Instead, return with me now to October of 1976. Here I am in Forest Grove, Oregon, the garden spot of the Pacific Northwest. I spent most of my time in the fall of ’76 talking into microphones or pointing them at other people who had something to say.

Here’s a recording from that glorious month. In it, your resourceful teenage reporter, thirsty for the truth, looks for a few honest words from the student body of Pacific University about a topic of great interest: the food service!

I’m sure you’ll be surprised to discover that the college kids of the Jerry Ford era were entirely satisfied with how kindly they were being taken care of.

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Hot beads of sticky sweat were trickling down my forehead and dripping off my eyelashes. I stood silently, listening for the naked teenage boys who were hunting me in the boys’ locker room at LeConte Junior High School. The aerosol can of Right Guard was in my left hand. My bare back was against the cold lockers. I was determined to make it to the shower without being ambushed. The deodorant was my only weapon – and the only weapon of my pursuers.

I became aware of somebody just around the corner, beyond the edge of the bank of lockers I was cornered behind. Rather than submit I decided to go on the offensive, to lash out against those who might try to humiliate me. What other option is there for a naked 13 year-old boy?

I jumped out from my hiding place and fired the deodorant at the kid who was about to do the same, scoring a direct hit in the belly! “That’s right,” I thought, “Nobody is going to bully me and get away with it without a fight!”

Coach Robert Hills was the head Boys PE teacher at LeConte Junior High. He was a crew-cut disciplinarian, and like most of the men of his age and experience in 1972, Coach Hills did not like scruffy-haired boys. I thought Mr. Hills was fair and honest, though, and eager to recognize a good effort or an improved performance from any of his students. I had concluded a long time ago that the safe thing to do was to obey him to the letter (except about getting a haircut) and otherwise stay out of his way.

I knew I had made a serious mistake when I observed that the target of my aerosol assault was fully dressed. Looking up, I became aware of just how dreadful a mistake it really was. I saw the angry eyes of Coach Hills looking down at me, shiny and black, like the openings of a double-barreled shotgun pointed at my face.

The coach’s reaction was instant and automatic. He grabbed my long hair with his right hand and used it as a leash with which to guide me to the coaches’ office. Coach Lamb, the eldest coach on the staff, looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“That boy needs a shower and a haircut, Coach.”

“He needs some swats first. He just fired on me with deodorant. I’ve got enough troubles. I don’t need f***ing naked longhair punks jumping around shooting me with s*** they oughta be using on themselves.”

Coach Hills pulled a couple of possible weapons out of a drawer, selecting what looked like a ping pong paddle with a long handle and holes in the paddle. He looked at it and swished it through the air a couple of times, with a tiny smile on his face, then he looked me in the eye.

“Son, do you understand it’s wrong to spray your coach with deodorant?”

I looked back into his eyes. They didn’t look all black anymore.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I understand…”

I could tell that I was getting in more trouble but I wasn’t sure why. Coach Hills repeated his question, with a little more anger and contempt. Coach Lamb offered a quiet suggestion.

“Yes, sir…”

Sometimes I need a helpful stage manager to feed me my lines, especially when I’m naked and about to “get swats” from the coach I just doused with deodorant. Again I looked up into Coach Hills’ eyes.

“Yes, sir, I understand it’s wrong to spray my coach with deodorant.”

The coach gently tapped the edge of the paddle on the counter, no doubt to get a better grip and to remind me of the swatting I had in store. He looked into my eyes and asked,

“Do you understand that it’s wrong to run around naked in the locker room, that it’s against the rules to run in there when you’re dressed?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Good. To make sure you remember, put your hands on the counter.”

I obeyed. The first swat came about three seconds later, preceded by a fairly loud swoosh sound. Two other swats followed, separated by about five seconds each. I was impressed by how loud they were. They hurt, too, a lot. A few seconds after the third swat, the coach said,

“OK, turn around.” I looked up into his eyes. “Take a shower. I’ll see you tomorrow – you guys are running a mile and we’re gonna time you.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walked back into the locker room in high spirits. Sure, I had an acutely sore and completely naked butt, yet I figured I was going to be received like a hero. After all, hadn’t I just taken three swats that easily could have gone to just about anybody? Didn’t I just spray deodorant on Coach Hills, a wildly brave and impressive act of resistance? I figured they’d probably treat me as if I’d just hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth. At least I’d be getting a wild round of applause.

Instead, it was quiet like a funeral home after closing hours. A few guys looked at me as I came in, but in silence. Everybody knew that when the coaches were dispensing swats it was a good idea to keep still, so as not to tempt fate. I was one of the last ones to the showers. I got washed off and dried in time for my next class, but I had to borrow some deodorant. I’d left mine in the coaches office and I didn’t think it was wise to go back.

Nobody – including me – felt that the punishment didn’t fit the crime. We might not all have thought it “wrong” to spray Coach Hills, but we unanimously agreed it was highly unwise and dangerous, definitely something an intelligent lad wouldn’t do. I didn’t tell my parents because I was ashamed of what I’d done – and because I figured they’d agree with me that I’d basically got what I had coming. The swats did no real damage, and the fact that the coaches judged that I “took my punishment like a man” seemed to raise my status in their esteem.

This incident happened in the spring of 1972, when I was in 8th grade. Here’s a picture from May ’72. You might think that a public junior high school in Hollywood, California in 1972 would be a bastion of hard-core leftist politics, or at least some real adolescent rebellion – and you’d be wrong.

At the start of every day of classes, first thing in the morning, the school PA system would play a bugle call! Everybody had to stand at attention, in silence, while the melody played. This was before the Pledge of Allegience. At the end of the school day, another bugle call played, and again everybody was supposed to stand at silent attentnion throughout the melody.

Why do you think we were subjected to this kind of treatment? These rituals probably did quite a bit to inhibit most kids from even thinking about joining me and some of my very young friends who opposed the war in Vietnam, both in school and in the streets. I can say for sure that being forced to behave like a military cadet helped teach me that most authority is arbitrary and stupid. In that case, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

A lot has changed since 1972. Coaches and other teachers aren’t supposed to hit students anymore. That’s fine. I don’t want the kids I’m helping raise to be beaten by their teachers. I have never struck any of them myself (although I did bite one of them once, and trust me, she had it coming). And yet, sometimes I think we’ve made a lot of things in life more complicated than they need to be. Back in the spring of ’72, I ambushed one of my coaches with a can of Right Guard. He gave me a spanking. The whole incident couldn’t have taken more than five minutes. What do you think might happen if the same chain of events unfolded today?

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One of the most popular posts on these pages is a piece I wrote about being on-stage with Perfumes of Araby at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire in 1972. That post has a nice photo of Diane that my dad took that year. Here is another photo I’ve found in the family archives. This is a picture of Diane I took at 1971 at the Faire in Agoura.

Every May I think back to the halcyon days of the Renaissance Faire, adrift on the mists of time. I expect to come up with super-8 movie film of one of Diane’s faire performances, captured on two cameras. I also expect to receive a unicorn for my next birthday.

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That’s more than enough consumerism for now. No doubt you are well-pleased to have spent precious moments of your life thinking about transistor radios over the decades. That’s not something everybody gets to do every day, is it?

Spring is bringing some lovely little flowers. Some, like the nice tomato flowers to the far left, are going to end up on the dinner table. Others, such as the other tiny and treacherous  flowers you see, are destined to be ‘eliminated.’

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Friends of the family thought this was a cute name for an essentially nice cat. What they did not know is that the animal you see in this 1973 photograph actually is Ming the Merciless of the planet Mongo. Here’s the story – back in the early-to-mid 1960′s, my dad was a writer for Bill Burrud, well-known for his syndicated travel shows on TV. One of the old-time hands from Hollywood who worked on the team was a guy named Barney A. Sarecky, famous for saying “All houses are haunted. All persons are haunted. Throngs of spirits follow us everywhere. We are never alone.”

Barney Sarecky was the man responsible for producing the Flash Gordon movie serials starring Buster Crabbe back in the 1930′s. It turned out that “Charlie Middleton” was a real alien who had been stranded in America around 1910. He was a shape shifter on his home planet, and enjoyed considerable success in vaudeville and the first couple decades of talking pictures. Barney hired him because it seemed a natural fit and because he didn’t have to pay more than scale.  One night at a Hollywood party, for reasons that remain a mystery, Middleton changed into a cat and discovered that he was unable to change back into human form (his original life form did not breathe our air).

The cat lived with Barney until the old producer died. My dad agreed to take him in after that, and Ming the Merciless, Emperor of Mongo, otherwise known as Charlie Middleton, lived out the rest of his days on Rutherford Drive in the Hollywood Hills.

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In 1975, the music scene in Hollywood was primed for the punk rock and heavy metal explosion that was only a few months away. Although the TV industry was busy marketing 50′s nostalgia, there was a little-remembered movement that looked back to the 1930′s and 40′s for its inspiration.

People liked to joke that 70′s teenage crooners were out of step with the times, but the truth had more to do with Money, the great purpose for which all of Hollywood owes its existence. It’s a lot cheaper to work with a four or five-member rock band than it is to take a full orchestra on the road!

Here is a picture of me from June 6, 1975, on stage in Hollywood, in the middle of a medley of songs that included “Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams,” “White Christmas,” “Cold Turkey,” and “Accentuate the Positive.” Sadly, no audio exists from this notable event.

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We’re all quite aware of the fact that the US Corporate Media are adept at covering up bad news they don’t want us to be alarmed about – so it comes as no surprise that the Zombie Uprising that took place in the Hollywood Hills back in the summer and fall of 1972 isn’t part of our history books.

(In these pages I’ve exploded some of our domestic myths. Did you know that the Twin Towers were in West LA before they were moved to NYC? I’ve also explained how UFO’s insure that San Diego has better weather than you have.)

The unhappy truth is that hordes of wretched undead were grazing for brains in Hollywood during its so-called “Silver Age.” This lead to a predictable panic, especially considering that the relatively small size of brains in Hollywood gave rise to justifiable fears that a greater-than-ordinary body count might result when zombies couldn’t get their fill from one or two fresh brains.

Accordingly, some of the more athletic and idealistic young men in Hollywood were chosen for training in the deadly arts. This is one of the few actual photos of hand-to-hand combat between a representative of the living and one of the minions of Satan. Although I daresay that my comrades and I sent our share of zombies back to Hell, the truth is that they weren’t vanquished by us. It turns out that zombies are fatally allergic to cocaine. By the time they made it west of the Beachwood Canyon and reached Laurel Canyon, it was pretty much all over.

More important Zombie History is available for those of you who are interested in the field.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Classic Regency Romance – Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies Deluxe Edition (Quirk Classics)

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Debbie and I weren’t friends, but one time a substitute teacher made us hold hands in class as part of an exercise. Her hands were soft and warm but not squishy. I liked her, though I got the clear impression that she would have been happier holding hands with most of the other boys in class.

She made enough of an impression on me that I recognized her name at the time of her marriage to Michael Jackson. I had gone to Gardner Street Elementary School in Hollywood for first through fifth grade. I left Gardner when my parents moved into the Hollywood Hills. My slot at Gardner was filled in September, 1969 by a transfer student named Michael Jackson. It’s a small world.

At the end of the 1990′s I found myself in a Ventura County Superior Courtroom, where I was defending a guy on Third Strike felony charges. One of the first twelve prospective jurors in the case was none other than Debbie Rowe.  I asked to approach the bench. “Your honor, Juror #5 was a classmate of mine at Hollywood High in the 70′s. Her name is Debbie Rowe and she’s married to Michael Jackson.”

The judge had been on the team of prosecutors during the first Michael Jackson child molestation case, the one that ended when MJ paid millions to the alleged victim. I came to view the judge as a prosecutor in judicial robes, utterly blind to fairness or the pursuit of truth…but that’s a story for later.

I watched Ms. Rowe as the prosecutor asked her questions. She looked and sounded much the same, but her jaw looked as if it had spent a lot of time clenched during recent years, and I sensed a great desire  on her part to be left alone.”I like police officers,” she told the prosecutor. “My husband is an entertainer. He hires off-duty officers to protect me and our children.”

OK, put yourself in my position. You’re defending a serious felony case. Do you want Debbie Rowe on your jury? Would you use a preemptory challenge to kick her off the case? As I sat in court considering exactly that question, it turned out that it wasn’t a decision I was going to have to make.

“The People would like the court to thank and excuse Juror #5.”

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Diane Webber was one of the most gifted artists I have had the honor to know. She founded Perfumes of Araby, one of the first American belly dancing companies. My dad took this photograph of Diane at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire in May, 1972.

Believe it or not, the Renaissance Pleasure Faire used to be spectacular fun, especially from about 1968-1973. Those were the years after the LA Sheriff’s department stopped surrounding the venue with mounted cavalry and before the people who ran the Faire started taking themselves too seriously. Back then it was a gathering of counterculture types from the beatnik and hippie eras.

I had the fantastic good fortune to spend many hours on stage with Perfumes of Araby, unobtrusively on the side or in back with the musicians, except for my star turn helping one dancer get her giant snake back in its basket. I remember one afternoon as if it happened yesterday, although it was almost 37 years ago.  We were on the small stage at a corner of the Faire for an early afternoon show. The lead drummer yelled out to the audience, “baksheesh,” which throughout the Arab world means charitable giving.  Some guy in the audience threw about half a dozen fat joints of dope onto the stage, wrapped together with a couple of rubber bands.  My eyes popped out so far the pupils thought it was recess.

The joints landed a few feet in front of me. I thought to myself, “I’m 13. I spend hours every day at the Faire on stage with beautiful, athletic, dancing women. And the audience throws drugs on stage! Am I living one of the best lives a teenager can hope to have, or what?” While I was entertaining myself with these grandiose thoughts about my own splendid good fortune, the drummer glided across the carpet and the felonious cigarettes disappeared into his vest pocket without his missing a beat. Right then, another thought came to my mind. “I’m an idiot teenager who doesn’t know anything, but that drummer has got a pretty soft racket going…”

From 1969 through 1972, Diane and Perfumes of Araby had the big stage for the last hour of the Faire. Her show was so wonderful that anybody who was left at the Faire would come watch her. It’s worth noting that although Diane’s shows were extremely sensual, they didn’t pander to the audience.  Lots of women and children enjoyed the shows.

OK – you might find yourself asking this: just exactly what does belly dancing have to do with the Renaissance in Europe? Who cares? Use your imagination! Or go sit under a tree and have somebody play “Greensleeves” for you on a hammer dulcimer, and let the rest of us have our fun.

Diane Webber was a fine artist and a successful businesswoman.

May 10, 2010 update: here is another picture of Diane, from 1971.

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Millions of people all over the world have been inspired by President Obama. Americans are pulling together as never before.

We can learn from the past. We’ve shared hard times before. This picture was taken back when President Jerry Ford was encoraging us to wear “Whip Inflation Now” (WIN) buttons. The cat’s name is Dragon. Back in the spring of 1974,  he made national headlines when he decided to forego expensive meat-based cat food in favor of plain saltine crackers. Sure, he was just one cat, but he was prepared to take a stand against high cat food prices.

President Obama is a lot smarter than Jerry Ford.  Mr. Obama is not going to ask us to wear silly buttons. He may, however, ask us all to spend a few years eating saltine crackers.  And we’ll all say, “Sure, Mr. President, if it helps to pay for corporate tax cuts!”

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Not many people remember American Motors, (AMC). This is a car company that went broke and died out years before it became fashionable.  Behold a not-in-showroom-condition ’71 Hornet Sportabout.

My friends and I used to refer to this car as the “Silver Rolls”. What this car lacked in looks it made up for by being distinctly uncomfortable. Seeing this car makes me smile – for all its shortcomings, it still brings back memories of adolescent freedom. Yes, I remember back in June of 1977, driving north on Cahuenga towards Franklin, listening to the Young Marquis and Stanley on KROQ AM play “Back in the Saddle” by Aerosmith, along with Sparks and the Ramones. There was one speaker set into the middle of the top of the dashboard.

My dad crash tested this car in September of 1972.  My mom and I were in the car with him; it was a typical family affair. We were going up the narrow and twisty Hollyridge Drive in the Hollywood Hills at dusk. As my dad drove around a blind curve, a teenager in a stolen Cadillac hit the front corner on the driver’s side. It turned out that the Hornet could take a punch.

This car lived a surprisingly long and expensive life. After that, my parents drove Hondas.

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We begin 2009 with a Presidential innaguration coming up and hundreds of millions of people all around the world yearning for peace.

Here’s a campaign poster that has been on the wall since I was 13 years old. See the big burning pile of American wealth behind Mr. Nixon? We’ve been stoking that fire ever since, sadly.

Mr. Obama has promised to spend more, not less, on war. What a tragic waste.

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Here’s yet another glorious California Sunset, this one taken from the Hollywood Hills back at the very start of 1975, during the halcyon days of the Gerald Ford administration. You can see the familiar Capitol Records building.

What makes this an important photograph is the part of America’s Secret History that it reveals.  If you look on the horizon towards the right, you’ll see the Twin Towers. People forget that the Twin Towers originally were the anchor of the Century City real estate development. When Jerry Brown replaced Ronald Reagan as governor, he and the Democrats worried that the towers would fall in the event of a major earthquake. Accordingly, they arranged to sell the towers to the City of New York.

Abraham Beame, Mayor of NYC, presided over the grand opening of the Twin Towers in Manhattan during the celebrations for the US Bicentennial in July of 1976, with the Tall Ships in the harbor nearby. Who can say how different our history would have been if the famous buildings had remained in southern California? Experts agree it is unlikely they would have survived the 1994 Northridge earthquake.

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Here is a fine cat named Tribble.  Like many of the animals in these pages, Tribble has been dead for many  years.  Yet this cat remains a splendid role model for us all.  Not only was he a noble, kitten-protecting big cat, he had a glorious attitude toward life. Tribble was the sort of cat who would stretch out on his back and fall asleep, only to awaken half an hour later to complete the stretch and then go on about his business. We can learn from his example: you’re a lot more likely to get your belly rubbed if you spend a lot of time asleep, smiling, and stretched out on your back.

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Here’s a splendid bit of visual art that’s been on display in various rooms I’ve slept and worked in. Rosco  Wright and my parents were friends at the University of Oregon way back in times that appear to have been mostly black and white, and in the decades thereafter.

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