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Wild Side Walk: Pt 23.

2009-01-09T15:27:00.004+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

The journey soon developed into fairly boring landscape, the rest of Nebraska and all of Iowa seemed to be fertile farmland with the same solid, farm buildings, vertical bullet shaped silos, and green crops: not much else. As we came into Illinois, the ride got real bumpy. Almost exactly as soon as we crossed the Mississippi River, the road surface changed into large concrete slabs with some sort of grout in the gaps between each slab. Over the years the slabs had sunk in various corners, and the transition from one slab to the next gave a steady rhythmic wump wump wump and at times seemed like the tyres were going to rip open. I figured someone should write to the Illinois Roads Board, and just as I was thinking that the two lanes became one and I could see that work had already started on repairs. It sure was going to take them some time.

We had driven down about sixty miles of the worst road ever, and then we had to pay for it on the EastWest Tollway. I was driving and the closer we got to Chicago, more and more cars appeared, we were still in one lane, and there was flyovers, ramps and turn-offs more and more often. Ken was navigating and it seemed that up ahead we should turn-off, but I got in the wrong lane, and ended up taking the wrong exit, which doesn't sound too bad, except that we had to drive about ten miles to get back to where we were. Eventually I pulled over in an entrance to a big oil plant, and surrendered the wheel to Ken.

I looked around at the concrete flyover above us and the spiral ramp coming down from it and curling around us, and the surface of the road was inlaid with tear tabs, crinkled aluminium cans that had been buffed shiny by thousands of tyres driving over them, and on the apron of the road was long, low banks of fine black dust, rubber, lead, sand and dead insects and animals, and occasionally bits of retread, and even whole tires that people had dumped. It was a strange thought that nobody in their right mind would get out of their car here, which is the only way you'd ever be able to get here. Just like Bel Air, LA, this environment was for cars, not for people.

Got it together and arrived in Chicago June 7. Rang Dios Fresco, a US Navy navigator whom I met in New Zealand 1979, and he came over to the motel that Kid had booked for himself, a white building that had Queen Anne decorative turning stuck all over it, and plastic carnations blooming in all the gardens. I farewelled Kid, and wished him happiness in his married life, then Dios and I jumped in his Scirocco and cruised off to downtown Chicago, Michigan Ave, where Dios had an apartment on the 6th floor of a tower at Illinois Institute of Technology.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 22.

2008-12-01T13:01:00.012+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

I didn't fancy my luck to try any of the soda cans that were on sale, it looked like nobody had bought much for sometime, and I thought the insides may be rusted out. I ordered a black coffee which was good, and before I could tell the woman who had made it for me, I heard the door bang and she was gone. The door between the counter and the kitchen swung open, and a younger woman ran out. swung the exit door open and hollered at the exiting woman, "Where the hell are you going? If you're leavin', wait for me!"

Pretty soon Ken made it clear he wanted to leave. It seemed that Ken had been through some pretty weird scenes in North Carolina with the local hoons, bodgies, red-necks, whatever you wanna call these dudes who live for their cars, guns, beer, pills, dope, and after all that go home and get into the ol' woman. We had certainly seen some real classic cowboys and heavies, and ran into more as we drove through the other side of a spectacular electrical storm into North Platte, Nebraska. The surrounding paddocks were intermittently lit by fists of fork lightning which lunged at the ground and tried to grab it in fingers of gnarled electricity.

On the main street, jacked up cars full of guys jacking off, sped off at green lights, then braked early and screeched into the red at the next set. One bunch of these boys seemed to be following us as we drove around town checking out the scene and the motels. Ken was convinced we were doomed, so we pulled in for gas and when we got out, some other guys were throwing bottles at each other in the side street. It was real dark and I couldn't see much, but there was an audience of girls sitting on the bonnet of a big yank-tank with their backs against the windscreen hoping their men would come out of the rumble in one piece no doubt.

Chalet Lodge, North Platte, NE

image from found postcard

The gas station attendant seemed unfazed by the din outside, and told us of a motel called the Chalet Lodge. It had kelly-green astro-turf on the verandahs, king size beds, and whiter than white towels and flannels all arranged vertically in a chrome hoop rack with the smallest at the top ranging down to the biggest at the bottom. The whole room was incredibly tidy and clean, the sheets crisp, white, and cool, and not a scrap of dust inside, or trash outside. It was quite freaky, out of character with the rest of the town.

Wild Side Walk: Pt 21.

2008-04-21T03:30:00.006+12:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Hell's Half Acre, Wyoming (2004)
image source: cbsoftwareengineering.com

Wyoming was another outer-space state; the soil was weird colours that changed all the time. For a while we were driving through a scarcely populated and equally scarcely vegetated stretch, and the dirt was blue, green, purple, and the landforms were like toadstool shaped rock formations, the lower strata being softer had worn away and eventually the whole structure would collapse like some of the piles of rock scattered around. Occasionally we would pass a mobile-home park, a few acres of dirt covered in a neatly arranged mosaic of caravan like homes with lots of dirt bikes and four-wheel drive small trucks - Dodges. Chevs, Fords, not too many Jap machines out here- this is real redneck territory. I couldn't figure out what these people would be doing out here, except fixing up the little woodpecker rigs that we passed from time to time, or hunting; some of the men were wandering around with handguns and rifles.

Neither Kid nor I felt much like stopping, but we knew we'd have to soon - the fuel gauge was sliding towards 'E'. A new kind of sight started to appear, long wooden frameworks that stretched from the road back at angles across the paddocks. Up ahead was an Amoco station, and we pulled in. As I opened the car door all the paper trash I had around my feet was suddenly sucked out as if by a giant vacuum cleaner. I looked up and noticed a giant of a man looking down at me, asking me, "You want that bag that just blew out over the road, if you do it's too bad 'cos its gone now". I couldn't believe he was real; his skin was like deep-grained leather, and out of his ears spread a strange growth over his face like some kind of leprosy. The wind had not varied since I got out of the car, it just remained a constant force, more like it was being sucked, than blown, and hot. Real hot. It suited the red dirt around us, and I wondered what it would be like on top of Mt Olympus, Mars.

Kid organised the gas, and I went inside to peruse the postcard rack and check out the liquid refreshments. I really felt like a beer, was becoming strangely fascinated by this place and wondered what it was called. According to one of the postcards, "Hell's Half Acre, Wyoming". (The following poem was printed next to a photo of some of the rock forms I had been looking at earlier on).

THE 'HELL' YOU SAY!

Just what is meant by this word ‘Hell?’
They say sometimes, “It’s cold as Hell."
Sometimes they say. "It's hot as Hell."
When it rains hard, “It’s Hell," they cry.
It's also "Hell" when it's dry.
They "Hate like Hell" to see it snow,
It's "A Hell of a Wind" when it starts to blow.
Now "How in Hell" can anyone tell
"What in Hell" they mean by this word "Hell '
This married life is "Hell" they say.
When he comes in late there's "Hell to Pay.
"When he starts to yell, it's a "Hell of a Note."
It's "Hell" when the kid you have to tote.
It's "Hell" when the doctor sends his bills,
For "A Hell of a Lot" of trips and pills.
When you get this you will know real well
Just what is meant by this word "Hell?”
"Hell, yes," "Hell, no," and "0h, Hell" too.
"The Hell you don't," and "Hell you do,"
And "What in Hell" and "The Hell it is."
"The Hell with yours" and "The Hell with his,"
Now "Who in Hell" and 0h Hell, where?"
And "What in Hell do you think I care?"
But, "The Hell of it is," "It's as sure as Hell,"
We don’t know "What in the Hell" is "Hell."

-Author Unknown.

Another postcard had a distant view of Interstate 80 with a sign to locate it, sweeping up the side of a Martian mountain.

Wild Side Walk: Pt 20.

2008-04-21T03:01:00.009+12:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Billboard, Wyoming (1982)
image from found postcard

Nevada soon became Utah, and almost as quickly the hills under the Interstate became perfectly flat, the road now elevated like a railway line atop a raised bank of metal chips, straight as a laser beam for as far as you could see. The colours around us changed from sandy grey into white as we drove through the Great Salt Lake Desert, a brilliant white dried ocean stretching either side of us for a hundred miles. Now more than ever before I experienced a feeling of intense self-insignificance, and had many thoughts about the greatness of the Universe: I was merely a grain of sand rolling along this infinity of salt-flat. As the day heated up, the solid ocean floor started to melt and become water complete with waves that actually reflected the distant mountains, huge expanses of mirage turning approaching vehicles into melting amphibians sailing through a throbbing ocean of heat and silence, exquisite stillness and serenity. Again I felt like a space explorer, bathing in the unscreened energy of the great sun, sailing through the Sea of Tranquillity. The only other inhabitants were an endless parade of Mack and Kenworth space trucks, their captains invisible behind mirror lenses and tinted windscreens. Great Salt Lake soon came into view, a huge sea in the desert, as if the oceans had been trapped when America returned from the depths of Atlantis. I started to wonder if perhaps America (L'Amerique) came from La Mer, (The Sea). While in California, someone had expressed some anxiety regarding the significance of water on the west coast. If there was to be another large earthquake, a strip of California from Eureka in the north, down to Los Angeles could conceivably slip into the Pacific Ocean. And Los Angeles is nothing but a chunk of desert that is watered from canals that stretch south 500 miles from Sacramento River above San Francisco. In fact Los Angeles is full of water storage, sprinkler systems and swimming pools; it really makes you wonder!

Beside the lake is a gold-capped Mormon structure, it reminded me of a building I saw in Santa Monica, also a Mormon structure with a gold plated roof that had been converted into the Santa Monica Police Station. The walls had either copper or bronze sheets wrapped around them, and the most beautiful turquoises and emerald oxide patinas contrasting with the glaring warm glow of the gold caps. Later in Salt Lake City, I became more aware of the majesty of the Mormon Church. Dead centre of Salt Lake City is Temple Square, a whole block enclosed by high walls and containing a huge temple and other equally impressive buildings and statues of Joseph Smith and his cohorts. Carved into the walls in huge Eric Gill designed masonry fonts are the Constitution of the United States of America, and Mormon creeds of equally patriotic flavour. At night, I walked the empty streets of the city; there was no litter, and hardly any people about. I remembered that someone told me the Mormons are pretty racist, and so was surprised when a black guy came up to me outside Howard Johnson's, and offered to sell me something to smoke. I was also surprised to see groups of vagabonds huddling around bonfires by the Amtrak station, under the Interstate flyover. They called me over and I noticed they were all men in their mid 30's, some dressed in Vietnam uniforms, and sleeping in the long grass in blankets and cardboard cartons. I was still hungry, having refused to eat my steak at Diamond Lil's Steak House, it tasted bloody awful, and I wondered whether it was horse or kangaroo? I eventually found the legendary Jean's Cafe, the only place open south of Salt Lake at that time of night, (according to Gary Gilmore). Out of Salt Lake after a night's sleep, and by this time I was getting pretty damn good at sneaking into motels unseen, to avoid paying double room rates.

Wild Side Walk: Pt 19.

2008-02-26T04:17:00.003+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Truck & trailer,
Great Salt Desert, Utah (1982)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

A little while later I was driving along the edge of the Trinity Range, it was starting to get dark, (I had just swallowed down a mysterious looking mushroom, real desert dessert, and a bit more snow), and it occurred to me how beautiful the desert was becoming. The greyness of the daytime had transformed into a wide range of olive-tones, while a giant orange "not quite" full moon floated across a sky of lilac rose parfait amour. The moon was the only source of light apart from the car headlights dotted out in front of us, but the moonlight was sculpting the desert surface into weird shapes like skulls and dinosaurs, the ground was alive with a peripheral animal kingdom and then I noticed the sky coming alive as well. The road ahead was alive with thousands of racing snakes, and pursuing them were large winged pterodactyls and other large beasts from the heavens surrounded by geometric colours and shapes filling the sky, and it all seemed to be connected to the mighty moon, the huge balloon.

The interstate highway consists of a pair of two-lane freeways, with about 25 metres of dirt separating the traffic moving in opposite directions. There were mostly large truck and trailer rigs on the road at night, and I could see them coming towards me, each one having a distinct personality, it's face highlighted by small orange lights, and rows of red and green navigation lights down port and starboard. I grew very fond of the trucker’s who were exceptionally courteous drivers, and they created such a spectacle, skull-like faces that grew bigger and bigger as they approached and then whooshed past consuming the whole car. All the road signs were coated in an emerald green glass mixture, the surface of which was incredibly reflective and seemed to fluoresce from within as they too swept past like burning asteroids. Wow, what a space voyage.

Kid was all this time sleeping, but I didn't even feel like stopping when we reached Elko, Nevada at some early hour of the morning. It must have been early, cos the Motel proprietor was squinting through sleepy eyes when he gave us our room key. I really could have stayed up all night, so I went for a walk and noticed all these trucks parked up around town, several of them with sleeping drivers perched in front of their steering wheels. What a lifestyle I thought, driving continuously back and forth between Los Angeles and New Jersey: East West, West East, a distance of almost 3000 miles. And en route, stopping at little truck-stop diners in the middle of nowhere for eggs, bacon, coffee and flapjacks. A moving community with friends and contacts spread out right across the continent.

Elko, Nevada, was one of the towns that I'd read about in Mailer's Gary Gilmore tome. GG's girlfriend spent part of her tragic teenage motherhood here, and in the morning I could see it was a small town surrounded by mountains, the air was so fresh and clean, and the sound of clip clop cowboy boots and various farm vehicles filled the air. I felt surprisingly fresh, despite a night full of Technicolor dreams and my mouth tasted good having just cracked a vial of Kid's Ginseng Royal Jelly.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 18.

2008-02-26T04:03:00.001+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Tobacco advertising,
San Francisco (1982)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Kid was an A.A.A. member, and had been outfitted with a complete package of maps and directions, accommodation guide, points of interest, and his car was all set for the journey. We were taking Interstate 80, a route that took us through the Nevada desert, Utah desert, the wastelands of Wyoming, cowboy country Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, and I was to meet up with a friend in Chicago. I had absolutely no idea how long such a trip would take, and it was only when Kid plotted our probable day to day mileage, that I realised we were about to travel for five days, a distance of 2300 miles!

From San Francisco, we drove north-east through Sacramento, then climbed up the Sierra Nevadas and at a place called Truckee, appropriately enough there was a truck-stop full of cattle tracks, and the drivers were walking around jabbing long sticks through the gaps in the truck sides. I figured they must be some kind of tranquillisers, and I walked off into the thick snowy park behind the comfort kiosk. The air temperature had dropped from around 30°F in Frisco, to around zero in a matter of hours. Somewhere over beyond Truckee is Lake-Tahoe, a well advertised and talked about ski-resort. Part of its attraction is that just over the border is Reno, Nevada, a mini Las Vegas stuck out amongst the Nevada mountain desert.

We cruised into Reno late afternoon, and decided to check out Harrah's Casino. I only took $5 with me, and cashed it in for 20 quarters. I had just sampled my first 'snow' and when I entered the casino, everything sparkled, and the sound of coins dropping into slots, alarms, bells and whistles accompanying the clatter of a bingo win as coins come raining out of someone's machine, was enough to get my pulse racing. It was just like an adults only video parlour, except instead of armed laser-bases and rockets, there are random selection playing cards, staring out at mainly middle-aged women staring back. Some of them had games going on several machines and little bags full of quarters and dimes. The other popular machine is the one armed bandit; you just stick any coin in or any quantity of coins and pull a vertical lever down, and try to get three drums that rotate in the window to stop on the same pattern. The more you bet, the more you win! I had a few minor wins on the poker machines, but ended up leaving with nothing left.

I flagged down one of the Harrah's bunny girls and ordered a coffee. I should have realised that there'd be a built in service charge and I was expected to give a tip as well. 15% is apparently a reasonable tip,) so my coffee cost .75 Plus .75 service charge, plus .25c tip = 1.75). Kid said, "Lets get the hell outta here," and we drove out of the car-park building and straight away got lost. A friendly local pointed out 'Route 80' and we were off.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 17.

2008-02-04T01:03:00.003+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Wasted, Stoned, Confused
San Francisco (1982)
©2004 www.stuartpage.com

For a whole day from sun-up till long after the stars have appeared, a hundred thousand people can be found between Golden Gate Park and the adjacent ten blocks of Haight Street. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, lines of humans like lanes of traffic inch their way past taco stands, fortunetellers, natural soda stands, earthy art exhibitions, and all kinds of street theatre from jugglers to a human jukebox. Groups of West Indian and African conga and bongo drummers, with beer can percussionists join in and provide a soundtrack. The sun lashes down on the windless streets and low flying clouds of cannabis smoke permeate the mass spirit. It's an alternative shopping mall, with all of the trappings, a total barrage of enticing smells, an underlying urge to spend, and ankle-deep trash, but it goes unnoticed, the heat, volume of sound, and claustrophobic conditions anaesthetise everybody: "...take it or leave it, get out of it and get into it man..."

A few blocks south over the Buena Vista Park hill, is a more contemporary phenomenon, an equally clearly defined cruising strip in Castro Street, headquarters of the Gay Capital. The shops on either side of Castro St stock everything that the uninitiated male homosexual needs to "look the part". Menswear boutiques with all kinds of black leather trap-door trousers with domed bum-flaps, sailors' caps, bondage gear, whips, studded straps and synthetic sex organs galore. And there are also some of the best food stores in San Fran; a great Pizza Bar, real Chinese take-aways, bookshops and suppliers of records, postcards, hardware, and booze. This is where my next Discount Travel driver lived.

Kid Strychnine lived with three other guys in a second floor walk-up apartment; a long narrow abode like a railway wagon. They were all trying to break into theatre, and one of them Sammy sat glued to his colour TV, anticipating an audition for a local production of "Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." Kid had moved out to Frisco six years previous from a small rural city in North Carolina. After living six years in Castro St., he was now returning to his loved girlfriend in North Carolina, and was to be married in a few weeks time. I was surprised at the apparent switch of sexual persuasion, but Kid hadn't hidden anything from his fiancée and figured it was time to get serious and settle down. He was sad to leave all his buddies, and the tastefully decorated Castro Street, with its dark shop interiors, interesting lighting and abundance of glimmering jewellery and cut glass everywhere. Chrome and glass, the cool, cold, hard and sharp aesthetic was prevalent in most of the buildings I entered.

The morning before we were due to drive off in Kid's Fiat towards the East Coast, a tragic accident occurred a block from his apartment. A large lorry's brakes failed, and the driver steered the rampaging beast into a line of parked cars - one of which contained some passengers and was flipped over in mid-air before exploding in a fireball across the intersection, the runaway lorry finally coming to rest in the guts of a hydraulic garbage-truck. Just before nipping down to the Canton for some take-away sweet and sour, I was able to watch the extraction of some deep-fried bodies from part of the wreckage in glorious SONY color on Sammy's TV.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 16.

2007-12-15T16:51:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: CHiPs at Pier 23,
San Francisco (1982)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

This part of town known as 'Mission' (after Mission St. that cuts through from Market South for several miles) is inhabited by communities of Mexicans, Italians, South Americans and a large gay community. There are also a number of theatres and cinemas that show experimental films, ethnic films, and educational films. I ended up spending most of my time in the Mission when I visited San Francisco; there was such a variety of events. A low rider exhibition, large American cars with the rear suspension jacked up as high as three feet, lots of paint and often brushed on, fibreglass additions, and-mostly owned by Mexicans. A lot of the cars were apparently stolen and part of the remodelling is to conceal the identity of the car. I also saw a huge demonstration of Argentineans with Malvinas banners, and ran into a guy called Frank McCabe who was looking for someone to play percussion with him.

Although I already felt that I could learn more about people and Art by walking the streets, riding public transport, visiting bars and other hangouts, I also visited a selection of galleries and museums. The U. C. Art Museum in Berkeley was exhibiting a 1:1 Polaroid copy of the 'Transfiguration' (which must have been approx. 40ft across), together with the camera that the Polaroid Corporation had built around the painting. The photograph contained incredible detail, each brush stroke and speck of paint reproduced faithfully and accurately coloured.

The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art had exhibitions by Ed Ruscha, Henri Cartier-Bresson, and an excellent bookshop full of books on recent US Art and catalogues of exhibitions at SFMoMA. The World Print Council have their offices and Gallery in Fort Mason, an ex-military establishment on San Francisco Bay. Prints made utilising new technologies such as computer-generated images, colour Xerox-transfer, and video enhanced images were hanging on the walls, but I found the images not as interesting as similar use of these techniques in advertising images, and the colour-xerox work I'd seen at the Compound. If reproductive processes are not used with thought, they become merely reproductive, and not as creative as they appear.

I had a folder of slides and some screen prints to show the director, and they were quite excited by the work I had been doing. The World Print Council maintains an inventory of colour slides of prints by artists all over the world. I asked them what they do with all the slides and who has access to them, whether they are protected by copyright etc? Publishers and authors of books, curators of exhibitions as well as museum and gallery buyers from around USA and other countries look through the collection, and the World Print Council serves to promote Prints as works of Art. People interested in this system should contact the World Print Council, Fort Mason Center, San Francisco, CA 94123, USA.

The old haunt of the acid-eating hippies, Hashbury, and the present day Haight-Ashbury scene probably have little in common. Before the hip travel agents such as Scott McKenzie started singing "If you go to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair", 'Frisco' was probably a cool place to hang out. Pretty soon after though, hundreds and then thousands of lost souls drifted into the Golden Gate and the result was a lot of dead and dying acidheads and junkies. Nowadays, there are still a few signs of the psychic explosion; cosmic ladies and all kinds of longhaired, bearded, and begowned mystics are to be found, especially at the annual Haight-Ashbury Street Fair.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 15.

2007-12-13T02:25:00.001+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: General Hershey Bar, peace campaigner, Hollywood (1982), Los Angeles
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Another Festival that I went to was the 2nd International Arts Festival at the Southern Exposure Gallery- in a part of SF known as 'South of Market'. Market Street cuts downtown San Francisco on a North East angle; the city above Market is largely Finance, Tourism, cable cars, Chinatown and Japantown, with the more respectable apartments, department stores, dealer galleries and museums. The streets all run North-south or East-west. South of Market has that "not as well looked after" feel, the buildings are nearly all old and wooden, the paintwork cracked, empty lots full of litter and decay like gaps after a tooth extraction. At the same time, there are lots with all the bare walls covered by a murals, not planned Mural Resource projects, but extensive graffiti.

It is here amongst the old warehouses and factories that the Southern Exposure Gallery, (part of a larger nest of studios and performance spaces called Project Artaud Building), hosts the 2nd International Arts Festival. The main gallery space was lined with Mail-Art from all over the world, and nearly all the artists were commenting on the state of nuclear fear, political interference and social conditions present in their respective countries. The style of work ranged from black and white illustrations of Brazilian leaders playing with missiles, to a bed of nails made from missiles, an electronic electric chair suicide game, as well as evening performances and discussions.

I was interested to hear Lucy Lippard and Jerry Kearns from New York give their slide/sound performance called 'IMAGE WAR' which satirised hidden meanings in a series of advertisements from American magazines for women and men subscribers. After the performance there was a discussion on the relevance of Whites assisting endangered Blacks and other minorities, when they may not even know it or want to do anything about it. The crowd was quite divided over the issue, and very vocal. I didn't feel like arguing the point, and talked with Jerry Kearns about subliminal advertisements, showing him some I had found myself. He said he knew of them, but didn't seem to think they were too much of a big deal.

Down the road from the gallery was a very worthwhile group of shops called The Compound. Of particular interest to me was Government Records - import and local hard to find records; Alter-Piece Productions - postcards and prints; and Burning Media - magazines, 'fanzines', underground comics, and music/art periodicals. I exchanged copies of some NZ music tapes and 'Plasma Review', a magazine I had published in collaboration with about six other people in NZ, for some of their magazines and records. This was the only place that I saw really interesting print work - colour Xerox, offset, screen and lino printing. The magazine or small-book format seemed to be popular, and most of the publications sold for under $5, some were free.

Five women from San Francisco, New York and elsewhere in USA ran The Compound. They all confessed a desire to leave the States some time, and showed a lot of interest in my images of New Zealand. It sounded like living in USA would be nearly impossible without a full-time job, or at least a part-time job that paid extra well. High rent meant that the unemployed and a lot of artists, musicians have to live in areas they consider unsafe, in cramped conditions. It also sounded terribly unpatriotic not to participate in the capitalist game, almost impossible to do anything without the assurance of regular cash.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 14.

2007-12-06T03:54:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo:
South of Mission St,
San Francisco
©2004 www.stuartpage.com

I meet a few actors at a free performance of Ubu Roi, and some people who helped run KALX FM radio, the university's fulltime stereo FM station. KALX plays a lot of concerts that they've recorded of American and European bands who've played in Berkeley and San Francisco. I am able to get excellent copies of The Fall live at Keystone, Berkeley July 1981, and Pere Ubu at Old Waldorf August 1980. I had been listening to both these bands for a few years, and was hoping to see one or both of them while I was in the US of A. I was out of luck, both bands were not playing any US concerts, but instead the Fall toured New Zealand July '82, and David Thomas (singer/songwriter for Pere Ubu) did a quick trip to San Francisco a couple of months after I had been there.

The record shops in Berkeley, Universal Records, Tower Records, and Rasputins and in San Francisco Aquarius, Street Life and Government Records were particularly good for imported music, and I bought quite a few records that are unavailable in New Zealand, or else cost $25 if you do manage to get them. I had a collection of cassettes with me of music from NZ and I took the opportunity to play some tapes to people in record shops, and to people I met. Generally I found people's tastes very mainstream, preferring the Stones, Clash, Bruce Springsteen or Go Go's and they'd often never heard of The Fall or Pere Ubu. I played NZ music by Shoes this High, Gordons, Perfect Strangers, And Band, Fetus Productions and The Birthday Party from Australia.

In return, I was lent tapes of local bands 'Flipper', 'Pop-O-Pies', 'Kill Joy', 'Pariah', Pillage People', 'Los Microwaves', and 'Model Strikers'. I think the New Zealand music contains lyrics worth listening to that talk about what it's like to be living NOW, and not just about falling in love, or losing your girl, or having a party. I found a lot of the American stuff to be 'massage music', it's designed to lull you into a sense of security, which is fine if you want to ignore everything. Musically, the American stuff was very simple and sounded like the musicians were holding back; whereas most of the NZ music was full on, intense and complex rhythms and noises made from a variety of instruments and tape sources. I was told that the NZ bands were "pretty weird", and "I don't know why they bother!" It seemed to me that Punk/New Wave had made a big impact on the surface of new American music, people emulated the English Punks, scarred arms, safety pins and spiky hair, but their voices just didn't sound right, and a lot of them drove around in these big limos.

An excellent source of new and hard to find movies is the Pacific Film Archive at Berkeley, part of the university's Art Museum. Each day, two or three different films were screened for only $2, even then a concession ticket was available too. I saw classic films like Kurosawa's 'Seven Samurai', a new stereo movie 'Contempt' by Jean Luc Godard, a Bergman double feature, Herzog's 'Even Dwarfs Started Small' and a Japanese film called 'Muddy Water' - a black and white film about the friendship of two young Japanese boys; one was the son of a prostitute, the other boy's Mum ran a restaurant. As well as these 'art' movies, I saw a lot of cool new-release films in San Francisco: 'Diva', "Christiane F', 'The Atomic Cafe', a 3-D feature 'Parasite', 'Robin Hood' and a festival of animation films from Canada, France, USA and England.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 13.

2007-12-04T01:55:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Smiley shows her mice tattoos, Santa Monica (1982), Los Angeles
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

After a lot of flattering and coaxing by Snake, Smiley eventually agrees to show us her tattoos. Suddenly she flashes her breasts at us, and on each one, is a small mouse. Snake isn't satisfied and seems to think that Smiley's holding out on us, and wants to see Smiley's other tattoo. I never found out where that one was, but I suggest to Snake that he buys a Polaroid like mine, and that he could build up an amazing collection of images, as he was really good at convincing people to have their picture taken, especially young girls.

On our way to the bus he ran into a girl jogging under the palm trees, wearing Playboy sportswear and he soon stopped her, and was calling out to me and my camera. It's really worthwhile having a Polaroid camera when you are meeting new people, and want to photograph them. The instantaneous nature of the encounter seems to alleviate the one-sided nature of taking a stranger's photograph. Most people seem quite contented when the first photograph has appeared, and if they are given a copy for themselves will usually consent to more photographs being taken, even with a non-instant camera.

I can safely say that I spent more money on film than any other commodity except travel. It's really not to hard to eat and sleep cheaply, especially if you are able to stay with people, and they let you cook food, and help them out with their groceries, petrol money if they have a car, or rent if they don't own the house.

Getting rides from city to city can also be achieved easily and cheaply, by one of several methods. University Student Union buildings have large Ride Boards, consisting of a map of USA, divided into zones, and cards available to be filled out by drivers needing passengers, riders looking for a ride somewhere, or people who want to join with others to take a Drive-away car, or people who have plane tickets they wish to sell.

Drive-away cars are obtained from agencies in most cities, and belong to a client of the agency who may have moved to another state, and want their car driven for them. They can prove expensive depending on the owner's generosity; some only give you a full tank at the beginning, and a limited mileage or time to deliver the car. Others will also pay the driver on delivery, and can be more flexible regarding time and mileage.

I travelled about 400 miles from LA to Oakland, California for $15, and was delivered right to the door of a friend of a friend's house by my driver, Howard Schwartz. Oakland is across the harbour from San Francisco, roughly halfway between S.F. and Berkeley. Berkeley is home of University of California Berkeley and apparently was once the scene of some radical student demos and riot police clashes. Ronald Reagan was once Governor and he is well remembered for closing down a local mental institution and turning the inmates onto the street, where a lot of them have remained. The students I see while wandering around however are mainly conservative looking, y'know healthy, white, middle class, wearing Adidas sportswear and Nikes.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 12.

2007-11-26T12:37:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Danny, a stranger, Smiley & Snake at Santa Monica beach (1982), Los Angeles
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

I walk towards downtown through lots more broken glass, and switch my tape deck onto FM Stereo. Gliding through the stations I get a collage of RADIO NEWS REAGAN ARMS TALKS BREHZNEV OLIVE SALESMAN MORE NEWS ISRAEL WEATHER ADS ITALIAN NEWS RELIGIOUS ADS BLACK WOMEN SLOWLY RECITING STORY DAVID BOWIE PUTTING OUT THE FIRE WITH GASOLINE LEATHER JACKET FROM LONDON $120 ANDRE DELORE FROM KOREA EXCLUSIVE FASHIONS MOTHER'S DAY HEAVY METAL LOST ANIMALS KMXFM CLASSICAL METAL STATIC OSCAR NOMINATION ANAHEIM HOTRODS MISS MILLER BEER MICHELOB CONCERT GREEK THEATRE...

Passing a carwash with 5 bays, a whole bunch of real fat guys drinking beer and hosing their cars, lots of loud radios all tuned into different stations competing, kids shouting. A black Fleetwood licensed BIG-REG gold plated hubcaps and bumpers. Cross signal sounds like a cuckoo. Fresh concrete pavement completely tattooed with HEARTS, SKULLS, TAGS, I LOVE JOE, FOOTPRINTS, DATES, FUCK and some crazy guys pushing chrome supermarket trundlers collecting aluminium beer cans and newspapers and their meals from trash cans. I make a phone call on push button play-a-tune Ma Bell telephone. Crisp electronics, notice all the signs and directions how to use everything. Designed for utmost simplicity and ease of understanding, and so strong, everything's heavy-duty, solid, and fittings sealed off out of reach of curious screwdrivers and crowbars. The food products are really well packaged, labelled with all the grisly details of chemical contents.

Walked about 3 or 4 miles so far, and I can feel a headache kicking back of my head. It's very hot and I feel dehydrated, my mouth tastes like sulphur, my eyes stream, and my T-Shirt is grey where I wiped my brow. In the distance, I see skyscrapers disappearing into airbrushed smog. I'm walking past endless car parks and drive-in super mart complexes; more guys hose cars, and wax 'em.

The buildings become contrastier as the smog level reduces, soaring hard-edged glass and steel mountains, and anonymous matt-black vertical dead boxes, dark windows, no sign of human life inside. Robert Crumb characters truck past me, some duck under my camera view, there's music everywhere, booming out of Hi-Fi shops: Spanish disco, soul and reggae. I don't see any Punks; they seem to hang out on the edge of Hollywood. I see mostly Blacks, Mexicans, Latinos playing basketball in parks, groups of old men sitting in the shade playing poker, chess & blackjack, some tables covered in notes and trash cans over-flowing with Bud cans and wine bottles.

I'm in the finance area now, it's lunchtime and well-dressed officey types strut around in pairs and trios moving straight ahead and quick, decisive. Every few steps I hear " spare a quarter, spare a dime?" and see dirty faces staring in at clean faces stuffed with burrito, felafel, burger and french-fries with coke, and pastrami / salad with black coffee. Hello, your receipt, thank you, you're welcome, have a nice-day, good bye. Eat. Shit. Die. I’m sitting down, eating, nostrils full of spicy steam, can't figure out what that weird smell is, sniff my sleeve, wow, smells like Rotorua.

Later in the afternoon, I catch a Grumman bus back to Hollywood. So smooth and fast, powerful. I'm back in no time. Meet Snake and Smiley (the Californian Girl), and Danny, who'd just got out after doing time for borrowing a safe or two from a drugstore in LA. Danny spent his earlier years in Santa Monica, so we caught a bus out to the beach, and on the way Danny was all "Ooh" and "Aaarrgghh" as we passed new sights, and places he used to hang out that had vanished.

Eventually we got to Santa Monica pier, which used to have a large wooden roller coaster like the Coney Island Cyclone, but it eventually started rotting and had to be dismantled. Now, the main attraction seems to be the Video Parlour, where you can arm-wrestle a blindfolded mechanical forearm and biceps or play any of the more common space-attack games. On the end of the pier, sipping Bud and holding hand lines, are several groups of old hippies, and old Chinese couples. They haven't caught anything all day, but they're not really trying, just hanging out in the sun, getting out of it, watching the waves, and talking about how great the pier once was.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 11.

2007-11-19T03:28:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Hollywood Affair (1982), Los Angeles
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Isaac had been hired to join a team of 35 investigators and 26 federal agents in Atlanta, Georgia, to hunt for clues to the murders of about 20 young black children, aged between 8 and 15 years old. The murders occurred between November 1979 and mid 1981, and the publicity had brought psychics, astrologers, photographers, visiting police experts, consultant psychologists and TV crews from all over the United States as well as the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Atlanta Police, the Sherrif's departments from several counties, and the F.B.I. who headed the investigation. The reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer or killers was set at $100,000 and the situation turned into desperation. Young children were too scared to play in parks and on the street, some were carrying guns and knives as self defence.

Initially a rumour had drawn the Investigators to check out the possibility that a Ku Klux Klan hitman had been assigned by a national genocide squad to eliminate black males before they could father children, but the Klan had also hired investigators and were worried that they may be implicated in the murders. The outcome of Isaac's inquisition was the discovery of a phenomenon known as "Snuff Movies'. In what must be the most perverse form of pornography, these black youths had been kidnapped and then filmed while being tortured to death, for the purpose of providing sadistic pleasure to a select group of white businessmen. The films were then used as a show of strength within a Protection Racket, (a well organised blackmailing system which reaps profits from violent intimidation).

Having not read anything in papers or magazines about this sort of racket, I asked Isaac why it had not been reported. I gathered for much the same reasons as the Jack the Ripper coverup. Too many people holding positions of power were involved and the way they wielded their power like a weapon created a level of paranoia which guaranteed silence from the people who knew too much. Little wonder Isaac was feeling so bad about the whole experience, knowing that the truth was being covered up by an evil assembly of racist white middle-class slave hunters, torturers, and murderers.

Isaac turned the table and told me that if I wanted to experience a feeling of "Love Everywhere" that I should go to Salt Lake City. I asked him about the Mormons, and I got the impression that they were very astute businessmen, and had built a monumental religion praising the virtues of capatilism and polygamy. My impressions of the USA were quickly becoming a combination of ideas involving Religion, Sex, Money, Drugs and Death.

Downtown LA is some eight miles from Hollywood, although I didn't realise this when I first started walking off down Hollywood Blvd. I'd just bought a little FM/cassette Walkman tape machine, and was recording a tape of the journey from my hotel to downtown. The following is transcribed from that tape. Black woman at bus stop, Hollywood: " I hate that motherfuckin' God, I love the Devil, ...I hate that motherfuckin' God, ...I love the Devil... " over and over and over ...fade...

Standing on Hollywood Blvd. overpass, underneath me and behind a high barbed wire fence, four lanes of cars roar down Hollywood Freeway, the grey concrete walls of the freeway harbour some hardy shrubs, and piles of broken glass and cardboard shreds. Lying in one carton only metres from the cars is a sleeping man, breathing almost pure carbon monoxide and burnt rubber fumes. But at least he is safe from the muggers.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 10.

2007-11-19T01:26:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Sir William Gull
Source: Robert Clack

I told Isaac, the freemason, what I had seen on TV. An English writer, Stephen Knight, claimed that the five East End prostitutes who were allegedly killed by Jack the Ripper in London, 1888, were actually the victims of a highly organised Masonic ritual.

It all started when Queen Victoria's grandson, Prince Eddy, was secretly sent by his mother to experience life in the artistic community of London's East End, under the protection of a painter Walter Sickert. Eddy met Annie Crook, one of Sickert's models, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Alice, meaning the affair had to be kept a secret. However, it wasn't long before the Prime Minister, Salisbury, found out and received word from Queen Victoria to end and silence the embarrassment. Salisbury arranged for two cabs: one collected Eddy, the other took Annie to an asylum and she died 32 years later, pronounced insane, having never seen Eddy or Alice again.

Sickert had hired Mary Kelly to look after Alice, and later she disappeared while Sickert took Alice to France, where she spent the rest of her childhood. With the help of some prostitute friends, Mary Kelly sent a blackmail letter to Salisbury, who was forced into hushing up the affair, and the subsequent ruthlessness dealt out to Annie. He decided to silence Mary Kelly and her friends. Salisbury decided that two other freemasons of high standing, Sir William Gull, Queen Victoria's physician, and Sir Robert Anderson, Asst. Commissioner of Police would form a party, and began to eliminate the women strictly according to Masonic ritual, more exactly a throat cut from left to right, stomach mutilations and disembowelling. Between 31 Aug and 9 Nov 1888, the "Ripper" party murdered five prostitutes, and later Salisbury paid off Sickert to silence him, and the whole incident lay in silence until Joseph Sickert, son of Walter and Alice, revealed the story to Stephen King who wrote his book "Jack The Ripper: The Final Solution."

I expected Isaac to say that this had nothing to do with the Freemasons, but he said it was probably true, and although not practised today, these rituals are still part of the traditional secrecy of the Masonic Order. He believed that it was for the good of society that the murders were performed, that the symbol of purity, the Royal Family, was important to the spiritual wellbeing of the English Society, and that any tainting of this purity could result in a “decline of faith in humanity”.

I wasn't quite sure I agreed with him, although I can understand how the ruling bureaucracy would rather have a simple explanation for the murders of three women, such as a psychotic individual, and sacrifice four lives rather than reveal crumbling foundations under the pillars of society. At the same time, I explained that I thought such deceitful activities to be essentially evil, and asked what else the Masons were involved in? Isaac said that he was hired as a private investigator by people who were worried or superstitious about the inconclusive verdicts of murder trials, and in particular, any mass-murder discoveries or ritual slayings that had not been fully investigated by conventional means.

I asked Isaac what he had been doing most recently, and he hesitated but eventually agreed to tell me. He said he was feeling quite depressed since returning from his last appointment, and had since been working for his mother in South California, more or less as a break from the rigours of investigative work.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 9.

2007-11-19T00:30:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

extract from Stuart Page's 1982 diary
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

All around the perimeter I see posters proclaiming that Split Enz, the “Great Rock Band from Australia”, will be playing LA in the near future. For some reason it makes me feel sick. I've had enough of the TRAVEL LODGE STARDUST HOTEL ROMAN'S LIQUOR MUGSY MALONEY ICE CREAM BURLESQUE SCANDAL FLUORESCENT 50FT WIDE CARLTON CIGARETTES BILLBOARD KRLA SUNSET CITY for a day.

I don't feel hungry anymore after I walk past the Steak Bonanza, a huge car park where you clip on a table to your car door, and sit there eating steak or burger while your car stereo competes with all the others, and the smell of burning corpses flows through your nostrils. I wonder whether there's still any kangaroo steaks and horsemeat floating around LA?

A bunch of pretty stoned out black kids skate through the fast cars on La Brea, and I hear the Disco funk from the sidewalk blaring from their Walkman headphones. I get the feeling that they symbolise life around here for the underprivileged, always travelling second-class, but making the first class look such a boring bunch of museum exhibits, sterile and unhappy. They end up coming and buying pleasure in the form of prepaid sex and drugs from the hustlers, pimps, hookers and dealers, and are subject to the pickpockets, gamblers, muggers and no-gooders who scrape a living around the Hollywood sideshow.

The Roosevelt parking building on Hollywood Blvd. is also a monument to Hollywood. Inside the locked and barbed wire fenced entrance can be seen ten year old Plymouths, Fords, Chryslers, an E type Jaguar, all with flat tyres and covered in dust. They've been left behind when the Hollywood emphasis moved out to Bel Air and Beverly Hills. They've never been collected since then, and have probably been forgotten, except by the street people who walk past them, never able to afford a cab ride let alone a car.

Passing underfoot as you walk up Hollywood Blvd. are slabs of Black granite inlaid with pink stars 1 metre across and labelled in brass letters are the likes of Hugh Hefner, Boris Karloff, Marilyn Monroe and today Diana Ross paid $1500 to have her name placed in a star along with hundreds of others. There are plenty of spare stars too waiting for Brooke Shields and other new Stars who play the Hollywood game, for a mere 1500.

Lying around Los Angeles and in all kinds of shops are some free newspapers: LA Weekly, LA Reader and Stuff magazine, which give reviews of films, shows, records, books and lots of other ads and info about what's happening in LA. I scanned the pages of all these papers as soon as I discovered them, and stuck anything of great interest in my diary. Pilot Theatre doing Jarry's UBU, Vinyl Fetish best - record shop for imports /new music, Color Xerox address, Laurie Anderson at UCLA, Isolation Tank experience, and Buckminster Fuller at the Bodhi Tree Bookstore, signing his book "Critical Path". I walked over to the Bodhi Tree, down Melrose Av. just past La Cienega, and sure enough, there was Bucky shaded from the glaring sunlight by a bleached canvas tent construction, and signing his books for a patiently waiting queue of people.

While I was waiting in line, I talked to a guy from south of LA, who eventually told me he was a freemason, and this intrigued me, having recently seen a TV programme which credited the original Jack the Ripper murders to a group of three Freemasons. I said I'd like to talk again later and we arranged to meet for coffee. I said hello to Bucky, who said he was coming to New Zealand early 1983 to talk at a MENSA conference, and wished me well on my travels.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 8.

2007-11-11T21:30:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut
photo: Hollywood Snake, Santa Monica
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Snake tells me Hollywood's a great town cos it's so safe and laid back. In New York, people are walking around seeing KILL KILL KILL leap over walls and running out of alleyways and splashed across the New York Post stories 'subway mugging and shooting in the Bronx'. I have this vivid image as Snake describes things very colourfully, we get on well and he tells me I've got weird ideas. "This guy's a trip" - I had just pointed out the top corner of a bank building that was identical to a torn off corner of a computer card. He gave me some NICE head camouflage, NICE being a very popular word, and is spoken with a lot of emphasis and drawn out to sound like NAAAAAAAARRRRSSSSS. The head camouflage was a wooden key ring that splits open when you know how to reveal two cigarette-sized cavities, and some cigarette papers with a filter tip printed on them, as well as a little brand name like Marlboro.

Star Struck Pothead Vagabond. "Marijuana is nature's way of saying, Hi." Worshipped Marilyn Monroe, and now follows Brooke Shields's life as closely as the Women’s' Weekly followed Diana Spencer's: the new Farah Fawcett. At night, Snake usually hung out amongst the hookers in The Copper Penny, a coffee bar at Sunset and La Brea. Sometimes he would point out cops he'd recognised to the girls. It was a real information centre and one of the stewards, Charles, would come over and pour strong black coffee, and ask me, "What the hell are you doing hangin' around Snake?" Sure, he smells a bit, but I was convinced that under the dirt shined a heart of gold, and besides, where else could I get such a knowledgeable guide?

One night I find out why nobody likes the cops around here. Walking down Sunset Blvd. early hours of the morning, minding my own and taking time-exposures, I get hassled by these cops who want to know what I'm doing. When I explain, a particularly smart-assed one says, "Can't you speak English?" So I start walking away and they drive beside me and tell me to "Piss off outta here sonny". As I mentioned earlier, I also ran into trouble talking to some black hookers on La Brea one night. They asked me for a light, and then one of them stroked my trouser front and asked me if I wanted a date. I told them I didn't and that I'd see them around. (I ran into some of the same hookers on several occasions, and they always came on strong). I walked off and was suddenly path-blocked by an LAPD car, cop got out and said he'd seen one of the girls touch me, that I was in no trouble, would I make a statement? The girls were in the back of the car, and were destined to a night in jail, so I said they were friends and I'd just lit their cigarettes. The cop wouldn't leave me alone, telling me I'd be better off telling the truth, but I insisted that they had done nothing I didn't like. The cop slammed his door, and squealed off across the blvd. leaving me feeling totally freaked in a cloud of rubber smoke and gas fumes.

I took off down Sunset in case they came back, and tried to find the Copper Penny. I was feeling a bit paranoid, and I think I showed it. I asked a guy if he knew the Copper Penny, and he said, "Yeah, can you loan me a quarter?", "Spare any change?", "Wait, where you from?" I took off, having been through the same friendly rap: “Where you from England? Spare a quarter?” …routine several times. I think I was feeling wired from not eating much, drinking coffee, coke and smoking Marlboros. I was tired but buzzing with adrenalin, slightly paranoid, and really excited about all the happenings I was going through. I gave the Copper Penny a miss, and walked back to the Mark Twain, past the 1st Baptist Church with its big heavenly blue neon, past the "Crossroads of the World" with its huge vertical tubes of red neon surrounded by planets of white tungsten spheres, and the A&M building, (looks like two large metallic copper hamburgers, with twin towers in between, surrounded by a high fence, well alarmed and lit like a Christmas Tree).

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 7.

2007-11-06T21:15:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Law & Order (LA 1982)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Snake and I go for endless long walks around Hollywood, in and out of Motel rooms down on Sunset Boulevard where I meet people whose lives really are one big party, some places we're not allowed in, it seems a lot of people make their living in privacy. Some of the people I meet are wondering what I want from them. I mean, “…if you didn't come looking for a fuck or suck, or smack or some real good Colombian, then just what the fuck you wan' man?” I tell them what I'm doing in USA, wandering the streets and bumping into people, carrying a camera and collecting stuff. I’m not sure what I'm doing it for, but I just had to come. I wonder whether I sound like a tourist, a breed of humans who take lots of money to another country and eat and drink lots and take lots of photos. These people have made it their profession to live off other people's affluence, knowing that there's just as much money now as there ever was, it's just that fewer people have it, and call it their own. Fair enough that they distribute it more evenly. I'm always aware that back at the hotel I have a plastic wallet full of $100 American Express Travel cheques, and some people around here would like to see this middle class honky spend a little of it.

Down on Santa Monica Blvd., ("Boys Town"), Snake spies a group of kids he knows, standing on the corner listening to an enormous MARANTZ stereo with a handle. I notice straight away how they each have a distinctly different image that they are creating by their style of clothing. All the boys in the group seem about 12 to 16, and mostly white, although I see a few black guys across the street. One guy has a swashbuckling look about him, like a modern day musketeer - another guy with bleached hair and a well-baked tan like a true Californian surfer - and another looking like a valet, with well pressed appearance, as opposed to the more rugged masculinity of the others. The bravado desperado comes over immediately and holding his bulging trousers, asks me if I want some of it? I notice a lot of gleaming white Cadillacs and Lincolns slowing down, their male occupants leaning forward in their driver seats to peruse the Boys Town produce. The boys tell me that sometimes they get to go to Colorado on ski-ing trips, all the coke they want, and that they knew guys who'd been all the way to New York, accompanying their sheik on a business trip. It's a pretty dicey game, any night you might get picked up by some psychotic maniac, but quite often by wealthy dukes who drive through on their way to and from Santa Monica, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Westwood or Hollywood Hills. The wealthy people have moved out of Hollywood, down long boulevards to the mansions and security of these suburbs. I found out one night just how secure.

I had missed the last bus after an excellent Laurie Anderson performance at the UCLA campus at Westwood, and decided to try walking towards Hollywood, which would take me on a route through Beverly Hills. At first there were footpaths, but soon I found that I had to walk on the edge of the road, and almost got hit by a car that swept past me in the outside lane. Eventually I felt trapped not being able to go in either direction without walking on the road, and the roadside was thick bush right down to the tarmac, and proved to be impenetrable. So I looked around for a telephone booth, and tried hitching a ride, but of course nobody stops around here, unless you're pulling up a well-alarmed and video patrolled driveway. I couldn't find a phone or any particularly friendly looking entrance-ways, and didn't feel like triggering whatever devices Bel Air Alarms Co. had installed.

Fast, classy, anonymous looking cars swooshed past me as I clung to my little island, feeling like a target. I suddenly saw a cab flash past, so I wolf whistled loud as I could, but it was on the other side of Sunset Blvd. and vanished. I wondered whether the Tow away No Stopping signs had anything to do with it. Next minute the cab was back and the driver Leighton tells me, "Yeah, you whistle good, you know how to get a cab". He also wondered what I was doing in a desert like Bel Air. He told me there's too many people trying to make it around Hollywood, a lot of cab-drivers are actors trying to make it, but you need a good agent, have to know a lotta people, go to all the parties, have big tits and a good face. His FM radio was blaring out Pac Man Fever, Betty Davis Eyes, We got the Beat, real Hollywood stuff, up tempo, fairly banal lyrics, as he was telling me, “It's still winter man, in summer people get really loose around here. Lotta Vietnamese, Chinese, we got everybody here”. So for $10.10, I got swept up from Bel Air, where I was trapped in the safest place to live, and deposited back in Hollywood, where there's plenty of room to walk around.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 6.

2007-11-01T10:33:00.001+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Hollywood Snake, Santa Monica
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

The women seem more switched on, more aware. I see several groups of women of mixed race, involved in lively conversation, as I walk around Hollywood and Downtown LA at lunchtime. The men seem more hung-up or troubled looking and unhealthy, trying to project that Playboy image right into middle-age, many drink beer while walking around, (so do I), clean and fill their car, dressed like cowboys or athletes, or squeezed into gray pin-stripes.

Nothing much has prices, e.g. cars, cameras, sound equipment… store assistants see you coming and seem to categorise you as soon as you open your mouth: Look you up and down, then decide on a price, if they're pretty sure you want to BUY. BUY=NOW! "Tomorrow’s another day, come back and see me then". Shopping is best done through the newspaper and magazine ads and articles, and the reason specialty mags publish technical reports is because the shops don't often let you look. Just In case you're not sure, you may get followed down the footpath by an eager salesman who knocks $10 off at each step you take away from his store. One thing's for sure, they'd rather sell near cost than have you walkout without.

I keep seeing rainbow's on everything, the litter makes a great impression on me, and I get into looking for particularly interesting arrangements of trash and graffiti, and worn paintwork and puddles. Blacks and Hispanics, if it wasn't for them there'd be no cab/coach drivers, cops and cleaners, posties and other servants, I keep thinking. They're so friendly and willing to laugh and some even ask me how to work the dollar-note change device in the Post Office. Shit, LA locals who don't read English, and think that's my specialty!?

"Where you from, England?" “I'm from New Zealand, flew out from Auckland”. "Dat anywhere near Falklands? You been ‘o Tasmania? Wen'n the store and saw lamb fro’ New Zealand. “Yeeeeah. I eaten yo’ lamb. Seen dem kiwifruit. LA's OK but we don't need so many cars here - too much smog."

One night around 2am I'm searching for coffee down Hollywood Blvd. and I see this guy all dressed in camouflage army gear sipping out of a polycup. Meet the Hollywood Snake, 31 year old Virginian black American, who chose Hollywood to hang-out in after living in New York, Cleveland, 'Frisco around the Hashbury days, and spent the last seven years in Hollywood being a Robin Hood: (I felt rich all of a sudden). "If you hang out with the rich dudes long enough, some of it's gotta rub off on you, if I ever get smashed by a car around here... chances are it'll be a fuckin' Rolls Royce man, that's real class."' I sorta got the idea, although I wondered whether this Robin Hood gave to the poor? “Sure man, I’m the poorest guy around here."

Over the next week or so I saw a lot of Snake, mostly at night 'cos he slept in the park between about 6 am and early afternoon, "You stay out the park, after dark man, case some fucker bash you”. We would get really high, and walk down the blvds, and I'd be introduced to some 'hip' locals. Snake told them I was cool, 'cos the heat has many faces on Sunset Boulevard. Usually there's crowds of tall, slim, barely-dressed hookers on Sunset, and if there's not, you can bet your sweet ass that the few you do see, will book you soon as you talk money. I heard stories about winos asleep in doorways that turn out to be 'stoolies'. Protruding out of a pocket will be a bank note, and across the road and around the corner with radio contact will be more disguised "D's" waiting for the word to move in and arrest the first passer-by who decides he needs the money. Easy sport around L.A. -and I suppose it keeps the book quota up for the records.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 5.

2007-10-30T01:08:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Hollywood Roosevelt (dye-transfer image)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

The music that carries around Hollywood via the portable 'boxes' is up-tempo disco-funk and electronic reggae; rhythmic stuff that is great to walk to if you're in a hurry and feel like bouncing along. There's no real important lyrics from what I can make out, but combinations of sounds like steam escaping staccato fashion from tiny valves, and lots of on-off beat bass like the echo of dancing down hollow staircases, knitted together with fairly minimal dribbles and jabs of Casio syntho-sounds.

Every now and again some longhaired relics can be found sprawled out on lace painted and airbrushed choppers or shaggin' wagons with Plexiglas dome windows and large-breasted women sprayed on the side. These dudes are into stuff like the Doors, Hendrix and getting high whenever possible. I'm surprised how many Black Americans, Mexicans and South Americans I see. The blacks are very classy dressers, and the better-off ones wear pointy Italian shoes and bright, shiny, synthetic clothes. Very sporty clothes are popular, and there are a lot of very healthy looking people hanging around, as well as some really wiped out winos and homeless people collecting trash in supermarket wagons.

These are only the local street people. Just as many people again drive past in white walled limos staring at the sidewalk spectacle, which stares back through equally dilated pupils. Keeping an eye on all this are some of the friendliest and meanest cops ever, depending on where you are, and when. The neighbourhood cop who walks around amongst the people is likely to give you directions and suggestions during the day, but the plain-clothes carloads are likely to try and book you-for talking to the girls on Sunset Boulevard, I found out. Not to mention the black leather-suited Harley-Davidson slug I saw warming his hands on two pearl-handled magnums in cowboy holsters. Yeah, the Western sheriff's horse replaced by the one-ton chrome and white appliance-laden Harley. Best to not even notice that guy. Not only does he look heavy, but with torch, baton, walky-talky, guns and book hanging from his belt, he is heavy, ready for any situation that might arouse him.

So much litter all around, and it's all cellophane and shiny DuPont metallic plastic wrappers that sparkle and reflect the streetlights at night. It looks fine to me, more so than the death and sex images that fill the magazine racks down the sidewalk, and the billboards overhead. Any kind of titillation seems available, in the flesh or over the phone via Visa, or dream about it in the masturbation manuals. If you PAY. Booze is cheap, and available anytime on every street, consequently there's lots of drunks and alcoholics, all asking for a dime for the next bottle. Other people bare resemblance to comic characters and film-star characters from the locally made Hollywood B's. I swear I saw Elvis Presley, James Dean and Marlon Brando-when-young replicas, Jim Morrisons, and then the helpless camouflaged Vets, some who seem to be constantly focused at infinity and seem oblivious to everyone and everything.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 4.

2007-10-28T01:16:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: apartments on Hollywood Boulevard
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Half expecting a friend of a friend to meet me in LA but half hoping he won't make it too. At 5.30 pm the 747 flies in to a brightly coloured sunset city, stretching boulevards and hi-rise in every direction as far as you can see, before disappearing into the airbrushed violet and pink veil over the city. Imagine the Canterbury plains covered in skyscrapers and you're getting the idea.

I wait for a pick-up but nobody shows. One of the lounges upstairs has nobody in it so eventually I padlock my backpack and curl up on a couch. I'm only half asleep due to the continual whine of 747’s warming up and landing, so I notice the static squawk from the Airport Police walkie-talkie as two wide-smiled cops walk in towards me and a Norwegian girl who also pretends to sleep. All I hear is some muttering about “Miller-teary” and I'm left alone, realising later that my Army style pack and short hair and shiny black walking shoes have just passed inspection as pseudo-military uniform.

I don't think I could sleep all night, but I at least tried to relax, calm my nerves that were so excited, and I figured it was time to find out where I was and find somewhere to stay. After a speedy bus trip to Hollywood, I made a deal at the Mark Twain Hotel, a fairly old and rundown retreat for several old and rundown locals. I was lucky to get the room at the top, furtherest from the desk, as I figured it would be the safest. It had a good view of LA and a couple of local neon signs plus a hole in the roof, and seemed to be free of the alcohol and musty dank that lingered elsewhere in the building.

I slept well the first night, got up early and decided to walk downtown, not realising that it was at least eight miles one-way. On the way I wrote notes in my book.
“LA is gray, but all the coloured lights and optically refracting plastics reflect the psychedelic feel of the West Coast, still alive and well since the heady sixties. Cars, clothes, cards all sparkle or dazzle the eyeballs, diffraction rainbow plastic and new 'Wonderfilm' is stuck on everything from shop windows, jackets, large portable stereo tape machines (known as 'ghetto-blasters' and other racist nicknames), cars, the sidewalks and together with the head shops and occult supply stores, give the impression that LA is a pretty 'high' place indeed".

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 3.

2007-10-26T12:52:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo: Sunset at Waikiki beach, Hawaii
©1994 www.stuartpage.com

It’s as if we might have arrived and are now locked in quarantine - come to think of it, lots of people have bandaged limbs - skiing accidents? Ha ha, the bar's closed and latent alcoholics become restless - everyone's running out of fags dry as a bone and Air New Zealand isn't even offering a cuppa or pillows. Nearly everyone's down to their socks, it's looking more like a Rest Home - slow movers - low frequency whistlers - waiting... waiting... are we staying or are we going? Well, that hostess just rang her boyfriend and she's going, two startled men whip around when they hear her say, " You go on to bed, I'll be there soon." First Class made a farce as they are forced into this no-class waiting room, waiting for the same remedy.

Much later, flying over Pearl Harbour I spy lots of palm trees and US Navy jets camouflaged then raw steel 747s lined up, unpainted and unwashed like long galvanised trashcans. Its 40°C HOT walking off the plane in a queue and into Customs, then Wait Wait Wait among all these loud bad vibes- people who won't travel Air New Zealand again, "It's much easier to take a holiday in Tauranga". A young uniformed man looks in my diary under today's date, then wishes me well after making sure I hadn't brought my own drug supply, or anyone, else's either. So I'm here, officially in USA and it's melting hot and I'm so tired, time is around 2 pm Hawaii time. I'm on level two Airport and on my way to Waikiki soon as I can.

Check in to Ambassador Hotel, 16th floor gives a supreme view of the backs of all the other expensive hotels along the beach stretch, spend some time watching Falkland Island war videos on the TV and changing stations with the remote control and play with the air conditioner and strange plumbing In the shower- sort of mechanical plugs and massage spray gun. Waikiki is full of American/Chinese and Chinese/French mixtures, all wearing HAWAII 82 T-Shirts and shorts, or bright cotton flower shirts. Lots of the men seem to be with hookers or mistresses - surely they can't be married to these young girls? It's really hot even at 12 o'clock midnight, so people walk and drink all night, and young Japanese couples photograph each other on the beach.

Decide not to, stick around in Hawaii for long and connect with 747 to LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) the next day.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 2.

2007-10-24T01:23:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

photo ©1982 lori traikos
The seat I got meant I was obliged to hear six really fat Yank chicks describe their antics on genuine NZ Tiki Tours- boasts of buses, boats and boys up inside them. Also found myself gazing unfocussed into Pat Hanly's mural. Tried to find some outside source of air- its all heat / smoke / sweat inside. A man covered in Air New Zealand logos let me through a door for a minute (almost exactly) and I could see down the sleek lines of the shiny beast, 747 elegance reflecting the stars and distant twinkle of Auckland city. It was the most beautiful scene.

Back inside again, passengers aimlessly wandering around like Zombies from the film. Hands in pockets, shoes off but socks still on, window shopping outside empty lounges and closed Duty Free, unconsciously staring at the long Pat Hanly. A bunch of kids put everyone more on edge as they shoot down enemy spacecraft in Grandstand AstroWars game that squeaks and spits out bars from some modern anthem- and echoes blips and bleeps from Mr. Airport Man's phone calling Auckland hotels and cabs to book frustrated strandees downtown. If we don't take off before 2.20am we're told we'll all be in buses en route to Auckland.

Still on land! I've been waiting to go to USA for so long (years) - more definitely since Dec.'81 when I received congratulations and a great surge of adrenalin from the QEII Arts Council of NZ in the form of NZ$6,000 to enable me to travel to USA. WAIT ... WAIT ... WAIT ... Out of my control now. Bored kid racing wheelchair checks out passenger mail board, then disappears over the axminster horizon beyond the long blue Pat Hanly- like an armchair movie buff watching psychedelic animation. Other passengers follow like lost sheep, or arrange their limbs in scattered formation across the sage green carpet prairie and armless chairs. Wheelchair kid breaks the tolerance limit as he blurs through the arrivals door the wrong way.

Fat four-eyed security man eyes me scribbling with suspicion. He's too far away to read it. Uh oh, looks like mutiny as flight crewman saunters unnecessarily fast down the ramp. His eyes make glaring contact with mine momentarily, and then flick away into the embossed hardboard walls. I start wondering, is this NZ or USA? Hard to say.

(To be continued).

Wild Side Walk: Pt 1.

2007-10-21T21:59:00.000+13:00

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

(This serialisation is from the original unedited 100pp hand-typed report written in 1982 after returning from a six-month journey around USA, with the assistance of an Arts Council of New Zealand travel grant. Edited sections of this 100pp tome were included in a handmade self-published artist book "Wild Side WALK" (1985) containing 60pp text and 20pp of hand screen-printed photographs (limited edition of 150 books). Edition SOLD OUT but a limited number of A/P copies are available by negotiation. Wild Side WALK is included in the collections of many NZ public libraries, Art School libraries, Art Galleries and was purchased by the NYC Museum of Modern Art in 1994).

Front cover (silk-screen print) of Wildside WALK (1985)

©1985 www.stuartpage.com

OK, So I'm still in New Zealand, and people are offering me all kinds of advice before I head off for the big, bad U.S. of A. "Don't accept any wooden nickels", "New York's heavy man!", "Watch out for Blacks", "Don't walk under scaffolding", and "Don't look up... you'll realise how much of a hick town kid you really are..." etc. Well, before I left New Zealand, I felt like I had been pretending to live in New York while in Christchurch. I had an inner city apartment, I lived at night- had a pale complexion due to sleeping in during daylight, and I used to take a lot of stimulants to keep me awake all night when I would do my work, and sometimes I would go to work during the day as well.

With all these ideas about America inside me I'm finally in the Departure Lounge at Auckland Airport, I've technically left New Zealand, been screened by Customs officers and moments later I'm buckled into my 747 seat. An hour later, here I am still stranded in this kind of High Tech restaurant- sound effects like wind or waves from air-conditioning units - looking down at food served in bacteria culture trays: an instant coffee/toffee flavoured cold wettex with plastic cream.

On my right, two parental Poms returning from their first visit to NZ grandchild, and in front a champion female Yank who just succeeded in her demand to make a phone call from 747 to Auckland City. Why? Supposed to lift off 8.20 pm now make it close to midnight. Have been scrutineered by a moustachioed security uniform passing an electronic magic wand ( Eutron jug element) screech as it receives a powerful signal from the foil around my Wrigley's Arrowmint. No batteries at Duty Free for my slide viewer so I queue for an Export Gold along with all the other exports. Grab a final cake of Dairy Milk and remembering that fags are only .75c onboard 747 avoid the last minute gifts.

747 much like any other plane- except bigger and sounds like it's flying before the jets are even started. Engineers fixing a motor and relay to control left wing flap- so we can go up and down. At least the buggers found the problem before we took off. We've been let off the plane once already, everyone drank alcohol and smoked tailors and read magazines and bought more duty free junk.

(To be continued).