Wednesday, April 29, 1992

The Esplanade Manor News and Review (April 29, 1992 -- week of the LA riots)


In the wake of the acquittal of four LAPD officers indicted on charges of police brutality in the videotaped beating of black motorist Rodney King, several instances of unrest were reported at the Esplanade Manor here in Chico.

Pat Rupp announced that he could not sleep.

Melinda Long, shoeless activist for the rights of the mentally ill, teamed up with long-time police benefits show entertainer, Anita Rose, in a singing duet consisting of a two hour set of slave music and a Vaudeville purse act. Proceeds from the event will be forwarded to Rodney King to “buy himself something nice.”

Arvada King (undetermined relation) announced that she would be retiring after more than 10 years of service at the Manor. Said King, “I drive in the fog sometimes at night—I don’t want to be mistaken for a black motorist and beaten.”

In widespread defiance of authority, clients at the Manor have been smoking in their rooms and allowing the cigarette butts to smolder on their carpets.

One client, Elizabeth Coolidge, announced that she would keep an all night smoking vigil outside her room until she had consumed 56 cigarettes, one for each of the inflicted blows on the taped beating.

Other clients, demanding cigarettes, donuts and coffee stormed the kitchen and SNC office.

One client, Janet Cree, an undercover CIA agent, on assignment from West Sac., was seen taking part in the looting. She emerged from the kitchen with 5 cans of Folgers, with a street value of $500.

Larry Rowe was arrested for public drunkenness, but this was believed to be unrelated.

Dennis Shoenick and love guru, Glenda Stowe, began a week long love-in to protest the violence.

Mark Ginter used the opportunity to promote some of his more controversial art pieces, in particular, one depicting a black man engaged in full penetration intercourse with a white woman.

Bob Shepherd today said that he would be doubling his medication until further notice.

In the confusion following the kitchen break-in, staff members were seen loading their cars with meat and dairy products from the well-stocked Manor refrigerator/freezer. One female staff member made off with an entire pie.

A fire gutted the smoking table, but determined residents sat at the table throughout the blaze and continued to sit on the charred metal frame well into the morning.

Sereena Mills staged a one-woman hunger strike slightly after lunch but reversed her decision when she discovered that mashed potatoes and gravy were to be served for dinner.

Medication Attendant Steve Knorr barricaded himself inside the Med Room, responding only to knock knock jokes and requests for Pamprin, which he slid under the Med Room door.

Night shift attendant Andrew Golding called for an end to mopping and sweeping duties because “those mop and broom handles look an awful lot like nightsticks.” When asked if this ban would apply to pool cues, he responded curtly, “that is an entirely unrelated matter,” and stalked off toward the Rec Room.

Desiring to take part in the incendiary protest, Mike Goldman, an Antabuse patient, helped out by making non-alcoholic Molotov cocktails.

Dan Beacon was arrested in Sacramento for looting a Thrifty Drug store.

Steve Couvrette, weekend night staff, only had two words regarding the violence in LA—“Send me.”

Tuesday, April 28, 1992

Great Hair Day (more Esplanade Manor Era '90s crap)


You know what?

Fuck it, cause I'm having a great hair day. At least I got that. I need not tell you that in today's emotional currency it is equal to a malted milkshake, a cigarette, a small bong toke. Nice.

Like I said, it's a great hair day as I see it for a couple of reasons: 

1) I can get a fine tooth comb through it.

2) It has a shiny, bouncy appearance, quite unlike its usual mosquito nest of dried coyote thistle. 

3) Jesus himself would have been happy with the peace, love and understanding generated by my flowing amber locks.

4) Why the hell not feel good about something when everything else seems so wrong.

Like my $4.50 hr. job at the Esplanade Manor (for the mentally ill, it is understood locally). And my luck (or lack of it) with females--and I've tried, goddammit, really I have.

Like the Adventuress Wanted dual ads in the Chico and Sacramento News and Reviews.

Like the Adventuress Wanted sign with phone number posted in the window of my travelling Green Metal Army Van Camper.

Like the emotionally suicidal letter to Wreath, with whom I will have to work forever knowing that she knows that I know that she knows that I want to fuck her like a bandit.

Like all my admirers being mentally ill. And you can't date the mentally ill.

Although, within their own society no one wants for sex for long. It is paid for with cigarettes, coffee & lifelong mementos. It is sad to see some people part with their durable goods for something so cheap, almost without value but precisely beyond value, like the rise and decimation of some crazy postwar European economy.

Masturbation is free. Always will be. You know that’s one thing the Bush Administration really hasn't tapped. Like Abstinence. Hey! Masturbation, it's the right thing to do. Yah! We going to show you how to POMP YOUSELF UP.

And all those uncomfortable tv ads for petroleum based lubricants. When you’re down on your luck, I know you all sympathize--Have a sex change and become a girl with far away eyes.

And just what the hell is being accomplished here?

Later.

Sunday, April 26, 1992

Wreath Picture Story (1992)



Today I drew this picture. And it offended Wreath. And she said something about it. It hurt my feelings, but I didn't show it, naturally. Oh, you know me, as transparent as a speedboat.

So I hid it pretty well, and then excused myself for the day and (it was time to go already) did a Clyde Blankenship. Yeah, I cursed Wreath all the way home. And it didn't make me feel better.

The only thing that made me feel better was 1) resigning myself to the fact that she has no taste 2) running to the marijuana, putting a pipeload in the pipe and smoking it down fiercely 3) perhaps knowing that I would eventually talk to you about it and it would be all better.

Here is the offending picture. It's a joke for crying out loud. And I mean CRYING. I don't know what possessed me to draw it. Satan? Perhaps... But some people appreciate my work, my art MY REALITY. MY WORLD. MY ... I... Wahhhhh!!! A-Haught...a-haugh....whaaaaa!!!! Haaaaaaa!!!

Hard to tell just what emotions were expressed there but it sure felt good. Primal. I think I am cured. Goodbye!


Friday, April 24, 1992

Wreath's not human (1992)


Well, she's not human--I can see that myself
And she's not the kind you can buy off the shelf
Lovingkind maiden of mental health
I wanna tell ya, man she's something else

Medication queen of the morning madness
Dispenser of happiness pills and gladness
On a bike, in the wind, it's a different girl
Heading out all alone in this sidewalk world-- letting her hair unfurl

Vocalist Ad (1992, Chico News and Review)



Vocalist/Front Man Available for Garage, Parties--) Club Dates....

"A class-conscious, politically aware 27 year old subculturally insignificant partier type individual, with equipment, image and experience is seeking select musicians to form a junked-out, farm animal bleating, unpopular band to begin at once enraging and entertaining the public at large. Also play a little guitar."

"Musical influences? Influenza? The Today Show, Cheech and Chong's Next Movie, Humpback Whales: the sine wave collection, Spinal Tap, Walter Mondale, ETC, Jeff Beck, Carlos Castaneda, Eric Clapton, Evita, Carlos Santana, Beethoven, Jimmy Page, David Bowie, Hair, Led Zeppelin, Cat Stevens, Samantha Stevens, Patty Loveless, Jimi Plays Berkely, The Who, Madonna, The Dead and Jerry, Mudhoney, Nirvana, Wasted Youth, Flipper, oh, hell…whatever."

Call Andrew at once for more information: 343-2372

Wednesday, April 15, 1992

Captain's Log Re: Wreath

1-2-3-4 (5) Captain's personal log. Damn! God-damn.
 
I sense a great burden of emotion, and I'm constrained to write. Wreath, goddammit now, I really wanted to go on that bike ride today. It was not just some "wild hair" that I might have had, it was our first date you cancelled.
 
I knew it was too good to hope for. Too wild of an assumption. You're toying with me. I am nothing. I should have known I didn't stand a chance.
 
So I may cry in my beer while you file your nails and get ready to spend this memorial day weekend with your old friends from Magalia. Be Careful, Honey Child. May we ride bikes again on another day,
assuming no one snatches you up this weekend forever.
 
Goddamn fuckin' tragic, the way I've fallen for you all of a sudden. You matter more to me right now than, oh, say alot of things, and I don't just mean like brussel sprouts, which I wouldn't like anyway.
 
Honey, please don't change over this weekend and be gone forever and ever. I couldn't stand that. I so recently found you. You are a treasure. One in a million. 
 
I may be a compulsive wretch, in writing these desperate words of praise, but at least I'm a wretch with taste. You are the finest. And well, to be without you or at least the hope of you in my heart, is, well, unfulfilling, to say the least.

Ok, well, my brain and body are conking out on me anyway.

Friday, April 10, 1992

Letter to my ex co-workers at Hondo Die Supply

 4-10-92

To all my dear friends at Hondo:

Well, here I am still in Chico, and there you all are. I miss you all, miss my old crappy apartment, my mail order Mexican girlfriend and that dirt-bag band I was playing with. I miss driving that piece of shit orange truck and all the big time money I was making there.

At this point, you may ask, "Well, so what?" 

Good point. I miss the good times that were under my nose, but which I could not appreciate (due to sinus congestion). 

Anyway, after my uncle decided to  keep the house, I figured I'd better stay and make a go of it up here and so here I am, still working at Esplanade Manor, a board and care facility for the mentally ill. The pay is $4.25 per hour, but the work is kickback. One hour of work per 8 hour shift (a little mopping and trash) and the rest is reading, playing pool or eating in the kitchen.

Everyone here is nice, with the exception of Arvada, the graveyard supervisor who I work with 3 out of 5 nights a week. She has been nicknamed the Queen of Ice because of her chilly disposition. She plays her fucking country music all damn night and picks at a scab on her wrist (which is turning green and looks cancerous, or at least like an animal bit out a chunk and puked it back onto her arm).

The patients here are your average Winchell's Donut, trailer park, shopping basket, bowling alley types. They are all chain smokers and chain coffee drinkers. They would sell their soul or body for a smoke and 25 cents. 

One lady watches her purse for hours on end, waiting for it to do acrobatics. Another says she's from Mars and took a crap in the dining room the other day. She's better now that they increased her meds. 

Most people here just shuffle around like zombies. Glenda Stowe, a night robe clad, Bible totin' granny, yells at the top of her lungs at voices she hears in her head all day and night. 

Most are delusional, paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive or psychotic. Some are just drunks, druggies or bums. But their social security allotment is more than I make in a month.

I go fishing every other morning, right after work, in the Sacramento River, which is about 10 minutes out of town. I bought I kayak for fishing the inaccessible spots, and the first day I used it went great. The thing is homemade, so I worried about leaks, but there were none. 

The second day, I took it out and capsized it. I had to abandon ship, as I was drifting downriver with no paddle. I salvaged everything except my lunch and my pride. I still have not caught a single fish in that river, though they leap out of the water right in front of your face.

I had to quit hanging around with Brian (what is it with people who have this name) a fellow I met in class, when I was still going. We'd watch football, drink beer, fish and get high -- which is all fine. He'd usually pay. That was also fine.

Then he began making homosexual advances and innuendos, so I had to shit can the relationship. He'd say shit when we were playing pool in a bar like, "So, you wanna go home and have some oral sex?" Why can't women ever ask me this?

Chico is a small town, so although this dude is out of my life, he still works at the Chevron downtown. I'll miss the bong hits, though.

My plans are this: 

Sell my car and get a van. Save enough money for a six month U.S. tour. Find a cheap trailer park slut who wants to cut loose and then blow this town. 

After the trip, we'll either return to Chico and work for a while, then save up and buy a trailer. My ultimate goal is to get about five acres of land, grow pot on it and pay my property taxes. Then die.

I'd like to get a dog, too, but that's optional. No kids. I'll probably wait until I come back to town, and then join a band. Maybe take a class or two. 

Anyway, L.A. doesn't seem to be in my plans, except as a party stop along my voyage. My best regards to you all, till we meet again.

Love and (heterosexual) kisses,
Andrew


Friday, April 3, 1992

Mental Love Song (4-3-92)


I’d foam at the mouth if it got me put under your care
I’d take off my clothes and run around in my underwear
I’d howl like a banshee and bark at the moon
Yes, for you I’d go as crazy as a loon

For you I’d baste myself in peanut butter
I’d stand in the corner and just let my eyelids flutter
For you I’d give up my sanity
If being mentally ill could get you next to me

When you’re near, the rest of the world’s out of focus
When your gone, I’m like a Catholic that’s Popeless
I long to see you dressed up all in white
Even if it’s because I’m institutionalized

I’ll take medication, if it helps me to see you
Be my conservator, baby, you know I need you
A million voices in my head can’t be wrong
Be my Faye Wray, and I’ll be your King Kong

I’ve got those psycho self-destructive
Bipolar schizophrenic blues

Beautiful Gal (Another Wreath Love Song - 92)


 
                                                                                                                           4-3-92
You're such a beautiful gal
And you work for a guy named Hal
If I could, I'd like to be your pal
But you're such a beautiful gal
 
Tall, but not lanky
Monday mornings, never cranky
Like to know -- are you into any hanky-panky?
God damn, you're a beautiful gal
 
It only takes a giggle
(I like to watch your body wiggle)
There are places I'd like to tickle
'Cause you're such a beautiful gal
 
Your name sounds like a whole bunch of flowers
I could stare at those pretty dark eyes for hours
You know you're the reason I been takin' showers
You're such a beautiful gal
 
Some day when the time is right
After I been up drinkin' coffee all night
Gonna call you sweet baby in the AM light
Gonna call you my beautiful gal
 
In your cow colored jeans you're a dream, my queen Wreath
I just want to see for myself what's underneath
When I die, to you my worldly goods I bequeath
'Cause you're such a drop-dead gorgeous, fucking beautiful gal
 
 

I Wanna Take You On A Camping Trip



I Wanna Take You On A Camping Trip                                                      4-3-92

I wanna take you on a camping trip
On account of 'cause you're totally hip
So what I let my intentions slip
I wanna take you on a camping trip
 
California, Montana and New Orleans
Just you and me in our sandals and jeans
I like my women frisky and my salads green
I'd like to take you camping, if you know what I mean
 
We could take off down the road
And never have to make sure the the front yard's mowed
You ain't no princess, and I ain't no toad
And I smoke the best dope that's ever been growed
 
We'll see rocks, we'll see trees
We won't have any money, but we'll do as we please
Like a couple of tomcats (except for the fleas)
'Cause I like you like a mouse likes cheese

In our painted school bus
With tie-dye curtains, just the two of us
We'll park in places, but we'll gather no dust
Me, my baby and a dog we both trust

When we leave, our friends will all gather 'round
But we won't tell nobody where we're bound
As we raise our middle fingers to salute this town
You be the juggler, and I'll be the clown