relief. I never mention my sad little comedy blog, but my tales of life on an Iowa hog farm seem to horrify and amused them.
Suddenly, I feel the presence of a warm aura, as if I were basking in the glow of a sunlamp of pure transcendant majesty, or if I were in a hotel pool and sensed a wafting current of excellence-piss. I turned to behold Kato Kaelin. He is remarkably well-preserved, wearing a pukka necklace adorned with porcelain titties, and accompanied by a stunning brunette who radiates studied ennui as she sits on the couch arm.
"Hey man, you're Coop."
"Yes."
"The artist with the Devil stuff."
"That would be me."
"Hey man, that's cool."
Say what you want about the man, but he has a talent for facial recognition. Which probably helps in his current career in doing whatever it is he does. Chris Haston urges Coop and I to squeeze in with Kato to preserve the auspicious, Yalta-like moment.
I fetch another drink. Coop finds a dynamite plunger and goes Wile E. Coyote . I'm guessing this photo will keep him on the no-fly list for a few years.
Another drink, and we discover a plexiglas hatch on the floor. Beneath it, the huge pool that encircles much of the house.
"Let's jump in," says Ruth.
Unfortunately, I had by this point consumed enough rum to lose most of my ability to ignore dares.
"Yaaaaahhh! Yaaaah!!" I reasoned.
Safety first, though. A quick check of the temperature and guesstimate of the depth. Feh, no prob, I was in the subzero Midwest only a few days before.
Ruth and I perform a graceful, fully-clothed jackknife into the dark watery depths.
Holy sweet mother of Mothra, that shit was cold. Gelid cold. I was looking for icebergs, and think I heard a band play "Nearer my God to Thee." My testes ran screaming for the safety of my abdominal cavity, but only got half way.
Luckily the ginormous hot tub was only a 3 minute dogpaddle away. Its steaming bubbles coaxed my nuts back to stock ride height and my vocal pitch back down to audible range. Ruth and I return through the hatch and dripped chlorine on the floor to cheers.
Eat your heart out, Peter Sellers.
Time to head out. We say our farewells to George and Maria.
"Here, have a box of lemon bars," says Maria. "We over-ordered." Hmmm, I though. Hollywood party "lemon bars" topped with heapings of "powdered sugar."
"Thanks," I said, looking askance and winking. "I bet the 'powdered sugar' is 'delicious.' "
On the way back to Coop and Ruth's house, still dripping and guarding the lemon bars, I get a call from Tammi Jo. She's still in Palm Springs, still sick as a dog.
"How'd the big party go?"
"It was okay. You didn't miss much. No Chuck Sitzmann pig roast kegger anyway."
Back in Silverlake, before turning in, I decide to sample the "lemon bars" with "powdered sugar." Turns out they were actually lemon bars with powdered sugar.
Which leads me to my question: anybody have tips on removing lemon bar from a sinus cavity?
8:00 AM: Special lady friend Tammi Jo and I make a beeline for the airport and Trans-Illinois Airlines Flight 1313. Destination: Palm Springs, California, home of exotic above-freezing temperatures and Palm Springs' annual Modernism Week. We sneak our way through security and onto the mighty Piper Turbo-Flathead. After dusting a few soybean fields, the plane circles west and we're on our way over the Rockies to the land of sun... the land of fun... the land of EEGAH!
12:05 PM PST: We alight at PSP and head for the rental car counter. Plying my world class negotiating skills I score a double upgrade to a slick late model midsize Hyundai. From there, a quick hopskipjump to Hotel Zoso where we meet Mr. Coop and his own special lady, the lovely Ruth Waytz. First order of business: chili dogs! Second order of business: alcohol! For me, the Orbitron (two fingers of Patron Silver over ice with tonic and lime). Tammi Jo is looking a bit peekid, but bravely carries on through her Sapphire & Tonic. After sunset and a quick freshen-up, we reconvene at a nearby steakhouse for giant slabs of cow, crustaceans, and more tequila. World Affairs and the weekend agenda are discussed, including a Friday trip into L.A.
Thursday February 14
9:00 AM: I've got a reasonably good hangover, but my ills pale in comparison to Tammi Jo who is now battling a full-on case of the Ukrainian Tubercular Croup. I walk to Rite Aid to score her a jumbo economy pack of Mucinex. At the checkout I realize it's Valentine Day, so, being the incurable Romeo that I am, I buy her a deluxe 99c 4-piece Rite Aid chocolate assortment in the heart-shaped box. It bears a cartoon train with the Wiggumesque inscription "Choo Choo CHOOOSE me." We meet Coop and Ruth for petit dejeuner in the hotel eatery, and say our so-longs. They head back to L.A. where we are scheduled to meet them on the morrow. 30 minutes later they call from the 10 freeway to report a major freak snowstorm outside Yucaipa. We are blamed.
1:30 PM: Weather is crappy, struggling to hit 50 degrees, and snow and fog has collected on the San Jacinto peaks. With nude sunbathing out of the question, we hop in the Hyundai and go out to case Palm Springs' famously Midcentury Modern neighborhoods. Among the shacks spotted include the Peter Lawford house, a swank Rat Packian getaway where Sinatra et al. once played and where Lawford's brother in-law Jack Kennedy is rumored to have trysted with Marilyn Monroe. Our path also took us past the Richard Neutra-designed Kauffman House, the winter home of the Pittsburgh family who also commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater. And my favorite house on Planet Earth. (And for sale, if anybody wants to buy me a thoughtful birthday gift.)
Here's a humdinger: Elvis Pressley's honeymoon hideout, the Alexander-designed home where E supped on fried peanut butter 'n' nanner samiches and deflowered his young bride Pricilla right afore the '68 Comeback Special. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love, baby.
Some more random shots from our wanderings:
It was dark before we had a chance to see my second favorite Palm Springs residence - Elrod House, where Bambi and Thumper momentarily kicked Agent 007's ass in 1968's Diamonds Are Forever:
7:30 PM: Still ailing, Tammi Jo requests a bowl of matzo ball soup for Valentine's dinner. Which, eerily, happens to be the Bolus Ball of the Day that day. So I escort my little goyishe shiksa over to Sherman's Deli for a hot bowl, where we are cheerfully seated despite being under 60 and not wearing track suits. We have a nice conversation with the Weinsteins, who are in from Baltimore to see their son, the gastroenterologist in Santa Monica, who never calls.
Back to the hotel for vigorous quietude and shuteye, for tomorrow L.A. beckons.
