KISS

We bought our KISS tickets at record town in north Miami. It was 1976, and the band was on the verge of what became worldwide rock n' roll domination for the greasepaint foursome. David Linhart and myself listened to KISS Alive all Saturday morning and decided to get an early start towards the Hollywood Sportatorium, a pretty good sized arena located in the middle of nowheresville. I'd seen the Greatful Dead, Ted Nugent, Aerosmith, Foghat, and countless other groups play there, but seeing KISS, was something different. These guys had a dangerous edge that the others lacked. I was always a tag-along for the other shows, and this baby was all ours. I was a charter member of the KISS army, and I had one whole wall of my bedroom dedicated to their exploits. I had my Mother sew my KISS army patch onto the arm of my dungree jacket, just in case there was any speculation on the matter. Arriving early to the concert served two purposes; a better shot at a front row seat (the tickets were general admission), and a chance to practice my new sideline as a drug dealer.

I had befriended Ernie, a surfer/burnout dude about a month earlier. when I was invited to hang out at his apartment through a mutual pal. He was in his late 20s, and always had a group of teenage kids around at his place doing drugs and trying to act cool. He lived below his Dads office in a place that was adorned with black light posters, lava lamps, and a surfboard that had been dry-docked for quite some time. He was like a large version of Sean Penn's character from "Fast times at Ridgemont High". I started messing around with PCP at Ernies and jumped at the chance to be a junior distributer for him. It would mean free drugs for me and add a little cache to my resume. It might also pay for my KISS ticket. I got a batch from him the night before, and he showed me how to divide it into ten dollar portions. I figured there was great sales potential at the next evenings show.

David and I took the bus out to the Sportatorium and arrived after 1:00pm to an empty parking lot. In my previous visits, I'd never seen the place so desolate and uninviting. We were basically the first ones there. We found a trail in back of the building and smoked a little pot and snorted some PCP. That familiar buzzing sound echoed through our heads as we wandered back to the front section. There were now a few cars starting to pull up, and kids were getting dropped off by their parents, with faces painted like their favorite band members. I'm not sure we were ready for the experience of being fucked up on this drug and looking at people with their skulls made up in grotesque masks of evil. We decided to head to the front gate of the venue to ensure a head start on the rush for seating and try to generate some sales.

To be continued...

School

When I returned to Miami Shores Elementary for the beginning of 5th grade, I had really long hair like my idols the Rolling Stones (circa 1968). My Mom let me skip the barber shop that summer, and I was eclipsed only by my friend Brett Miller, who's hair was at least two or three inches longer than mine. I was another year from picking up the guitar, but I was totally focused on the rock n' roll look. I used to even carry a brush in my back pocket. It was 1975, so the idea of long hair on a male wasn't that big of a deal to most people. An exception to that rule was coach Gusman. He took serious offense to the look. He ran P.E. class like boot camp for kids and would often put longhairs in the girls line, or feminize our names. Gusman was a detestable character to be sure, but he was truly hated by the so called "hippies". He took great pleasure in singling out Brett and myself since we were actually liked some sports and he had to deal with us on that level. I was a pretty good runner, so he nick-named me "chicken legs". The guy was determined to make me suffer for 55 minutes every week. I would try and excell at certain activities just to piss him off.

1975 was the first year that I commited myself to completely ignoring school work and being a smart-ass towards most of the teachers. Looking back, I was just seeking attention of some sort. Maybe it was a cry for help. I started hanging around the wrong crowd and would do just about anything to prove I didn't care about the consequences. I broke my wrist playing football and got my very first cast. I had all my loser buddys sign it with the most disrespectful, disturbing things they could write. G.G. Allin would have been proud. I got sent to the principals office to explain the dirty words on my cast. When she saw what had been written about her on my arm, she closed the door, and actually made me pull down my pants, spanking me with an oversized, ping pong paddle. I laughed at first, so she put some muscle into it. She tried calling my Mother afterwards, but she was at work. My ass was pretty sore. I paid her back a few nights later by taking a dump through the mail-slot of the front door to the main office. Not very classy, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

The cast on my arm (with a new coat of yellow paint to cover up the grafitti) was starting to get pretty itchy. I always tried to move my arm around somehow to relieve the discomfort. I scraped a small opening on the underside of my elbow with the knife I always carried with me. The hole looked a little bit like a mouth, so I drew a face around it to make it complete. When I went to lunch that afternoon, I decided to spoon some jello into the hole to cool my arm down a bit. After the soothing effects of the jello, I followed it with a pour of milk. Finally, I was getting the relief I had been looking for. A circle of kids were watching me feed my arm with amusement. One of the lunch guards came over to see what the fuss was about. They grabbed my good arm to escort me for another trip to the office and for some reason I reacted by hitting them in the head with my cast arm. I ran out of the cafeteria and left the school grounds. This would be the first time I ever had the police called on my behalf. I hid out under a railroad bridge near my house until dark, and snuck through my bedroom window and tried to pretend I was asleep. My Mom came home a short time later. Boy was she pissed. The next morning I had my cast removed and replaced with a fiberglass one. I was allowed back in school a week later after a counseling session between the principal, the lunch guard, and my Mother (and myself). I was surprised they even let me come back.

Clam Shucker

I became a clam shucker in the mid 1980s. Sofron Brothers Clam Company sat on the outskirts of downtown Ipswich. A looming, whitewash factory that had been in business for over 40 years, the structure had the odor of a beached whale that had been sitting in the sun for a couple of days. They employed around 100 workers, about 20 whom were shuckers. My Dad got me in (there was a waiting time of at least a year) through his childhood friend, Stanley Hetnar. The reason folks wanted to get up on the bench had to do with the pay. It was piece-work, and you could make 20.00 to 30.00 dollars and hour depending on your shucking-speed. Stanley was the foreman of the joint, an imposing figure who ran the floor with an iron fist. Depending on his mood, he would entertain us with his golden singing voice, or yell at everyone and throw punches at the steel beams that held the place up You could actually feel the building shake when he did this. The shucking bench was inhabited with a motley crew of locals, many who had been working there for a decade or more. The shift would start at 4:00 or 5:00am and last until the final clam was out of it's shell.

We shucked sea clams dredged from the oceans of Cape Cod and New Jersey. The Cape's were called "footballs" due to their size. If you had a truck coming in from Cape Cod, you could make over 100 dollars for as little as 4 hours of labor. You could be in by 5:00am, out , in a few hours, and have a beer and a pool stick in your hands by ten o'clock in the morning. Such was the shuckers life.

I used to work alongside my good friend from Ipswich Kevin Jean, a charming, funny , talented guy. Kevin and I would take turns singing songs while we did our thing, and he was by far the fastest shucker on the bench. When he wanted to pump himself up for speed, he would sing "Tangled up in blue" by Bob Dylan, picking up the pace on each verse until it was blur of poetry and flying seafood. Like Stanley, Kevin could sing like a motherfucker and had a endless well of material lodged in his memory bank. He was also a hell of a pool player. Kevin also had a reputation with the women of Ipswich for being the most well-endowed bachelor in town. The guy had class, but he wasn't above whipping his shlong out in the back dressing room of Sofrons when he was in a particularly good mood. Maybe he was a distant relative of Iggy Pop. When he did this, the women who worked there would get pretty excited. I've gotta admit, it was a sight to see.

Stan Hetnar was a interesting individual as well. He wore the same outfit every day of his life that I saw him, and drove around in a beat up Ford truck with a cassette of himself singing and strumming the guitar, constantly playing in the deck. The guy had an incredible voice, right up there with Elvis and Roy Orbison. Every once and a while he would invite me to his house for a jam session and a beer. He had a Gretch Country Gentleman guitar from 1958, covered in an ancient layer of dust, and sporting strings that hadn't been changed in 20 years. He could mimic all the greats from the fifties, with a particular fondness for the man in black, Johnny Cash. I even pushed him into doing his one and only live performance in 1988, at the Middle East restaurant in Cambridge, MA., Where he was very well recieved. It's the only time I ever saw him nervous.

I was employed by Sofron's on and off for over eight years. When I started Touring with the Moving Targets and/or Bullet LaVolta, they would give me all the time off that I needed, which was very nice of them. Around 1994 the owner, Peter Sofron, who actually lived on the second floor of the business, died of a massive heart attack after an all-night cocaine binge. He was a sweet guy, and it was a terrible loss. The place was taken over by his son (himself a wonderful guy), but the business slowly went downhill, closing up shop around 1998. During my infrequent visits to my hometown afterwards, I would always drive by the darkened building for a whiff of the old days.

Bullet LaVolta

Lucky for me, Bullet LaVolta, a fairly new band playing around Boston was losing their guitar wiz, Corey Loog Brennan. The Targets were on another hiatus and Dredd Foole and the Din were winding down. I always tried to be in at least two bands at once and I was facing the prospect of being a free agent. Corey was Harvard grad and he had a chance to study in Italy for two years. Word on the street was, the were looking for a replacement. I went to check them out at a downtown bar that was way overcwowded. All I could see was guitarists Clay Tarver's cherokee hair spinning in the air and the occasional sighting of lead singer Yukki Gipe whenever he climbed atop a table. I thought they sounded great, a mix of punk and hard rock with some serious attitude. I asked for a shot at the soon to be vacant slot, and they gave me a seven song cassette they were selling at the show.

Corey was quite a guitar player, kind of a cross between Captain Sensible form the Damned and Randy Rhodes with a finger missing from each hand. Not my style exactly, but I thought I could adapt. I learned the songs, passed the audition, and asked to join the band. They were about to enter the stdio with Tom Hamilton to record more material for a forthcoming E.P. I showed them "Get it together" from my first band Iron Cross. Yukki wrote some new lyrics and renamed it "Dead wrong". Clay and I had an almost telepathic way of playing together, like a punk/metal version of Ron Wood and Keith Richards. The rhythm section of drummer Chris "Cougar" Guttmacher and bassist Bill Whelan were like an amplified rhino smashing through a liquor store, with a hint of melody. Chris was the engine of the band, unleashing a stream of 16th notes on his ride cymbal like a proffesional boxer. The thing should have taken a restraining order out on him. Bill hadn't been playing bass very long, but he was a natural, getting better with every rehearsal.

Bullet LaVolta was such a great band to be in. I really looked up to Yukki (real name: Kurt Davis). He was a phenomenal frontman, and a real down-to -earth nice guy. While I was partying and whoring it up at every opportunity, he was hanging out with the fans and fending off the advances of cute girls. The band grew in in stature from gig to gig until it was time to record our first full length L.P. We were also offered the chance to go to Europe in a few months with the Lemonheads. During the mixing of the record, Chris told us he would be leaving the group and heading to the west coast to live. He gave us fair warning, and played a handful of shows while we started looking for a replacement. Since we were gaining a bit of local buzz, we had a few suspicious characters show up. Full on Rock dudes, classic Rock aficionados, and assorted bozos. What is it with drummers? I called Todd Phillips from the fake Moving Targets and invited him down for a shot. It came down to Todd, and this guy named John. John was a great drummer, but he and his girlfriend were expecting their first child. We didn't want to have any part of his first words being "where's Daddy", so we went with Todd. It eneded up being the right decision. I applied for my first passport.

Moving Targets break up/Fake Moving Targets

When the Moving Targets returned from our very first U.S. tour we were broke, tired, and homesick. Everyone except me, I thought it was the greatest experience ever, a realization of my dreams, finally come true. Traveling around the states, playing music, meeting people, and smoking tons of pot. So what if we had to skip a few showers and eat at taco bell every day. Chuck, the homebody that he was, held up pretty well. He may have been taken aback by my rock n' roll lifestyle, but he was always there to offer sound tips on staying out of trouble, and he was a solid bass guitarist. Pat had a hell of a time playing music, but he had started his own carpet installing business back in Boston, and had alot of bills and responsibility waiting for him when we returned. We did a show at the Rat and had ourselves a good nights sleep in our own beds.

That fateful afternoon we set our shit up, tossed around some riffs, and took a break. Pat then explained that he wouldn't have much time for the band over the next two months, as he had to concentrate on work and debts. Chuck and I wanted to learn some new material and play the 2 shows we had coming up in the next few weeks. obviously, it wasn't good news to our ears. Pat was a prime canidate for a rich girl friend, as they say. Trouble in Targetland indeed! We realized we had to try and carry on and look for a "Pat Brady" type drummer to keep the band going. We might as well have asked John Bonham to crawl out of his grave and catch the next flight to Boston.

After trying out a couple of guys (including soundman Carl Plaster, who gave it a good shot), Chuck threw his hands in the air and gave up the idea of finding someone to fill Mr. Bradys size 12 shoes. Problem was, we still had a couple of dates booked for the band. Like a true musician, I insisted that the show must go on. I now introduce, fake Moving Targets 1. The following day after enjoying a Kilslug set at T T the bears, I stoped by Burger King to have it my way. While in line I was somehow recognized by a young lad named Todd Phillips. He was getting a shake, I was getting some fries. I discovered he was a drummer and a fan of the Targets. I got his number, and he said he would love to give it a try. Later that evening , I ran into Jeff Weigan from the Volcano Suns, and convinced him to throw his chip in the pot. The next day we met up at the 'Suns fithy excuse for a rehearsal room, and kicked out the Jams. Todd had some chops, and Jeff created a wall of crunch with his Rickenbacker bass. All was not lost.

We practiced a "Targets set" 7 or 8 times over the next two weeks, and borrowed the Volcano Suns van for a Saturday all-ages show in Conneticut. That morning as we loaded our gear out onto the sidewalk, we saw a dark figure approaching from the distance. We realized it was none other than Johnny Cash, who happened to be performing with the Boston Pops that night. He came right over to us (thinking we were musicians), and said: "Hi, I'm Johnny Cash" (swear to God) just like he does in concert. He shook hands all around and asked if we knew where he could find some guitar strings, at that early hour of the morning. Jeff walked over with him to Wulitzer music. If only I'd known how big of a fan I would become years later, I would have joined them as well. We made our way to the show, and played a fairly unremarkable set, as I remember. The gig later immortalized with a picture of my wearing my favorite Led Zeppelin shirt onstage, used for TAANG's second pressing of "Burning inwater".

We ended up doing a couple more shows in Boston and Portland, ME. (where Todd and Jeff shared our hotel elevator with Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons from KISS, who happened to be playing in town that same night, swear to God!), but it was the end of the road for us. In our own way, we had become a pretty decent little band, in an instant coffee kinda way, but it wasn't the Moving Targets. I learned alot from Jeff on how to abuse the audience between songs, and it opened the door to Todd Joining Bullet LaVolta down the line. It was also, a hell of alot of fun.

Note: Sometimes the recollections can be a bit incomplete. I want to thank the Roast for correction asto the homecoming gig, as well as adding his two-cents about devil-woman.

The original post listed Manray as the homecoming show. I appoligize to anyone who may have been offended.....

Thanks once again to everyone who takes a minute to read the blogs!

Early Music/First Band; Part 2

My Grandmother woke me up the day of Iron Cross's next gig at 6:00 in the morning. There were reports of a house fire in Ipswich and we recognized the address as belonging to the Norris family. My Grandfather agreed to drive me there to see what was going on. The whole area was blocked off with police and fire engines, I saw Mrs. Norris and with her sons George, Bill and Josh surrounded by dozens of people. They were all crying. The firemen were still spraying the remains of their smoldering home. Josh saw me and came over and put his arms around me and told me that Mr. Norris, John, and Mark had died in the fire. I started shaking in disbelief, going over to the rest of the family to tell them how sorry I was. I had never been shocked with so much pain and anger so suddenly. How could something so senseless be really happening? Mr. Norris discovered the fire and tried to get everyone out of bed. He went back in to get Mark and John and they never made it out. It was a loss beyond words.

As the sun rose, more and more people came to the scene to share the grief. Classmates of the Norris brothers started showing up, Everyone was numb with sadness. After a couple of hours, a group of us went to Lori Corbin's house to hold on to each other and try and make some sense of what had happened. We gathered to combat the misery with pot and alcohol, and deal with the shock. I don't think any of us had experienced such a horrific loss in our young lives. How was the family going to accept this tragedy? It was cruel beyond anything we could imagine.

The funeral was a few days later. It seemed like the whole town of Ipswich was there to pay their respects. I helped carry Marks coffin out of the church. I don't remember any of it. I still have a clipping from the Ipswich Cronicle with a picture of us carrying the casket, the only proof that I was really there.

The town rallied around the Norris family. Every laborer, electrician, carpenter, and painter in Ipswich offered their services to help build a new home for the family. It was raised on the same plot of land where their old home had once stood. I couldn't believe how strong they were. They had lost so much. Mrs. Norris insisted on buying a new guitar and amp with a portion of the insurance money, although I felt like it was going to be a long time before I had the desire to play.

Early Music/First Band

By the end of 1978, I started to buy Punk Rock records every weekend. There was a small bookstore in downtown Ipswich that had a record section tucked in the corner. I eagerly thumbed through them every Saturday, hoping my fingers would find some great new release. In weeks past I'd found "Rocket to Russia" by the Ramones, "Black and White" by the Stranglers, and "Give "em enough rope" by the Clash. I started to get all scientific about the process like an old man betting on the horses. I would pick up Trouser Press at the newspaper store and examine the record review section, weighing my next purchase. The kind woman at the counter would take a piece of paper with one or two L.P.s scribbled down, to see if she could order them from some mysterious source in the big city. By early summer, I would mow some extra lawns in orded to increase my buying power. I think I was still the only Punk Rock fan in Ipswich. Inspired by the music I was listening to ( I must have played the Dead Boys "We have come for your children" at least 4 times a day that summer), i decided to start writing some more songs. I had hatched a few tunes the previous year while in Miami, but they were pretty lame ("Friday night at CBGBs" for instance). I had a guitar and knew a few more chords, so I gave it a another shot.

This was the summer that, reeling from my first real heartbreak, I decided to stay in my room, smoke alot of pot, and become a real Punk. Johnny Thunders and Joe Strummer were my guitar heroes, and I thought with some practice, I could play as well as them. That July, my Grandparents bought me an early birthday present, a Marlboro amp. I turned up the overdrive to 10, and wrote my first new song "Get it together" (a decade later, it would get new lyrics and title courtesy of Yukki Gipe and become "Dead Wrong", a Bullet LaVolta song). I kept at it and tried to make an album's worth of material. Eventually, I had a set of songs:

The beat / School daze / Get it together / Love or lust / Don't hang on too long / Follow daddy's footsteps (recorded and released on a c.d. by French band the Real Cool Killers 15 years later!) / Younger point of view / Teenage lament / you never come through /

Now I needed to start a band.

I had "jammed" with the Norris brothers last winter. We set up some gear in the art class room at Ipswich Jr. High, and screwed around for a couple of hours. Mark played drums pretty well, and his brother John was learning how to play guitar. The two of us plugged into his amp and played a few cover songs that we knew in common. I showed them "Born to lose" by Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers and "I'm in love with your Mom" by Vom. They'd never heard music like this and didn't know what to make of it at first. One thing for sure, it was easier to do this stuff than try to figure out a Led Zeppelin song. We had some fun, but didn't get together again for the rest of the year. I decided to give Mark a call and see what he and John were up to. I told him I had a guitar amp and had written some songs of my own. He spoke to his brother and we made plans to get together the next day.

I got over there the next afternoon and was pleasantly surprised to discover that they had their own practice space in the back of their house. Their Mother was a artist and had an addition built to the back of the home. Mark and John had taken a room upstairs and been playing music on and off all summer long. It was just a bare space with a couple of posters hanging on the wall. We messed around with a few more covers and I noticed that they had gotten alot better on their respective instruments. We took a break and then I started showing them some of my originals. The first up was "The beat", which was an instrumental, kind of a shabby, under-developed "Moby Dick" rip-off. An inauspicious start for a Punk Rock band. We played it a few times, but Mark wasn't too keen on playing the drum solo everytime around. We put that aside, and I showed them "Get it together". This one they liked. Mrs. Norris made us some sandwiches and we took another break. After lunch I suggested that we sneak out back to the woods and smoke a "little herb". It was Johns first time and he got results right away. We headed back to rock out, and played "Get it together" a half dozen more times, until it sounded like a real band playing a badass song. Now we needed a name to go along with it. We started writing shit down, mostly pathetic, un-original stuff. Two names stood out: "Clockwork Orange" and "Iron Cross". We took a vote and sided with "Iron Cross".

We proceeded to learn a 40 minute set that fall. I hadn't come up with anymore originals, so we peppered the set with a few cover songs ( "Clock strikes twelve", "Born to lose"), and decided to find ourselves a gig. We asked Mrs. Norris if she could arrange a teen dance at the church the Norris family attended, and surprisingly enough, they said yes. I made up a flyer with skulls and a pot leaf, and we plastered them around town. I showed up at their house the day of the gig in my stage clothes ( a cub scout shirt and Levi's covered with red paint) while Mark and John wore matching polyester suits. About 50 kids showed up and we plowed through our set. I thanked the audience after every song with vocal inflections I picked up from "Kiss Alive II". We were scrappy and out of tune half the time, but we had lost our virginity. After the gig, some girl on the high school steering committee told us she wanted to set up a "concert" at Ipswich High school.

I floated around a few rehearsal tapes through the school the next couple of weeks to build a buzz. We didn't have a cassette duplication deck, so each tape was individually recorded. I made another poster, this time with a drawing of the Fabulous furry Freak Brothers on it. We made some adjustments to our stage clothes, this time going for a "biker" look. John had a fake animal skin vest, and I painted my guitar camouflage. We wore these outfits while we practiced. A couple weeks before the gig, we met Pat Leonard, when he approached us and asked if we needed some lights. Like Macgyver, he built a complete light show out of practically nothing, scoring some industrial-size spaghetti sauce cans from the school cafeteria to hold the bulbs, and making the control panel out of wood. He had a real talent with his hands.

To be continued.... 5-12-2008

My Friend Pat Leonard

A few weeks after the fire, Pat Leonard came over. We went to different schools, so I hadn't seen him in during that time. He asked how I was doing, and told me that he had just bought a Guild electric guitar. Pat wanted me to show him how to play some stuff. It seemed like a nice way to wash away some of the pain of losing my bandmates. Pat said Mark and John would want me to keep going with the music, and he wanted to be part of it. A few days later, I brought a bunch of LPs over to his place and I played him the stuff that had gotten me so excited to play music myself. Pat absolutely loved the Clash from first listen, so I know right then that teaching him to play guitar was going to be a labor of love. We also became such great friends, practically brothers. For the next two months, we got together nearly every day to hang out after school, listen to punk rock and make plans to start another band. Pat picked up his instrument so quickly, it blew my mind. He had a natural ability to play things moments after I would show them to him. After a while, he he went out and bought a no name bass guitar, and started learning how to rock the fuck out of the four string. I couldn't have asked for a better friend or musical comrade.

We put up some flyers around town looking for a drummer. A guy named Phil Gordon answered the ad, and invited us over to his garage to kick around some tunes. It was late winter when we met up with him, and we could see clouds of steam leaving our mouths as we plowed through a few songs. Phil wasn't too hip to the punk rock scene, but we convinced him to try London Calling and Brand New Cadillac by The Clash. His kit was a hoot. Every piece from a different drum set, different colors, and way too much stuff. Phil had at least seven tom toms, and about a dozen cymbals, all cracked from being hit in 30 degree weather. He wore glasses and would push the frames back up on the bridge of his nose in the middle of a drum fill, before they fell off his face completely. He was also a super sweet guy, full of jokes, good cheer, and a pocket full of grass. Our prodigious marijauna consumption was the inspiration for our future local hit song, "Light up a spliff. Pat and I asked Phil to join our band and we decided to once again call it Iron Cross, in tribute to what had begun with Mark and John Norris.

We moved some electric heaters into Phil's garage and started learning as many songs as we could. We revisited all of the originals done with the Norris brothers and added a selection of cover songs. Phil had decent taste in music, but Pat and I had to find ways to sneak punk tunes into our repertoire. We usually did this by saying it was some new song I had written. That way, it would be considered a personal affront to me if he didn't want to learn the tune. We rehearsed 3 or 4 times a week, and always had a gang of our peers there to cheer us on. The place was one of those homes where all the friends of the Gordon kids (Phil, and his three brothers), would congregate. His Mother and Father welcomed everyone with snacks and a place to hang out. Having everyone around while we practiced helped us hone our stage moves as well. I started to realize that Pat and I had a special musical bond that we would never lose from that moment on. It really was magical.

To be continued........

My Dad; Part 2

I always looked up to my father. He was handsome as a fox, built like a tank, and had a personality somewhere between Charles Bukowski and Clint Eastwood. Every summer while staying with my grandparents in Ipswich MA., he would pull into their driveway on Friday afternoon to pick me up for our weekend together. I'd jump in the passenger side of his Lincoln Continental with my overnight bag, and we'd be off. Sometimes there would be a girl or two in the car with him, usually closer to my age than his. There was always a beer between his legs when he was driving. We'd head to Seabrook , NH,  listening to the radio and passing every car that stayed in front of us for more than 15 seconds.

My Dad was a bouncer at the time and he would bring me along with him while he worked on Friday and Saturday nights. The place was called EJ's and it catered to a somewhat ruffian clientele, mostly bikers and  rock n' roll animals. They  had  bands 4 nights a week playing top 40 of the time (Aerosmith, Stones, Deep Purple, etc.). Before we'd leave for EJ's my Father would paint his toenails pink, throw on his sandals, and put on his pink tank top that had "cock city" emblazoned on the front. This was his way of fucking with people. No one ever made a comment while I was within earshot, other to say how great he looked. His job was to hang at his spot next to the bar drinking rum and cokes and making sure everybody behaved themselves. My Father was also what they called a "chick magnet" I watched in awe as he was constantly surrounded by women.

I decided that summer that I wanted to live with my Father and go to school in Seabrook that fall. At first it was hard getting to know kids at the school. The place didn't take too quickly to "outsiders", and the curiosity shown towards me by the girls just made the boys want to pick fights with me. A few weeks into the school year my homeroom/english teacher told our class that next Friday was career day, and we could invite our Fathers or Mothers into the classroom to talk about what they did for a living. I asked my Dad if he was interested and surprisingly, he said yes.

The following Friday arrived 7th and 8th grade classes gathered in the cafeteria for lunch which would be followed by the career day program. The parents included a  truckdriver, librarian, nurse,  a husband and wife animal-control officer / veterinarian, and my  Dad. The Presentation started and all the parents got up on stage and talked about their jobs. When Pop went up to the podium he introduced himself as a professional body builder and wrestler and started flexing and doing bodybuilding poses on stage. He answered questions about wrestling and ended his segment by lifting 6 kids (3 on each arm) a few  feet into the air. My Father signed some autographs afterwards and slipped his phone number to my science teacher. The following Monday All the kids in school  were nice to me, I got a B- in science (when I should have gotten a D-) after a few "dates" between  Dad and my teacher, and the girls were a little more interested in me ( interested in me and uh, my Dad). Funny little hick town.

Early Criminal Activity

There was a kid I became friends with at Miami Shores Elementary at the beginning of 5th grade. His name was Cody Alexander. My Mom used to let me spend the night over his house after she met his Mother Nell, and gave me her seal of approval.

Nell was a single Mother, raising Cody and and his 5 brothers on her own in a 1930's style Mansion off of Biscayne Blvd. The clan, Roy, Boyd, Glen, Perry, and An older brother who's name I forget, were all tall, long haired six-foot, skateboarder types. They all sold pot, had cute girls around them constantly, and seemed  cool  to me, kinda like a home-grown gang. If they played instruments, they could have had one of those bands where everybodys related and called it "The Alexander Family".

When I first started hanging out at Cody's place, various combinations of the brothers would locate us and torture the fuck out of us. We suffered random "flash beatings" where a couple of them would burst into Cody's room while we were staging battles with clay soldiers we had created after school. They would hold us back while a third would walk through the door (usually Roy) and torment us with slow destructions of the clay men. Roy would always take on the vocal mannerism's of a  high ranking German commandant, and decapitate the soldiers before crushing them under his bare foot. The Alexanders always ran around without footwear. One time Roy and his buddy Derell, strung us up twenty feet over the basketball court in their backyard, and left us hanging there while they went to 7-11 to buy some rolling papers. 

When I would spend the night at the Alexander mansion, Cody and I would pretend to go to sleep at around 10:00pm and wait for Nell to retire for the evening. At around eleven or so, we would sneak out and roam the streets of North Miami. One night we came up with the idea of wearing all black, putting stockings over our heads, and climbing up on the roof of the nearby strip-mall to throw rocks at cars. We geared up, grabbed a couple of paper bags, and picked-up every servicable stone we could find along the way. Loaded up with ammo, we climbed up the five and dime store roof and took position. We tossed rocks at every car we could for the next half hour. Bravely throwing, then ducking like cowards until the next lob. After 30 minutes of this we grew bored, and decided to go across the street to the 24 hour Howard Johnsons for some ice cream. We came out to the parking lot, cones in hand, and were immediately surrounded by 4 cruisers with their lights flashing. The cops exited the cars with guns drawn, and made us hit the ground as we threw down our cones. It turns out the bank on the corner of the strip-mall was installing a new safe "after hours", and they were alarmed by the two figures with stocking masks up on the roof of the building. They cuffed us and jammed us into two separate cars. We were on our way to the station.

After a small amount of grilling, they saw that we were just a couple of punk kids playing bad guys after our bedtime. They called Nell up and she came down to the station to get us. I was ratted out by her to my own Mother, and grounded for the rest of the month.  It sucked being punished, but it saved me a few beatings at the hands of the Alexander boys.