D E T A C H E D: As a Walking Song

The name Detached first came to me as the name for a stoned-out, one-time-only magazine project in 1981. Mostly, it was a trip to San Francisco in early-1981 that gave me the inspiration. Spending an hour looking at a ton of such artsy, one-off publications in the famous City Lights Bookstore did the trick.

It was to be a collection of comix-style art created by several artists. It was going to have a little flexi-disc with music and comedy on it. Now such a concept might be called a book-zine, or something like that. Although quite a bit of material was created and submitted, this was one of those projects that got away from me.

Consequently, it was never produced, although some of the material and ideas made their way into issues of SLANT later on ... but that's another story.

In 1985, Detached, as a title, became the name for a song. It came to me during a walk. It started when I was a kid, then for decades after, I used to make up songs in the course of solitary walks. The cadence of my steps would serve as the beat, for singing them softly to myself or just in my head.

When I finished the walk I'd almost always forget the new song. Sometimes it was quite frustrating. Other thoughts, like solutions, inventions, schemes and so forth, would stick long enough to be written down when I got home. But most of the time these walking songs refused to be gathered that way.

Those songs were like my dreams that almost faded away, as I sat up in bed in the morning. And, like those rare dreams that would remain vivid into the day, only a few of my walking songs stayed assembled in my head, so I could sing them again ... much less write down the words. 

With regard to walking alone, I've generally put extra trust in ideas that came to me while walking purposely. Something about the rhythm would make tunes, sometimes words, too, pop into my head. I miss the private sense of delight those dreamy walkng songs gave me.  

D E T A C H E D

I want to thank you pal
for helping out
While I went crazy.

It wasn’t all fun
It just had to be done.

Beauty mark and a ponytail
Hey!
Your check’s in the mail.

De-tached.

When I could close my eyes
And float away
Life seemed so easy.

Watching tides of fashion
Riding waves of passion.

Smokey edges of a photograph
Yo!
We just had to laugh.

De-tached.

With this song I still remember the tune. It usually has a south-of-the-border rhythm to it. Sometimes I whistle it while I'm walking, but I don't sing to myself often, anymore. Hardly ever play my chromatic harmonica along with canned music that calls out to me, either. My neighbors are probably happy about that.

Now I use Detached as a title for a group of short stories. To see about them go here.

There's No Business Like...

Working in show bidness can be tough duty. Ask anybody who knows. It’s not all laughs.

For instance, one evening a couple of traveling porn queens came by the Biograph Theatre. Naturally, they asked for the manager.

So I was fetched from my sanctuary office to talk with Annie Sprinkle and another woman (the one in the photo) who claimed she was from Richmond (Hermitage High). Sometimes, the X-rated touring performers from the live shows at the Lee Art Theater in the next block of Grace stopped by, so I figured that was the deal.

Like, maybe they were film buffs who wanted free passes? They had a limo parked in front of the theater. Their driver was a dwarf. No joke.

After what sounded to me like a lot of cocaine-driven nonsense about a glossy magazine spread, and how they'd been to other local landmarks, Annie asked me to pose in front of the theater with the other lady.

It was 1980. Those were simpler times. Why not?

As Annie told me to stand a little closer, what’s-her-name? -- I think it might have been Honey -- gave me a hug and flashed what I quickly suspected to be her left breast. My reaction was honest, spontaneous. The women had what they wanted. They giggled and piled back into the limo with the dwarf and drove off into the night.

My Biograph co-workers couldn't stop laughing, as they had seen the whole thing through the cinemascopic front windows.

Later the silly picture above showed up in Partner Magazine, a forgettable, low-rent skin 'zine. The feature displayed other shots of Honey in various flash modes in front of familiar local landmarks. Some were raunchier, so I was lucky. Roy Scherer brought a copy of the magazine by to me at the theater, to make sure I didn't miss it.

To change the subject, the very next year Grace Street was changed from a west-only one-way street to two-way. The change was probably toughest on the winos, but it wasn't easy on anybody. In some ways, that neighborhood hasn't been the same since.

And, good night Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are..."