Friday, April 24, 1987
Daily Halfaskan
Page 7
Yon snnire
racfe? is cooi, cooi
You can tell it's hell because all the
beautiful people are here. And the
wallpaper is tacky Betty Ford
clinic brocade.
The minut e you walk in you hear the
big throbbing electrotechnosynthback
beat disco dancefloor delirium. You
want to dance, sweep into the eternal
party like Blanche DuBois on
poppers singing "I Feel Pretty" from
"West Side Story," put on the teal blue
fright wig, spread melted Velveeta on
your legs, drink beet juice on ice, cha
cha and tango til you just collapse into
a giggling little mass.
My name is Scott Harrah. Call me
Mr. Outre, Mr. Nightlife. I have a
Twinkie for a heart and feet that were
made to dance in dl the discos of the
world. Even as a child, a little Opie
Taylor growing up Hickman, I put on
my mom's wigs, Pharaoh eyeliner and
go-go boots, put my little, pale hands
on my hips and said, "I'm Jean
Shrimpton!" to all the little boys on
the block. And they believed me.
While the other kids played
stickball and keepaway, I sat
in my room and practiced
blowing kisses just like Marilyn
Monroe.
By the time I was grown, though, all
the beautiful people I knew I'd some
day dance with, who would someday
adore and adulate me, smother me
guacamole dip and dot my nipples with
picante sauce, and teach me how deep
and profound it is to be completely
superficial and empty-headed, were in
hell.
Hell was the hottest club in the
world, so I knew I would someday go
there.
In hell Ethel Merman and Jackie
Susann frollicked in libidinous les
bian levigation, leviathans lost in lurid
lust. Karen Carpenter and Mama.
Cass dined in lethean abandon. Klaus
Nomi sang geisha techno-opera, and
Edie Sedgewick killed herself over
and over again for the celebrities she
loved. In hell everybody knows who
Carol Doda is. Ed Wood makes all
the music videos.
Hickman was never this good.
Every minute is two in the morning
and the doormen all know me.
"Sweetie!"
I'd know that voice anywhere.
It was Liberace, and he recog
nized me. But he'd gone to hell. I
mean, really gone to hell. He had on
a suit that was once studded with rhines
tones. I remembered him wearing it on
"Hollywood Squares" once. Now there
were just little empty pock marks
where the rhinestones had been. His
once-famous rockabilly poofball duck
tail had collapsed from lack of mousse,
lack ol mousse.
"In hell there is no mousse," he told
All tike meic Lieuirance knows!
By Charles Lieurance
Staff Music ExpertPoet
and Intellectual
Macrobiotic Madam, "Rectal
Frostbite Syndrome" (Greased
Up And Ready Records.)
Macrobiotic Madam sounds like the
result of fusing James Joyce's acumen
with the somnambulate fringes of a
fuzztone guitar weeping for nihilism.
Jesus, wasn't that a poetic statement!
Review Bored
You see, I'm Charles Lieurance, I used
to be a poet and I was once a major part
of the LA hardcore punk scene. I also
used to live with the legendary Lester
Bangs, the greatest rock critic who ever
lived. He died of an overdose. He
injected a masturbatory sense of the
most napalmesque romanticism in my
tortured soul and here I am, Cha-
"v3 Lutuioiiue, liie ffiuaii 5&ii4ww
rock critic ever to come within the
gorgeous touch of Whitman's seaweed
There I did it again! Surely Spin mag
cairn tell it's lell.
is tacky, and don 't you just love me?
me. "Unless, of course, your sin was not
using mousse, in which case there's all
the mousse you need. Your body is
slopped with it."
"What a drag," I said. And it really
was.
Ethel Merman ran by in the buff
caterwauling "Everything's Coming Up
Roses" at the top of her lungs. Jackie
followed, reciting:
"Hollywood is a glamorous, throb
bing miasma, yen, miasma. . ."
Reciting:
"A chic, glamorous, throbbing
miasma, yeh, chic. . ."
"Everything's comin' up sunshine
and lollipops. . ."
"Oh, honey, not to worrrreee, it is
hell after all, kiddo." Talullah Bank
head the dazzling comfort for all the
queen of comedy, plopped her rubbery
arm around Liberace's shoulders.
"Howd'ya get a drink in this place?"
Talullah laughed like a constipated
horse.
"I'm Carmen Miranda and I'm
here to stay. . ."
Harrah's
Hell
by Scott
Harrah
Could it be? It was and on her
head was an orchard. There were
maybe 70 medium-sized Spanish
migrant workers picking fruit and driv
ing trucks down the steep sides of her
head. There were oranges, apples, pome
grantes, olives, bananas, passion fruits,
cherries, coconuts, pears, peacJhes.
apricots, guavas and tangerines on
her noggin.
Miranda was under heavy load, but
she was still dancing and smiling, smil
ing and dancing.
"Ooh, I've just never seen so many
beautiful, trashy glam, dazzling, just
plain neat people in my life," I screamed
in glee. "I just know I'm not in Hick
man anymore."
"Oh, you think hell is exciting, do
you? You think it's neat?" The stac
cato, clipped speech, the cheeks suck
ing in around a cigarette holder. Bette
Davis. But she wasn't dead.
"But you're not dead," I said, rhym
ing and giggling over my cleverness.
"Oh, you think your body has to rot
into dust before you can start your
afterlife, do you?" she said. "You think
you have to turn into a little pile of
maggots and slime before you get a
little satisfaction, eh? Well, not me.
I've been in hell ever since I had to
work with that Crawford woman.
azine will hire me now.
Macrobiotic Madam is from Athens,
Ga., meaning that they are an alterna
tive band. They stroke the Southern
gothic genre's ornate gables and shove
them in the Michael StipeREM vein of
inevitable hipness. They only use gui
tars, sing songs about how synthesizers
are for poofballs and dress themselves
dally via the use of their grandmother's
rag bag.
I used to know the guys in Macrobio
tic Madam I used to know the guys
in every band that plays alternative
music. In fact, The Drumstick often
asks me, "Charles, what band should
we book?" I can name every song by
Sonic Youth, the Meat Puppets, Scratch
Acid, REM, the Butthole Surfers and
the Palpitating Punks Under the Influ
ence. "What's New Pussycat," Macrobiotic
Madam's remake of Tom Jones' classic
go-go lounge theme song, is an obfusca
tory piece of Lord Byron's tenuous
grasp at the steely winds of William S.
Buroughs' fecundity.
What else can I say but, hey, this
album is great! You see, I pretend that I
How many loony homicidal nannies do
you want to see me play before I get to
rest?"
"Oh, don't you mess with me, Bette!
I'm a star. I'm a star with an ax. You
couldn't even act with an ax because it
would upstage you. . ." Joan Craw
ford came running out of a hole in the
ground in a party dress, wielding an ax.
Then more came running out. There
were seven, eight. . .the Joan Craw
fords chased Bette into the hills of hell.
Tennessee Williams walked by
dressed in a yellow bonnet and looking
like Little Bo Peep. He dragged Cerbe
rus, the three-headed dog oi neil, on a
leash. He was a wrinkled up, emaciated
old homo, but he was continually fan
ning himself and blocking his face from
the light as if his skin were young, fresh
and sensitive.
"Hello, I'm the deviL"
I was afraid to turn around. John
Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and
Marilyn Monroe rowed by in a boat.
"We're. . .goin' . . to . . .a birthday.
. .party. . ."Marilyn said in long breathy
tones.
"I
said I'm the devil. But just
for 15 minutes and then I
have to go back and be rid
iculed by hell's critics."
Warhol. Warhol, who I once thought
would give me as many 15-minute
allotments as I wanted.
"Have any questions?" he asked.
"What kind of soup was in those
cans?" I asked.
"No, no, no, I'm the devil, Satan.
Ask me questions about hell, about
being the devil. . ."
"How long do I have?" I asked.
"Oh, sure. As if you didn't know that
whenever anyone asks me tne time, or
any question with a number in it, my
answer for eternity will be 15 minutes.
For eternity. It's the only number I
know. They ask me how much Johnny
Marzetti I want, I say 15. They ask me
how many times I want to be flagel
lated, I say 15. I mean sometimes I
want to be flagellated 20 times, or even
30. But 15 is all I get."
"Why is hell so much like what I
always thought heaven would be like?"
1 asked.
"Where do you come from, pal?
Miranda's running around with a Cae
sar Chavez nightmare mounted for
all eternity on her head. Tennessee Wil
liams is a woman trapped inside a fop
who's trapped inside a raisin. Monroe
and the Kennedys are rowing down
Styx to a nonexistent birthday party.
There are 10 million Joan Crawford's
chasing Bette Davis around the com
pound with axes. . . .That's not hell?
Try it for a couple million years."
"But it's my dream, it's perfect, it's
trash, it's kitschy, it's a big dancefloor
funfest of shallowness and medio
crity. . ."
really speak with the articulate tongue "
of a man with a huge source of arcane
knowledge a person who knows the
music you have never heard of. In real
life, however, I never bathe, never use
deodorant and never comb my hair. I
just drink, and when I think of some
thing brilliant, I write it down. In the
last tatty pieces of consciousness,
when 1 have had too many beers and
feel sorry for myself, I just raise my can
of Meister Brau and proudly shriek to
the masses, "This is great!" Yes, Cha
rles Lieurance, poet, sage, rock critic
and all-around obscure and arcane
know-it-all, has a two-word vocabulary
in real life. The woras, you ask? iney
are the following: "drink" and "great."
But enough about me, Charles
Lieurance, the Baby Burroughs, the
Wiseman in the wire-Rimmed Ant
Glasses. Take it from me, this album is
what can I say? it's great
(Album courtesy of a store that
sells all the music an alternative
oriented, arcane kind of guy
likes.)
Lieurance parody written by Scott
Harrah.
Stylish Satan grimaces for the
hot new nightspot: hell.
"Take my word for it, it's hell, gobs of
it, hell, hell, hell, hell. Last night I
watched 'Empire' for 8 million years. 8
million. Hell." Warhol walked away
mumbling. Twenty yards away, stand
ing next to the river Styx, he turned.
"By the way, I liked your column
about me," he said.
"You wanna know something?" It
was another voice from right behind
me.
A figure sat on a pile of corn. He
wore overalls, but I couldn't see
his face. It was obscured by a big
straw hat. There was a bunny puppet at
his feet with its mouth stuffed full of
carrots. It looked as though it had
choked to death. Bile was running out
of the sides of its mouth.
"What?" I needed answers.
"This isn't hell and it isn't heaven.
It's nowhere, an oblivion made up of
things that don't matter. It's not even
good enough to be limbo. All the little
unbaptized Catholic drool bunnies make
more difference than any of these peo
ple. I'm Satan and I run this because
it's fun."
"Who are you?" There was some
thing very familiar about him.
Me and Scuzzy
By Stew Magnuson
Staff Blues Expert
There's this Hues teer.d ccniir.2
to the Ar.:rr.;!3 E;r th:3 weehend,
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ihslpcd stuiy foray pemctry
exont, Ar
tv Hues expert, is
cod. KirJ cf in the :rr,3 v, :y Prince
i3 cocl. lis plays a uita,r, arJ he is
tteclc. Thct mear.s he i3 a Hues
musician. I like Hues r.'iciar.s. I
cr.!y started lister.:;; to th:m a ye ex
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Andrea Hoy-VayDaily Halfaskan
many glamorous stars in his
"You think you're a bad boy. You
think evil's wearing little dark horn
rimmed glasses, bathing in guacamole
dip and drinking and dancing till
dawn. You think evil is snorting coke in
the bathroom of the Palladium and
partaking of the pleasure of the flesh
under klieg lights?"
"I want to be a very bad boy, Mr.
Satan' I assured him.
"You want to be a toy, a pretentious
little puppet. You want to flash in the
pan and then lay there like a dry piece
of bacon fat. Check this out."
Satan opened a door behind him.
Calley was shooting babies in a
ditch in Vietnam, Charles Manson
was sticking a fork into a woman's
head, Juan Corona was burying the
limbs of farmworkers in a field, some
loon in Philadelphia was dismember
. ing women and turning them into dog
food, dictators stuffed food in their
pockets while toothpick arms pulled at
their pant legs.
"Have a nice day, Scott Harrah," the
figure said. "Mr. Green Jeans told
you to."
Harrah parody written by Charles
Lieurance
1
Wee duh blues
so I walked down the streets of Sta
pleton and kind of thought stuff out
and stuff. I felt redly burr.med, so I
drove to Lincdn and went to the
; Aniissls- jBsT-x'?-- .End: isccvcfc-dl tlis.
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U:y.-Z3 ztA if you cn!y krr.v
Hues like I know the Hues. C-3 e:3
n tin Anlnali Er. Ccvtr is
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