Gargoyles - Without End (SFTRI, 1992)

On a typical night at Route 44 'round '97, I was drinking Budweisers in the back room and listening to one of the bartender's (Larry May) famous mixed tapes. While kickin' out to jams by The Kids, F-Word, X, and The Germs, I was hit upside the noggin' with "California Stars" ("Can't wait another minute to get out of Frisco/'Cause we're not just a one-town band/Gonna hold my breath til' I'm back in L.A./And I'm doing everything I can"). It rawked with the raw power of The Stooges and punked like Adolescent brats in battalions!

Several years later, a pal of mine named Mike Frame mailed me this hard-to-find cee dee. He'd picked it up at Amoeba Records in San Fran for 33 cents while on tour. As I reacquainted myself with track #2, I remembered a conversation I'd had with my friend jOhn. He came to the conclusion that John Ritter had never left the state of California. Made perfect sense to me, for Ritter's laid-back 'tude and aw-shucks demeanor were SoCal personified.

Yesterday, I dug Without End from the archives of my dresser. "Michigan" ("Iggy's from there/Alice Cooper's from there...") reminded my TV eye of Ritter's last role as a sportswriter from the Wolverine state on "8 Simple Rules For Dating My Teenage Daughter." Dunno if Ritter and Pop were on friendly terms prior to the former's death trip, but the Ig and his disciples are shaking hands with appeal on most of these seventeen toonz. "Runnin' Down" grips with the firmness of non-LP trax "I Got A Right" and "Gimme Some Skin." The Kill City cova blisters 'n' callouses. "Fistful Of Sand" grains with more than a touch of the Dead Boys' "Sonic Reducer." "Out Into The World" nails like the Jeff Dahl Group's Scratch Up Some Action.

Living with little dolls Janet and Chrissy: musta been a fun house.

PSYCHALCOHOLOGICAL

It's 11:45 PM, and there's a six-pack of Rolling Rock with your name on it. After driving through the sweet Virginia breeze, you notice that the store clocks are past midnight. Your watch reads 11:50. The cashier tells you that beer sales ceased five minutes ago. Damn it!

Not wanting to spend $100 for a Budweiser, you shun the Quik-E-Mart and speed to another grocery store. The prices are extra low and so is your time. Brew in hand, you head to the register. Preparing to give the stubble-faced woman your dinero, she spits out, "May I see two ID's?" You're good for the driver's license, but your Social Security card has been AWOL since '91. The library, video, and bowling league cards don't cut it. "Well, don't you have a military ID?" the lady inquires. Unaware that one has to be in the Armed Services to have a beer or close haircut, you walk out of the store shouting, "This sucks" or some variation thereof.

Next door at the local watering hole, you order a small pitcher of Miller Lite. Coughing up $3.50 (tip included), you head over to the dartboard. This dude wants to know if you'd like to play cricket. You tell him that your wickets are at home. He doesn't get the joke. Playing for a pitcher, you hold your own throwing $1.00 darts against his $75.00 ones. Eventually, you lose and have to buy beer you can't drink. Listening to him babble about some wanker guitarist ("Go see the son-of-a-bitch"), you decline his invitation to a country go-go joint. Nursing the remainder of your pitcher, Mr. Bartender recites that god-awful cry: "LAST CALL FOR ALCOHOL!!!" Not in the mood to pick up any 56-year-old women, you head out the door.

Cruising down Kempsville Road and singing an acapella-punk version of a Whitney Houston song, you are pulled over by Smokey. He requests the usual (license and registration). Another two ID's.