Another lame personal ad response (1990)

Huh... Well, less see...Hi! Whoa!! You sexy thing!

Come to find out, I can't even describe myself at all. At all. Does that make me indescribable? In so many words, yes.

So who am I tryin' to fool. I am 70+ years old, I have herpes 10 and have tested HIV positive. So, who's judging?

No, come to think of it I am 25 years old and financially secure (not no big fancy yuppie CEO bank account come lately). I do the 40 hr. week rat trap but for the time being my income is more than adequate and my needs are all met. So what?

So, I am not a bum. Nor am I a junkie. Nor a cigarette smoker. Distaste. I do smoke a pipe, but only with mari-juana in it, and usually with friends.

I don't drink at all. I should, I am getting pretty dehydrated, some leaves are curling up. No that's not true, that would make me a plant. Ok, so I drink a little. Maybe on the weekends, if I am going out with friends. Or after a particularly long day, or with dinner.

Ok, so I drink like a fish. No, I really don't care for the stuff that much, and I could live entirely without it if the right woman were to come along, to make me forget about life's hardships.

What do I like to do? OK, but not necessarily in order of preference: play guitar, sing, converse, make love, ride motorcycles, ride bicycles, write, draw or create artistically, um...dine exotically, cook exotically, visit exotic places, meet exotic people, movies, live music, read, fish.

Ah, whudda you like to do? Art galleries, museums and observatories--yes, but they are dreadful alone. You would have to be my companion or these things will be empty. Mere observances. Things done to while away the midnight hours, all alone.

Like, what am I looking for in a woman? Hell, you tell me and we'll both know. The ideal woman does not exist because perfect people do not exist. But the right woman must have more than her share of good qualities. Qualities mainly of the soul. Kindness, compassion, caring, honesty, intelligence, warmth...just the kinds of things that everybody likes in others.

But if you'd like to know blond or red-head, slender or full-figured, tall or petite--hey, come on over and we'll see. You must be loveable. That is all that matters. To me.

So, I'll get all the Fat Circus freak women and all the abnormally shaped head women, and the ones with club feet and crossed eyes. No. I's sorry. Do I sound malevolent? I's jess foolin'.

Do I sound like a bullshitter? I am not. I don't even like to exaggerate, so I may seem pessimistic. I am not. I am an optimistic realist who acts like a sarcastic pessimist, but I am never cynical. Things really do matter.

So call me. Or write. I can hardly wait.

Love, Andrew

Answering Machine Message (Downey 1990)

Hi, this is Andrew

I’m not at home –or maybe I went fishing

However, leave a message and all that stuff.

If you’re calling about the ad in the Recycler—you have reached the right place.

Um, influences? Hard to say.

Flipper, Hendrix, Sex Pistols, Old Skull, Old TSOL and other hardcore

The music I’m interested in could be anywhere from noise to classical. Well, if I ever get it together. Tell me what you’re interested in and maybe we can jam.

(Take Two)

Hi there, this is Andrew

Too busy to come to the phone, or maybe I went fishing

If you’re calling about the ad in the Recycler, you have reached the Dorkazoid Guitarist.

If you are interested in an eclectic blend of trash, including noise, punk, garage rock, underground rock, metal, hardcore, psychedelic, alternative, progressive, fusion—I don’t know what all this means I’m just making it up. Just be funky and creative and who knows.

Flipper, Hendrix, Germs, Jefferson Airplane, Old Skull, Old TSOL, Clawhammer, Sacred Denial

Trying to write porn while high (Downey, CA 1990)

We fought like pigs in an uproar all day long until it was night. Then we fucked like dogs on a summer night. I wanted to stick a carrot up her butt so bad it made me whimper. I did not come. She had a face that'd make a Ford pickup look like first place in a basket weaving contest. Oh, the shame of it all. To me she was nothing. I could have stuck my dick inside a tube dowel.

Parts is parts.

She flung open her dress to reveal a wooden leg. She was in a piss-poor mood to boot. I could have killed her, but instead I kissed her--with force. I then opened the palm of her hand and gazed into a nebula which revealed another world. One in which humans can see 333 percent better and perceive kHz -.110 to 50,000 just like dogs. Special glands enable us to float above the ground, with only minimal concern.

So once again, I wade and wander to the store, amid stacks of newspapers, and Campbell Soup cans.

ID 01P TITLE web feet SIZE  975

Caress

Yen

MATE

GROAN

LONG

LUST

On the subject of Paul, Timmy and buggars

Timmy never learned. Whatever the case or instance of his ignorance anyone chooses to discuss, Timmy is always going to come out smelling like a transmission. I used to hear it said that Timmy smelled like lots of pork after it's been killed in the sun. And Paul, his brother, known also as “the whale," smelled like some underwear that's been lying in a corner. There is more to it all than that but you must remember that water flows quickly, oil and honey more slowly and shit more slowly than the two of them.

Buggars are the eighth wonder of the world. The first seven pale beside the majestic green olive camouflage bits of olfactory byproducts. Once I knew a man who picked his nose in the window
of a famous restaurant in downtown Hollywood owned by an Iranian Jew named Raji. The man would always ask for this particular window to sit by and would always order coffee and say that he would be ready to order in a little while but that his stomach had to settle, oblivious to the unconcern of the waiter. Then, when the waiter had his back turned he'd pick a big green one and fling it up against the window. I must have witnessed this scene daily from the bus stop outside the window. One time I rode the bus twice in one day, and both times when the bus stopped outside that restaurant I could see the man, evilly leering at the window about to hurl his mucous missile at the glass.

More ramblings on the subject of Paul and Dorsey Fallen

 long forgotten love affairs, buggers hanging out of the na -

Jesse wore his suitcase like a diving bell; he had cut a hole in the bottom so his little head could see inside the small world of clothing and personal hygiene devices. 

Paul was a beautiful baby, very fat and hairy, but that was good, the doctors and specialists all agreed. “A wonderful mongoloid you have there, Mrs. Fallen.” Well, that was encouraging. Timmy had been such a disappointment. Betty had wanted a girl, and Dorsey wanted about four or six hefty men, so there would be someone sure to carry the casket at Betty's funeral. Those are important considerations for a man in the back woods of Kentucky with a four hundred pound wife.

 

Paul didn't know of these plans for a family pall-bearing unit. It would be many years and a whole lot of beers later before Dorsey Fallen would spill his guts to his third son, Paul one day

Then he said to him, "Oh, shut up my man of little cock."

Paul and Dorsey, new typewriter, buggars

Whenever someone asks about the use of gerbils or “the @&

wonders

Long after the first of the Snephites deserted the planet of Dostiv 13, we all had gotten used to the occasional blat of raining down buggars in ;the night.

BuggARS

Buggars in the night or "As the Twinkle toe communist cocksucker got his start.”

Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey woulsd

Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey would always say, but he was good. Best damn retarded kid a man ever had. Dorsey had quite a few things to say about Paul that weren't so kind or generous but Paul never took any of these things to heart. Paul, as myself, does not have any pubic hairs inside of his thighs; he a victim of brutal rape, myself a bizarre shaving accident. No matter, it is unimportant. First, we must ask our

This is a very nice typewriter, although it is somewhat impersonal For instance, if you'll notice, there is no period gracing the end of my last sentence. Yes, MY last sentence. Ok, so it's not the last one anymore, it's a couple back. But on a clear day, when there are no cops or ambulances or people dying in the room next door, you can really get a sense of peace. Not lasting or anything, but you'll never notice if you don't think about it.

Timmy (date approximate)

Walking down the freeway, playin' with himself

Lookin' like Charlie Manson

Head down, jeans slung low

My ain't that boy handsome

 

                    chorus

 

Smellin' like bacon, sellin' scrap aluminum

Timmy

Pushin' a shopping cart, wanderin' like a bum

Timmy 

 

Sittin' on the front porch, dressed in drag

Drinkin' an Old Milwaukee beer

Unwashed, green-toothed, slobberin' like a dog

Been a long time since he's seen a mirror

 

Lyin' on his back in a puddle of brake fluid

Lickin' his lips with glee

Gonna make five dollars, gonna buy him some chiva

To forget about his chiggers and fleas

 

                    chorus

 

And Timmy

Has never washed his hair

And Timmy

Just don't seem to care...

About hygiene  

 

 

 

----

 

**Note: Although the exact date is questionable, I am certain that it came from this general time period. I was stumped by the fact that it was originally printed out on an industrial sized piece of green and white computer paper with a dot matrix tractor-feed printer, the kind I would associate with an 80s college computer lab. However, I remembered that during this time, I was working in the office at a manufacturing plant in South Gate, and they used similar printers for various inventory and financial reports. This was me making my best use of company time and resources.**

It's A Hard (date approximate)

What have you done, my bubble-eyed son? 

What have you done, my mutant young one?

 

I've starred in a picture made by John Waters

I've been the receiver of fifty face farters

I've walked and I've crawled down Pacific Coast Highway

I've prostituted my penis to purchase some homegrown

I've spent many nights hunched over a toilet

 

And it's a hard -- and it's a hard -- and it's a hard

And it's a hard -- and it's a hard penis

Packed by Paul

 

Where have you been, my bubble eyed son?

And where have you been, my brain dead young one?

 

I've been down Paul's pants in search of some underwear

I've been up to Frisco & worked as a hooker

I've been ten thousand miles down the old Hershey Highway

I've stalked tiny rodents down the sewers of Stanton

Fried 'em up in a tin can on an ancient Bic lighter

 

Chorus

 

What have you seen --

What have you seen, my puke faced young one?

 

I've seen grime and black fungus in crevices forgotten

I've seen pus mixed w/toejam inside of a blister

I've seen group sex with dogs and become a member

I've seen turds in the toilet w/corn in the middle 

 

 

 

----

 

**Note from the present day: 

 

I'm not proud of this shit. I'm just being thorough is all. This was more of the puerile and non-enlightened crap that was going on in my unevolved brain during this period. 

 

A group of local kids I associated with, in high school and later years, would relentlessly ridicule this one family, who admittedly had a few untidy characteristics, mostly stemming from generational alcohol abuse. Their lives were fucked up from the get-go, and they developed some self-destructive coping skills, most of which ran them afoul of the law. 

 

But we certainly didn't make things any better for them by composing these shameful ditties. So, posthumously: Paul, Timmy, Dorsey, Betty, Stevie, Neil -- all the Fallon clan, even Pepper the Dog -- I'm sorry.**

No Toilet Paper Song -- What Am I Going To Do (date approximate)

Stuck in the bathroom

Without any toilet paper

What am I going to do?

 

I can't reach the washcloth

I can't use my old sock

It's outside the door in my shoe

 

What am I going to do?

 

I'm stuck on the toilet

Nuthin' to wipe my butt with

Who used the last and did not tell me?

 

If I let it dry like that

It surely will itch and crack

And everyone on my whole block will smell me