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25¢ Fear Moves To A New Town Ukraine says US leave off Hippies use back door How to ‘Drudge’ up Gonzo—see page 4 Volume 46, Issue #1
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April 4, 2014
U T O P I A N
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DOCTOR MENCKEN
“Try to imagine a … presidential candidate saying in front of the cameras, ‘One reason that we still have poverty in the United States is that a lot of poor people are born lazy.’ You cannot imagine it because that kind of thing cannot be said. And yet this unimaginable statement merely implies that when we know the complete genetic story, it will turn out that the population below the poverty line in the United States has a configuration of the relevant genetic makeup
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that is significantly different from the configuration of the population above the poverty line. This is not unimaginable. It is almost certainly true.” —“Deeper Into the Brain,” Charles Murray National Review, 2000 It seems that since the brazen balls out stupidity of the Bush II era, and with the horrific brain eating fungus that is Fox News, right wing wind bags with microphones no longer feel the need to sanitize their
E nauseatingly odious and atavistic ideas and attitudes for fear of alienating from their supporters all but the most desperately inbred pig phuquers, once thought to be a minority. Wielding versions of the bible that apparently urge only greed and death, they uninhibitedly stomp through the land boldly broadcasting eye-wateringly ignorant manifestos of utopian distemper that would have been cringeworthy in the 19th Century. Case in point, Wisconsin
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Congressman, Tea Troglodyte, and Human Bobble-head, Paul Ryan, who recently felt confident and empowered expressing the slave owner’s opinion that impoverished Black people are responsible for problems with the US economy because they are lazy and stupid. Jarringly omitted with those opinions, he forgot musical and carefree, but that’s a speech writer’s shortcoming. The irony that this wide eyed mantis with a Curves membership “works” 120
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days of the year and has a declared six figure income paid by taxed citizens to be one of the laziest members of a congress that has the lowest approval rating in American history escapes the discerning eye of this Repugnican Presidential front runner, and former Vice Presidential candidate. That’s right, he was almost only one heartbeat away… Routinely confusing the concepts of Jesus with Nietzsche, Plagiarist Paul enthusiastically credits his (continued on page 3)
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April 4, 2014
Los Angeles Free Press
LETTER TO MY HEAD ON LSD A. SYDD - IRVINE, CA Uh...wow. Impressshuns the press to im. Why wouldn’t she? Im’s across universes like alveoli in lungs, in lungs, out lungs, in lungs, panting, panty hose, hard to breathe deep the gathering gloom running from room to room and leg to legos to Lagos in panty hose between alveoli in her lungs. No insight in sight is right now, alright now, it’s all right. She’s all right, never wrong. REMEMBER THAT. Member again. She’s a member again. A gain for the mem to the im memorable press she shuns like the ones in her lungs. All is black. Nothing’s whitWhy? Nothing comes from nothing. Why not? Something comes from something so nothing comes from nothing. All is black. Why? Black is the abyss. The potential. Possibility. The unknown. The opposite is white: the impossible. That which exists is impossible, in other words, existing in im. The NOT. The Gordian knot
head, which is me. Billions and trillions of possible positive, and impossible negative, universes cancel each other out in the head of every pin. White turns to black and black turns to white in the never ending sight of in and im. Im and in, Im and in, Im and in. In and out, Im and in. Breathe deep the grand eyes ing. Ing is observing and has no color. Ing and im and in, and ing and im and in. Dolly does her donkey dingling, dangling, dancing daybreak. Ing is stirring the pot.
ARE YOU REALLY A HIPPY? TAKE THE QUIZ: What is your stance on abortion? Pro-choice Pro-life Choose another stance _________________________________
The pot is hot. The donkey’s not. Three universes breathing. Billions of trillions more in every pin head, always in multiples of three, which yin (in) and yang (im) and colorless pot-stirrer ing conceive and impress. Im press, in press, ing press. Ing press, im press, in. Press in. Press in. in. im. ing.
Should gay marriage be allowed in the U.S.? Yes No Choose another stance__________________________________
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PUNK OUR OLD MEDIA LIKE A BOSS. YOUR ADVERTISEMENTS COME TO LIFE IN THE LA FREEP ONLINE. WHEN YOU CHOOSE A VINTAGE STRIP ADVERT LIKE THIS ONE FROM A 1969 FREEP, WHAT APPEARS AS A RETRO AD TURNS TO YOUR AD IN A SINGLE CLICK. EMAIL FOR RATES WE PUBLISH WEEKLY lafreepress2014@gmail.com
IN THE DIGITAL AGE NOW IS FOREVER
Should the federal government stop allowing the death penalty? Yes No Choose another stance___________________________________ Is Global Warming a threat to the environment? Yes No Choose another stance___________________________________
Should National Parks continue to be preserved and protected by the federal government? Yes No Choose another stance___________________________________ Should the government raise the federal minimum wage? Yes No Choose another stance___________________________________ Do you support increased gun control? Yes No Choose another stance__________________________________ Should the federal government STOP the NET MEREGER and put an end to corporate control of the media? Yes No Choose another stance___________________________________ ...IF you made it to the end of our quiz answering YES to every question, the answer is you are actually a hippy. For every NO answer, additional study is needed to fully determine if you are slightly a hippy or just taking a different stance, but either way, you should check back with us next week. HAVE A NICE DAY
Los Angeles Free Press
April 4, 2014
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WHY THE UKRAINE SHOULD REJECT US IAN D.I. Y- TACOMA,WA Since the fall of the Berlin Wall and the dissolving of the Soviet Union in 1991 the United States has done pretty much nothing to help facilitate democracy in emerging countries like the Ukraine. George H.W. Bush (Daddy Bush) sat back and watched as the Soviet Union lost control over every faction of their country, including a rather large nuclear program, and allowed the former Soviet Union to scramble around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to reform a country and become a functional democracy with a functioning free market. Instead of trying to help Daddy Bush just stepped back and kept his attentions to the Middle East. Not that Daddy Bush is fully to blame, since the fall of the Soviet Union there has been a Democrat, a Republican, and another Democrat in office and every single one of these leaders turned their backs to the pleas for help from Eastern Europe. It took genocide for Bill Clinton to even consider intervening in Kosovo and he didn’t even have the guts to do it until his second term. George W. Bush (Baby Bush) sat back and watched as Russia invaded Georgia in 2008. To his defense he already screwed up two wars, he was understandably apprehensive trying to puff his chest out at Putin, and besides his apprehension it looked as though there was going to be a political switch from Republican to Democrat in the Oval Office, and what better way to hand over the keys than to have an international crisis locked and loaded for
the new leader to deal with. I understand that Obama came into a rather unique situation, nothing going right and most of the country was unemployed, so Russia and Eastern Europe was probably not at the forefront of President Obama’s mind. Unfortunately for the president roughly 20 years of horrible foreign policies was going to catch up to him. We had over 20 years to care about other nations and we turned our backs on them like angry parents trying to teach a child a hard lesson. We had plenty of opportunities to nurture democracy and care about countries like the Ukraine but we assessed what they had for us versus what we would get out of it and we decided that they had nothing we needed. As usual we did exactly what we always do; ignore people in true need of our help. All of a sudden we step back and notice, “Another cold war and arms race and/or war could be profitable for our many war profiteering companies and would also serve to scare the public with our never ending fear campaign.”. So again we hold up the scary Red Army as a threat that we need to fear and the only way we can beat the fear is by consuming at exponential rates. It seems to be a win win for the powers that be, scar the hell out of people with nuclear war threats and pump money into the war industrial complex hand over fist. I completely understand why the Ukraine doesn’t like us, they have been trying to make a democracy work for
20 plus years and it wasn’t until it suited us that we decided to help, and even now the only help we have really provided is lip service in respect to how we dislike Russia. The Ukraine has been stuck in the middle of the greatest pissing contest between two nations for over two decades and as their country falls apart, they lose Crimea, and Russia inches closer, they listen to our arrogant speeches and the lip service we provide that does nothing to help how could they not be mad.
DOCTOR MENCKEN: (continued from page 1) ...utopian distemper to his stunted adolescent hard on for conservative cover ghoul, Amphetamine Aynnie Rand. With moral and intellectual blind spots the size of the deficit, Ryan also fails to grasp the irony of invoking the Objectivist icon who hypocritically received Social Security and Medicare benefits during the last eight years of her life, despite sitting on a $1.2 million estate. The Medicare helped to offset costs of treatment needed Rand’s Individualist decision to spend decades as a chain smoking speed freak. If this Eddie Munster Zombie didn’t spend so much time on his knees sucking Koch Bros. largesse, cheerleading the Corporatist Oligarchy, and quoting small brained White Supremacists like the above quoted Charles Murray, he might look around and realize how unprepared he is to step onto a World Stage that would recognize him as a sub-human toady who read a book, eager, rough and ready to sadistically stomp the helpless, while rolling on his back and pissing himself to curry favor with his donors.
From the book of Velvet Dreams:
Wretched Acts Inspite of their wretched acts against me, I will prosper in a sea of happy wishes and dreams To be dreamed in my eternal soul to be found in the everlasting truth in my spirit to be free of torment and saved from the scorching anger of their wicked twisted fears.
art & poem by Renaldo Ricketts
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April 4, 2014
Los Angeles Free Press
More Notes from a Dirty Old Man:
GONZO JOURNALISM DEFINED:
RAINDOG - SAN PEDRO, CA
Manx sat across the street from the La Salle, a run-down, flea bag flop that he doubted had ever seen better days, even when this town had been a thriving harbor town. He was enjoying his first coffee as he opened his mail. The morning sun was doing its best to cut through the chill of early winter. It was not very successful. Every so often, someone (probably some old drunk) would let out a scream from across the street. It was natural. Life was a truly scary proposition these days, and the shock of living it would make the most sane among us cry out if we hadn’t been conditioned since birth to shut up and grin and bear it. As he contemplated this (and the swirls in his cappuccino) a youth, of some passing acquaintance, sat down (uninvited) at the table and began to rant. “Truth is a broken mirror. Justice is an empty box. Intimacy is a suicide note. Desire is an dirty shot glass.” You’re preaching to the choir brother... Manx thought. Was this really news to the kid? The world was neither safe nor sanitized; yet every time you turned on the box there was some government stooge trying to convince you otherwise. Likewise, every time you went out there was some goon preaching righteous indignation from a makeshift pulpit. Or some kid who had just discovered that life sucked, preaching to the choir at some poetry ‘reading’ or in some alley where the ‘chronic’ burned and spoiled dreams mingled with spilt booze and the smell of piss. He wondered where
had these people been? How had they missed the decline and fall of practically everything near and dear? The kid was on a roll now. He knew it and Manx knew it. Trouble was, he wanted nothing to do with the kid. The kid brought out a fear that had plagued him for years; a fear which he had learned to suppress by ignoring. A fear that had gone unnamed for years: homo-phobic. Not as in homo-sexual fear, but homo-sapien fear; the fear of human beings. He looked at the kid. He wished he could make the kid disappear... forever. He wondered what would happen? Could he get away with it? Would anyone notice? According to the kid, no one gave a damn if he was ever heard from again. Manx drifted into a murderous daydream of doing vile things to the kid (just to show him how bad it could really get) before dropping him head-first down a mineshaft out in the Panamint’s, or maybe, over by Pinto Basin, near Joshua Tree. “Truth is a handful of dirt. Justice is the open grave.” A scream punctuated this statement. Manx lurched forward out of his chair, his letters scattering like bystanders at a drive-by shooting. His hands clutched the kid’s throat. It was soft and innocent like a Harp seal. He choked out the words as Manx brought down the club. “Beauty is getting what you wished for... whether you like it or not.” Too true, too true, thought Manx. He was long over-due for a change of scenery, anyway.
BY FREEDOM LEE DRUDGE
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LOU FLOYD - LA, CA Hunter S. Thompson’s unique style of writing a.k.a Gonzo Journalism is resurfacing among today’s contemporary journalists. In his book, The Hell’s Angels, Thompson deplores a ramble-on style of writing that sucks in the audience with an easy banter and beat-down majesty that feels like a mind-frack to his readers; as if one is actually experiencing the action that Thompson records—we call this submersion journalism--Thompson’s writing technique is a retelling of hands on experience in the first person narrative. He lived and so he wrote hourby-hour at the typer—a style that can be easily compare to the once-Avant Garde acting technique known as method acting. Method actors? ThinkMarlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. Robert DiNiro in Raging Bull. Val Kilmer in The Doors. These guys all used a method acting technique to submerge into their most-famous roles. Thompson describes the lives of the Hell’s Angels in such detail the State police took notice of his memoir. Thompson reaches into the heads of Sonny Barger, then leader of the Hell’s Angels, and several other biker personalities that left his readers raging for the bikers and the company of outlaws in leather pants, bound for the great open roads. Thompson’s view of the American biker from the behind the shades of the Angels is the one point of view to have never, ever actualized in the mainstream press of his day. As a factotum of true counter-culture journalism, he was the first of his kind to write feature articles about the Angels while sharing the lifestyle of American biker culture 24-7. Showing up for the ride—mile after mile, city after city, offering his pen and his type-keys to sketch what truly made them tick. Though Thompson never wrote on staff of the Los Angeles Free Press, his passionate writing-style was not unknown to the LA FreeP staffers in the 70s. Long live Gonzo Journalism!
Los Angeles Free Press
April 4, 2014
Page 5
THE AFROFUTURIST his fellow protesters The cold winds somberly stand talking started to blow as the among themselves but sun set on Hollywood did not participate in Boulevard ending the the occupy event of warmth of another March 21. bright spring day but “My parents came to the shift in weather America from Ukraine didn’t stop the protes- before I was born,” he tors at Hollywood & says, “I’m not saying Highland. that Russia is the villain Waving signs ex- in this situation but I pressing their discon- am not saying they are tent with the tension the good guys either, brewing after sanc- same goes for the U.S, tions were exchanged they both have unspobetween the US and ken private interest in Russia over Putin’s Ukraine, Ukrainian military occupancy of people have known of Crimea and the U.S their country’s interinvolvement, they en- personal history with gaged passersby. U.S intelligence agenTwo demonstrators cies for years.” provided a vivacious Pop n’ lock dance per“People have to see formance to popular the big picture, the music from the 80s way the U.S governand 90s, while dawn- ment is disempowering Fawkes’ mask— ing us as Americans the trademark of the by allowing our jobs to online activist group be exported to foreign Anonymous—as excit- nations,” Badger trails ed crowds of onlookers off, looking at the cops young and old gath- across the street, “and ered around to watch. I would rather invest Badger stands in a billions into foreign gray hoodie and jeans politics than into the with his slender frame economic recovery of leaning back against our own country but the wall of a building are using us to destroy behind the observers, other countries.” wearing a cap pulled He talked empalow on his forehead, thetically about the and a backpack over way the mainstream his long-sleeved shirt. media leaves us misHe stares intently as lead and misinformed C. TURO-LA, CA
BUY AMERICAN.
about things occurring that directly affect our well-being, as well as the great ‘sham’ the current media performs. Badger stood in a group with other members of the #Occupy LA organization he belongs to on the star-studded sidewalk of Highland Avenue. There was a certain solidarity in the way they intermingled, bonded together by the common cause of publicizing the injustices carried out the elite against the people of America and disseminating information and enlightenment to unconscious masses. They all crave a different kind of buzz, collectively as they entice passersby. “This is probably the most unorganized protest that I’ve been to but at last I saw a few children engaged,” Badger smiles, referring to the children who enjoyed the entertainment of the dancing protesters still performing on the sidewalk. Whether the method is Pop n’ lock or the laid back stance that Badger holds, #Occupy LA is all facets, alive and well in Hollywood, CA 2014.
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April 4, 2014
Los Angeles Free Press
HIPPIES USE BACK DOOR GREY MATTERS EVERETT, WA To get this party started, I’m going to detail a personal incident that occurred while I was in my early teens. I had just run away from Los Angeles, and wound up in Southwestern Missouri. Times were good for the most part. I had left an atmosphere of constant conflict. The Vietnam War was long and winding down, but it seemed as though the Viet Cong & NVA soldiers that had assaulted South Vietnam had amassed on the streets on Southern California, wearing badges, driving black and white cars with blue and red lights glaring with black batons. Set on the City of Angels. While working my way through the prejudice ingrained in mid-America, with remarks like: “Hey Hippie, what’s with the long hair and bell bottoms?” The fact that I wore a belt that I handcrafted with leather tools that said “Somethin”, which no one could figure out what it meant, dealt me a list of obstacles to maneuver through. Namely, how to retain my identity and grow up into a mature healthy American man. The time spent there wasn’t long, but you would be amazed at what you can learn in an 18-24 month period. In that time I met a Viet Nam Vet named Randy. Randy was Infantry. I don’t remember what Division. But, he’d been in the mix. He had that 1000 yard stare. I was hitchhiking on Highway 71 going south heading to the place I called home. It was a late afternoon, hot sun shining down a long road and it seemed as though I would be walking the 30 or so mile stretch and it was going to take a long goddamned time.
A 54’ Chevy Panel Wagon passes me and pulls to the side of the road ahead. Gray primer finish withcustom Crager aluminum mags, right blinker blinking. My first thought was – run, you’ve got a ride. But I walked. In fact, sauntered to the passenger door and grabbed the doorknob. When I opened the door, I saw Randy. A hallowed out inner body of a pre-historic article of human manufacture—and he stared right into me. “Man, this is a sweet ride,” I said. Randy asked me where I was going. I told him south, but that I wasn’t in a hurry to get there. He asked if I wanted to tag along and to go see a few of his friends and get high. “Sure,” said I. In the coming months that I grew to know this man, a 21 yearold American Veteran, whom I would accompany to the Little Rock, Arkansas VA office to sit in on his ‘evals with the Psych Doctor (he brought me along to keep him company, but I think I was more representable as a token to the Vet Staff that he was a good social animal) to learn then – that he was afflicted with what we now know as PTSD. In those days, there was no progress in the disorder. They didn’t even know what it was. And if they did, they weren’t admitting it. And so they prescribed him pills. Pills for this and pills for that. On our return trip north, he’d say: “Man, these fucks have no clue what’s going on inside me”. I’d inquire to what he meant by that and he would be at a loss for words. He himself couldn’t describe his condition – because even he didn’t know. One sunny day we’re driving along and I again say to him,
“Man, what a sweet ride”. I go on and on about how this mechanical mentor of American invention could be the protégé to souped up Hotrod lovers, all green with envy, just waiting to feast their eyes upon it and look inside and, just like the next-door neighbor’s wife want ride her. He looked over at me, steered to the side of the road and after pulling to a stop, asked me if I really liked it. “Of course I do,” I replied. And then, out of the blue, he opened the driver’s side door, sauntered around to my side and said, “Get over there and drive it.” I scooted over and put the on column 3 gear into 1st, revved it a bit and gently took off. That’s when he started opening up about the Peace Movement and about the Hippies whom he had introduced me to. The friends that knew him before he went “in country”, long before he came back in a state of mental shock. How the movement had once stood for something but the draft had ruined that vision. I would drive for hours and he would talk for hours. Some of the stories he told me weren’t new to my ears, like the ones where American soldiers would take trophies of war from dead bodies – ears, eyes and male genitalia. I’d seen firsthand pictures of those trophies back in LA. Maybe I was running from that, only to have the reality of it resurface 1500 miles east. I got to know Randy and my demons very well. I had just turned 16. By this time I had become a chauffeur of sorts. I’d drop Randy off at the home of a friend and return the next morning to pick him up. We’d go do the things free birds do – we loved our lives. And as love goes,
we loved everyone and each other. I had his back, he had mine. That was just the way it was. Back then even the cops didn’t fuck with us— knowing that neither of us actually had a valid Driver’s license. We weren’t rich, we weren’t successful, but we were content. Now that I look back on it, he taught me how to be content with whatever I had or did not have. And then one day out of the blue he says to me, “You like this truck?” I replied for the millionth and oneth time – absolutely. And he says: “It’s yours.” After much bickering and failed attempts at bartering, I finally accepted his gift. I continued to pick him up and drive him around to meet the awesome Hippies, friends and war vets that were his ‘inner circle’ though all of these folks, myself included, never saw it coming. It was a gray morning way down in the fall. I had been driving around to every single place that I could possibly imagine where Randy might be. I had left him late the night before to go stay over at my girlfriend’s place. I told him I’d be back early to pick him up so that we could head down to the VA for his monthly appointment. But he wasn’t there, in fact, they said that he’d never even knocked on the door. After days and nights—and my asking everyone I met “have you seen this guy?” one day I finally heard the whereabouts of my good buddy Randy. “I haven’t seen him but I heard they found him on the railroad tracks. Run over by a train.” After that day, it wasn’t such a ‘sweet ride’ after all.
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FLASH FICTION:
THE JOUST
BY
M. LECRIVAIN- LA, CA “And who can bear to be forgotten” - Ricochet/David Bowie She likes to take a walk every day to clear her mind, jump-start the metabolism and to get the circulatory system evened out because hot flashes are a bitch. She’s worn out three pairs of tennis shoes, logged over 300 miles in four months and lost seven pounds. She’s mapped several routes through her neighborhood that equal up to three miles without having to cross traffic stops. She’s peripherally aware of the growing homeless population, the one entrenched under the 10 freeway. She sees them often as they lounge against the concrete support in the shade, or set up tents and hot plates but like most people, she prefers to forget they exist. He wanders down Venice Blvd, wipes his brow and wonders when the bus will come. He doesn’t like crowds. To him a crowd is more than five people and there’s 15 people cluster-fucked together at the bus stop at Venice and Cadillac. He wonders when his relief check will come. He forgot it was Labor Day Weekend. The post office is closed on Sunday and Monday. His stomach growls. He’s not eaten since last night when he spent the last of his money on a pack of cheese and crackers and a bottle of water. He needs to make it to the beach where there’s sympathetic tourists with food and money. Anger rests in the pit of stomach and grows larger like a runaway lump of yeasty dough. He came to L.A. to make music, to make people dream of the notes he wove together with his guitar. Even now, the fingers clutch for that Telecaster that used to be his constant companion, but along with his brain, was irrevocably shattered in the car accident from years before. The doctors told him that he might recover his ability to play - in time - but traumatic brain injury was permanent and tricky to treat.
April 4, 2014 and daydreams about people she’s known; in particular, an old boyfriend whose been appearing in her dreams; an intense man with a yacht full of emotional baggage and an insatiable libido. She remembers how she put her life on hold for three years to became a bi-weekly booty call, a sounding board for his problems, and a vessel for his rage. She drifted out of his life and she’s not heard from him for over a decade. She wonders if he remembers her and why she’s dreaming about him now. Does he dream of her. She likes the idea of connection, of a far away longing simultaneously generated with the possibility of contact, and of fulfillment. She crosses the street at Fairfax, while she keeps an eye out for the errant driver who believes pedestrians don’t matter. Since she started walking she’s had at least one near miss a week with drivers who treat traffic laws as a set of guidelines. She uses up the first seven seconds of crosswalk time to triple check the traffic flow before she steps out into the intersection. As she crosses Fairfax, she wonders if she should call the old boyfriend, but then she remembers she doesn’t have his number. She could do an Internet search or see if he’s on Facebook. She starts to compose an imaginary email: Dear ____, I hope this letter finds you well and happy. I, too, am well and happy. I have an active, happy life. I’m always on the move. I was wondering; I know it might sound weird, but I’ve been having weird dreams lately. You’ve been in my dreams. Nothing strange is happening. You just appear in the background a lot. I wonder... have you been dreaming about me too? Really? Wow, that’s great! What am I doing in your dreams? I’m doing WHAT?! Really?
Page 7 She takes note of his cadaverous frame, ashy skin, the pronounced veins on either side of his forehead, and the MTA bus pass that hangs pathetically around his neck. She sees his shoulders underneath a tatty blanket are tense with rage. She knows he’s not going to leave her alone unless she gives him an answer. “Hi! Um... Well, I’ve been busy...” she begins and then tries to dodge past him. His left arm, a dark steel bar, rises up with the speed of anguish to stop her. Panicked, her right arm rises up to block his. They connect in combat on Venice Blvd. For a second, she flashes back to jousting matches at Ren Faires from years past. He remembers holding his arm up in triumph to adoring crowds at the Palladium, at CBGB’s, at the Hollywood Bowl. For nano-seconds, they look at each other, and wonder why... why...why…
Don’t make me blush!
Seconds before, he spotted the woman. She walks fast and with a purpose, her head held high, her stride confident and almost impudent. As he takes in her expensive sneakers, Ipod, and chic sunglasses, the ball of anger expands into rage. Here was another one, another person who’ll walk around him like he’s nothing, a blip on the radar screen of her consciousness. I’m a person, goddammit! She doesn’t own the fucking street! She’s deep in her imagination, having He can’t play anymore. He sees the notes. turned her imaginary email into an tete-atete as she walks west on Venice Blvd. She He hears the music, but he can’t channel doesn’t notice the man as he alters his trajecthe music from his mind into the instrument. tory to match her exact steps and He can’t hold a guitar for very long. His left arm was broken in five places. He lost his SMACK BAM! place in the band, his apartment, his sense of purpose. He can’t afford the meds he needed In front of her is a pair of eyes blazing with to keep his cognitive functions running. anger and accusations. She stops, flustered. His family are dead, except his brother He takes another step, closes the space bewhom he’s not close to and his friends have tween them and leans forward. She stands vanished into thin air. He can’t remember the her ground, curious, and also irritated by the last time he had an actual conversation, or interruption of reality. when someone would speak to him directly. “Why won’t you talk to me?” he demands. People flow around him like water. She pauses. Her mind races. She franticalHe’s a stone in a creek to be stepped on ly searches her memory, tries to spot him in or over. His anger deepens as he wanders random corners. She wonders where and if further east. they’ve met, in what context, but she comes She walks along the east side of Venice, up with nothing. UNTITLED: BY RENALDO RICKETTS
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April 4, 2014
Los Angeles Free Press
FROM THE EDTORS’ DESK:
Baptism through fire is the very best initiation, indeed. If you believe in fate, (and I know you do) than you also believe there are no accidents in life. After finishing college and a slew of unpaid contract positions I answered a WRITERS WANTED post from the #LAFP Publisher. Three weeks later , we have assembled some of the best poets, artists, writers and photogs whose talents have yet to be exploited in
the world of online publishing and we hope to make them known on and off of the LA FreeP for many years to come. In the tradition of the classic FreeP, we designed our e mag in the tabloid-style with the look and feel of the retro paper itself. With click and form we pay homage to the paper’s founder and longtime visionary of alt-media, Art Kunkin. This issue is comprised of articles written EXCLUSIVELY for the LAFREEP.COM as well as poetic and artistic submissions. A week ago I sat on Gary Young’s IWOSC Magazine Editor’s Panel and announced to the audience that the FreeP is coming back, Four staffers and our Publisher, Steven M.Finger among them. We are posting a taste of what will be an evolving form and style choices were based on the original archives, typos, typesetting, column breaks et al. She is a nostalgic beauty to be had by all, our lady downpour of hope that is the page. Relaunching the iconic LA FreeP into Digital life
MY BREAKUP LETTER WITH THE INTERNET M. TECHNO- LA, CA Dear Internet, We have spent countless hours together, getting to know each other so intimately and completely. It’s gotten to the point that I am almost certain that you have my social security number memorized. That is fairly intimate knowledge if you ask me. If I’m honest with myself, this relationship has become way too codependent for my taste. I have invested time, money and a lot of emotion into you and I. Now I realize that I need space. A lot of space. The fact that you are at my beck and call at any moment of the day says a great deal about us both. I can tell that there are a lot of others who you share this kind of relationship. Every year you gather a new group of people and they join your stable of people that you are way too involved with. In all honesty, I have come to the realization that it is more me than it is you. I am starting to see that you are a great deal more involved in my life than anyone before you and in all honesty without you, I am certain no one will ever be as involved. We have been together since 1994 and I don’t think you can imagine how old it makes me feel to say, we have been involved for 2 decades? I feel incredibly old. You have seen me through many life changing events I literally give you daily updates. a great deal of which are things that you tell to everyone who is willing to listen. Though it is a part of your charm, I have come to be very selective with exactly what I tell you. Hell, my
is a labor of love (and occasional tears) For extra fun, (all you returning readers from back in the day) Artwork and Ads written originally for the LA FP in the 60s are peppered throughout this publication. We hope that you will subscribe to the e mag and keep an eye on the counter-culture companions who continually submit work and staff our virtual newsroom. There are still techy positions to be filled (see our ADS posted throughout issue #1) and if you love the FReeP the way we love the freep, we want to hear from you. ...And now a few words from our sponsor: Oh, yes… there are two of us. As Publisher, I also wear an Editor’s hat. So, toward this end, please read, with relish, our next few attempts to get this right, never hesitating to send in your suggestions. Come our 50th Anniversary, May 24, we will, with what we find and with what we hear from you, tru-
ly re-launch the Los Angeles Free Press. However, as someone who arrived several generations before Mende, my perspective is more along the lines of many of those who once had our newsprint in hand. It’s my sincere wish that you will find the convergence, as well as the contrast, of our respective viewpoints to be both innovative and interesting. However, we are both one with the prime mission of the original LAFreeP… this version will also give light to concerns that mainstream corporate-controlled media would rather not expose. And, too, our purpose, unlike many of the ‘alts’ that followed us, was not just to bring un-reported data to light. Instead, a prime objective was to be the open window to what was really brewing; perceptive readers didn’t just find news, they found out which way the wind was blowing. We’ll carry on with that tradition, too. Hence, our revamped logo line “A Real Head Trip for Smart Minds”.
last girlfriend told you something really terrible and you told me right away-I appreciate the loyalty. the She was of course, mortified. But sweetie I believe it time or me to get over this thing I have with you. You have gotten me laid more times than I like to admit and you have also led me into dates where I have been asked to change a grown woman’s diaper. So we’ll call it about an even split. You have helped me make money out of nothing. or find new interests. The hours we have spent together over one of the many talents for entertainment you possess. Thank you.
WHO WE ARE:
Sadly, I think that I need to do something else with more than the pixels on the screen in front of me. I think I need to not spend my time trolling Tumblr, YouTube, Twitter, Facebook and Pinterest and I do not know how many other of your many facets for free information. And please don’t even bother asking me about porn. (I might have to use you for that every once in a while.) It’s a nice perk of having you. To be fair here, I genuinely appreciate all you have done for me. With that said, Internet. I’m leaving you. I need more than you have to offer. It has been really great between us but I need to get out and learn to interact with people without the two minutes of thought between each message. Please don’t take personally and don’t take it as a challenge to get me back. I want to do something else with people instead of pixels. There are at least 2 billion other people for you to notify, message, snap, and reblog to your heart’s content.
Associate Designer:
P.S I left my phone on the nightstand so, don’t bother calling me, I’ll call you.
Founding Publisher: Art Kunkin
Pubisher/Editor : Steven M. Finger
Virtual Newsroom Editor-In-Chief: Mende Smith
Maitland A.Johnson
Staff Writers: Rex Butters= Dr.Mencken Glen Still= Grey Matters Matt Orso= Mo Techno Arturo Jennings= Turo RD Armstrong= RainDog ME Smith= Lou Floyd
Issue #1 Freepophiles: Renaldo Ricketts Marie Lecrivain Bob Young Ross Whitney= A.Sydd PM Beers
COMIX ARTIST:
Freedom Lee Drudge
PR ETC:
Niki V. & Kali Love Reuben Muso King
( QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, FEEDBACK? PLEASE SEND TO: lafreepress2014@gmail.com OUR POLICY IS TO NEVER REFUSE A LETTER. WE WILL PROMISE A RESPONSE. NO MATTER HOW VULGAR OR OFFENSIVE YOUR INQUIRY/OPINON WE WILL WRITE BACK.)
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April 4, 2014
Los Angeles Free Press
YESTERDAY IS GONE, TODAY IS HERE. THE FIRST ISSUE OF 2014 HAS BEEN LONG IN THE MAKING, BUT THIS IS JUST A TEASER...
COME BACK FOR THE 50th ANNIVERSARY ISSUE on MAY 24 ISSUE#2 LAFP is NEXT FRIDAY SAME SITE, SAME TIME 4/11.