by Mike Edison
The Europeans had a fair handle on this wrestling business: there was a decent roster of gimmicked-up rock ’n’ rollers ready to rumble, punks dressed as Red Cross workers standing by with a stretcher, a transvestite timekeeper, and the sexiest, most bosomy cheerleaders on the planet dancing between matches.
They came close to the American ideal of my noble sport, but like someone who has learned to play the blues by listening to Led Zeppelin, they missed a few things. They had the taste but hadn’t mastered the flavor. I looked around for a guy in a zebra-striped shirt. No luck. Apparently, I was also the referee. This created an interesting conflict of interest—I was to introduce the wrestlers, then help the bad guy creatively carve up the babyface, and then count the poor fucker out and send him on his way. A referee would have been a nice detail, but what the hell? I could do this.
I entered the ring in full Rocket Train regalia—silver cape, matching boots, leopard-skin fez, and wraparound shades—what the Grand Wizard might have worn to a punk rock wrestling blast if he bought his clothes at a thrift store on Mars.
I got into a pretty good groove clobbering the good guys with the mic, or garroting them with the cord and jamming a stiff thumb to the throat when they fell out of the ring (the dreaded Oriental Spike, banned on five continents). Then I delivered the three count and called for the bell. What a racket! The girls danced between matches, and I strutted around and kissed them, like the Marquis de Sade on a bender.
The final match of the night featured Looch Vibrato, an animal who is also one of France’s fiercest guitar players. His band, the Magnetix, a duo that also features his sexy cavewoman girlfriend Aggie Sonora, had been backing me up on that tour, and now I was managing his entrée into a brave new world of headbutts and neckbreakers.
Looch was booked into a handicap match against two of the ugliest men I have ever seen, a couple of goons covered in green paint who called themselves Les Hulks. Looch was going to chew on these guys like breath mints.
Unfortunately, traditional tag-team rules had not loomed large in these so-called Hulks’ study of professional wrestling, and when the bell rang, they immediately double-teamed Looch and forced him into the corner, where the timekeeper thumped him on the head with the hammer he had been using to ring the bell. They were cheating! I had no choice but to interfere.
I jumped into the fray, turned to slug the timekeeper, and caught the bell straight in the face.
Did you know that when you get hit in the face with a big brass bell, you actually see stars and little tweety birds? I always thought that Bugs Bunny made that shit up.
I still had enough sense to check my nose (not broken) and my teeth (mostly intact), but I was juicing plenty. There was blood everywhere.
At this point, I’ve got exactly two things on my mind. First, I must look absolutely gorgeous covered in all this blood and I hope someone is taking pictures. Second, It’s clobberin’ time!!! I pulled that underhanded no-good cross-dressing timekeeper through the ropes and laid him out with an old-school, Memphis-style Hanging Fist Drop.
But in another second those filthy Hulks were on me. It was chaos in the ring: wrestlers were coming out of the dressing room to brawl, and even the cheerleaders were back in the ring, jiggling their tits. The crowd was going nuts—people were screaming, beer was flying. It was awesome.
Clearly the script called for Looch and me to pound the green guys into paté and then dance giddily around their supine bodies. But apparently, no one had told them that. I drove Hulk No. 1’s head into the floor with a thundering Skullcrusher, but he had the audacity to get up. I was dripping blood on him and trying to mentally transmit the Big Finish. Actually, I was just screaming. “Stay down mutherfucker . . . let me pound you on the head a few times and then get your ass on that stretcher . . .” But he wasn’t having any of it. I was beginning to get light-headed from the loss of blood, and starting to wonder if it wasn’t me who was going out in an ambulance. Looch, who had nearly decapitated Hulk No. 2 with a vicious Lariat Clothesline, was finally fed up with Hulk No. 1’s French insouciance and flattened him with a hard elbow to the brain. I counted to three and declared Looch the winner.
The crowd was nearly rioting now. Although our match was more State Fair than Madison Square Garden, for Strasbourg, this was an unprecedented cultural revolution.
There was still the small matter of my face, which was in sore need of repair. My top lip was split in two by the impact of the bell, and I was dripping red stuff like a busted pomegranate. Before I knew what was happening, I was being helped out of the ring by a paramedic (a real one) and taken to the hospital.
The doctor did a fine job. He suggested that it might be best if I gave up any aspirations I may have harbored toward growing a mustache, but the scar was going to be a handsome souvenir indeed. I gave him fifty-five euros for twenty-five stitches and a tetanus shot, a bargain any way you looked at it. And then I hitched a ride back to the arena and joined the party already in progress. There were some cheerleaders there who were concerned about me.
I felt like a champion, just waiting for my belt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Brain-busting gracias to Jeremy Tepper; Sharky’s Machine; Carmine Bellucci and everyone at Crescent (Drake) Publications; GG Allin (RIP); Michael Kennedy and High Times magazine; the Pleasure Fuckers y su pandilla en Malasaña y mas alla; Hustler magazine; Dave “Grip and Grin” Allocca; Gretchen Viehmann and Melch; Victor Colliccio and the cast and crew of Potluck; Amos Harvey; Joe Naylor and Reverend Musical Instruments; Manly, the World’s Strongest Cat, and “God’s Own Kitten,” Sebastian; Max Lenderman; Peter Halley and index magazine; Jennifer Bleyer and Heeb magazine; Tim and Micha Warren (Crypt Records); Larry and Leslie (Carbon 14); NASA; Dig It ’zine, Human Bretzel Records, Wrestling Baby Blast, and the Magnetix (France); El Bratto; Ruta 66 magazine (Spain); Eric Danville; Chip Mahoney; Paul Armstrong; Saori Kuno; Nancy Huff; Handsome Dick Manitoba; Screaming Lord Overdrunk; Dave “Viking” Pederson; KGB bar; David Smith at the New York Public Library; Sweet Joey Valentine and all past and future members of the Edison Rocket Train; Page Six and the New York Post; the irrepressible Paula Kakalecik Manzanero; Eisenberg’s Sandwich Shop; and to everyone who was part of this book or somehow contributed to these savage tales—the doctors, dealers, bartenders, and random punks, musicians, promoters, fans, editors, writers, and anyone I am shamefully forgetting, subconsciously repressing, or dutifully omitting—thank you. I hope you had as much fun as I did.
Special piledriving appreciation and huzzahs to John Holmstrom and Punk magazine; to Kevin Hein, Al Goldstein, and Screw magazine; to Jon Spencer and family, and the Blues Explosion; and to my favorite chimp, Cliff Mott.
Lots of crazy Sharky Love to my brothers in arms, the Raunch Hands: Mike Mariconda, George Sulley, and Mr. Michael Chandler.
My unwavering, spine-crushing gratitude goes out to the A-Team: my agent, the redoubtable Jane Dystel, and her posse at Dystel & Goderich; my mutherfucking pit bull of a lawyer, friend, and consigliere, Blaine “Three Box” Bortnick; Mad man Rick Tulka; and everyone at Faber and Faber/FSG who worked so hard to make this book a reality (special thanks to kopy kats John McGhee, who helped keep the edges sharp, and the late, great Robert Legault, a post-punk proofreader without peer; Jessica Ferri, the great facilitator; Aaron Artessa, a design dude with a positive ’tude; publicista suprema Kathy Daneman; and those crack legal eagles and defenders of free speech, Mark Fowler and Diana Frost)—but above all, to my editor, Denise Oswald, a woman of vast intelligence, good taste, patience, and wit. If there is any coherence or grace evident in this story, blame her.
I am especially grateful to my dad, who has provided much more than the unwitting comic relief that peppers this saga, and my mom, who has been no less than spectacular in her support. While I am certain she loves me enough to root for me no matter what, I am hoping she knows me well enough to skip the book and go right to this page.
This book is lovingly dedicated to th
e memory of my friend Dave Insurgent.
INDEX
A-Bones, 99–100
Abu-Jamal, Mumia, 204
acid, see LSD
Adonis, Frank, 265, 268
Advance Media, 184
agnès b., 306
Aladdin Hotel, 96–97
Ali, Muhammad, 6, 40, 95
Ali and His Gang vs. Mr. Tooth Decay, 95
Ali Champion Brand Shoe Polish, 95, 97
Allen, Woody, 263, 264, 304
Allin, GG, 24–26, 62–63, 71, 101, 149–51, 154, 179, 249, 303
Allin, Merle, 151
Allman Brothers, 268
Allocca, Dave, 259–61, 262, 273
Alpacka, Ally, 171–73, 177–78, 181, 183, 208
Ambien, 308
Amnesty International, 173
Amos, 284
amphetamine (speed), 34, 130, 132
Amsterdam Centrum, 49
Anchor Steam Beer, 171
Andre the Giant, 99
Anheuser-Busch, 171
Animal House, 263
Anslinger, Harry, 186, 187
Anti-Defamation League (ADL), 304
Any Given Sunday, 264
Architectural Digest, 108
Are Men Necessary? (Dowd), 320
Armstrong, Neil, 93
Asbury Lanes, 286
Austin, Steve, 228–29
Baby Doll Lounge, 286
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 61
Backlund, Bob, 9–10, 11
Bad Lieutenant, 265
Baez, Joan, 194
Baker, Ox, 56
Baker, Tammy Faye, 26
B&H Dairy, 119
Barbarella, 55
Barely Legal, 160
Bauer, Judah, 308–10, 311
Beach Boys, 285
Beatles, 125, 163–65, 190, 233, 234, 286, 307
Beck, 286
Bell, Alexander Graham, 79
Bellucci, Carmine, 80–81, 83, 85, 90, 91, 113, 115, 118, 170
Bennett, Tony, 85
Berlin Wall, 71
Bernard, Paul, 264
Berra, Yogi, 190
Berry, Chuck, 61, 249
Best of Cheri, 87
Best of High Society, 87
Best of High Times, 220
Bevan, Bev, 41
Big Combo, The, 135
Big Sleep, The, 200
bin Laden, Osama, 322
Björk, 307
Black, Bobby, 224, 291
Black Beauties, 34
Black Sabbath, 41, 107–108, 194–96; see also Osbourne, Ozzy
Blade Runner, 141
Blaine, David, 320–21
Blanchard, Tully, 67
Bleyer, Jennifer, 292–93, 301, 302, 303, 305
Bloom, Steve, 126–27, 190, 193–94, 206, 209, 214–15, 220, 221, 227, 257, 261–62, 264, 265, 279, 291, 316
Bloomberg, Michael, 321
Board, Mykel, 25
Bolan, Marc, 61
bongs, 32
Bon Jovi, 27
Bono, 286
Borges, Jorge Luis, 173
Bosch, Hieronymus, 145
Bowie, David, 32, 71
Boyd, Jonathan, 65–66, 67, 68
Branca, Glenn, 70
Brandenburg Concertos (Bach), 61
Brando, Marlon, 177, 266
Bratto, El, 160–61, 163, 296, 297–99
Brautigan, Richard, 19
Breslin, Jimmy, 290
Brezhnev, Leonid, 147
Bridge Over the River Kwai, 125
Bring Out the Dead, 265
Brooklyn Museum, 242, 304
Brown, James, 128, 242, 286
Bruce, Lenny, 24, 288
Bugs Bunny (char.), 324
Bullets Over Broadway, 263
Burnside, RL, 284
Burroughs, William, 10, 126
Bush, George H. W., 104–105
Bush, George W., 310, 322
Bushwackers, 66
Busting Susan’s Cherry, 22–23
Butler, Geezer, 41
Buxom, 91
Buzzbee, 32, 257, 269
Caesar, Julius, 237
Caesars Palace, 93–94, 249
Cannabis Cup, 240, 243
Canned Heat, 309
Capone, Al, 189
“Captain’s Log” column, 24
Carlin, George, 201
Carlito, 173
Carnegie, Dale, 70
Carson, Johnny, 14
Carter, Jimmy, 70
Casino, 265
Cat Club, 25
Cat Power, 307
Cavestomp!, 248
CBGB, 12, 169, 266, 286–87
CBS, 310
Celebrity Skin, 78, 79, 87, 114
Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 103, 157, 185, 233
Cervantes, Jorge, 235
Challenger space shuttle, 55
Championship Wrestling from Florida, 59
Chandler, Michael, 119, 123, 128–29, 131, 132–33, 145, 156, 167–68, 250–51, 282, 311–12
Chandler, Raymond, 19
Chaplin, Charlie, 39
Chayefsky, Paddy, 271
Cheech, Marin, 50, 263, 268
Cheney, Dick, 321
Cheri, 75–78, 79, 80–81, 87, 88, 108, 277; see also Drake Publishing
Cheri Bomb, 80
Chong, Tommy, 50, 262, 263, 264, 268, 269, 271
ChroniCaster, 269–71
Chun, Danny, 289–90
Circus, 41
Circus Circus, 92–93, 95, 97
Citizen Kane, 269
Clash, The, 36
Cleese, John, 236
Clinton, Bill, 260
Clinton, Hillary, 318
Clooney, Rosemary, 85
Clueless, 272
CNN, 293
cocaine, 33, 74, 76, 85, 104–105, 107, 108, 119, 130, 131, 137, 139, 143, 159, 171, 185, 225, 250, 255, 282, 306
Cold War, 43, 44, 89
Coleman, Ornette, 35
Colicchio, Victor, 261, 262–63, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 270–71
Collins, Albert, 35
Columbia University, 169, 292; Edison as journalism student at, 56, 60–62, 63
Columbine shootings, 207
Concert Kit, 32
Condé Nast, 184, 202, 317
Cooper, Alice, 26, 32, 150, 249
Cornelius (char.), 91
Cosell, Howard, 95
Cosloy, Gerard, 62
Couric, Katie, 321
Cramps, 260
Cream, 283
Creedence Clearwater Revival, 35
Crescent Publishing Group, see Drake Publishing
Cripple, Paul, 46
Cronkite, Walter, 55
Crosby, David, 194, 207
Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, 207
Cruise, Tom, 318
Crypt Records, 285
Curtis, Tony, 263
Cypress Hill, 210, 258
Dalai Lama, 70
Dale, Dick, 128
Davis, Miles, 35, 242
Day the Earth Stood Still, The, 285
Dead Kennedys, 45
Dean, James, 42
Declaration of Independence, 186
Deep Purple, 41
Deep Throat, 77
De Kooning, Willem, 172
Democratic National Convention (1968), 43
Democratic National Convention (1984), 45
De Niro, Robert, 47
de Sade, Marquis, 323–24
Dexedrina, 133
Dick, 272
Dick the Bruiser, 56
Dictators, 284, 286
Diddley, Bo, 70
Dietrich, Marlene, 71
Dig It!, 295, 300
Dillon, J. J., 67
Dinosaur Jr., 25
DiRienzo, Paul, 203–205, 223
Dirty Harry, 38
Doggie Village, 189–90, 233, 236
dope, see marijuana
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 5, 228
Double Barrel Sunshine, 34
Dowd, Maureen, 320
Dracula (char.), 286
Drake Publishing, 78–86, 87, 89–92, 108–110, 113–14, 115, 117–19, 136–37, 177, 245, 277; see also specific publications
“Drink, Fight, and Fuck,” 25
Dr. Seuss, 313
Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), U.S., 188, 227
drugs, drug use, 72, 73; and anti-drug campaigns, 186–87, 188–89; border searches for, 146–48; by Edison in teens, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36–38; and 420 code, 206–208; in Japan, 125–26; paraphernalia for, 32–33, 257, 269; see also specific drugs
Dr. Zayus (char.), 91
Dugout, The, 47
Duvalier, Papa Doc, 257
Dworkin, Andrea, 89
Dylan, Bob, 14, 35, 40, 124, 163, 190, 207
Easy Rider, 241
Ecstasy Club, 53, 73
Edison, Mike: Beatles disliked by, 163–65, 233; broken hand and, 297–301; brothers of, 31, 34, 158; at Cheri, see Cheri; Drake Publishing; childhood of, 9, 31–37; teenage drinking of, 34, 35; teenage pot smoking of, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36–38; as college dropout, 17, 18, 47, 63; European solo tours of, 295–301, 315, 322–25; father of, 5, 9, 13–14, 31, 34, 37–38, 47, 92, 159, 280; Gonzo trip to Vegas of, 92–98; grandmother of, 280; at High Times, see High Times; in High Times Potluck, 266–67; living in Spain, 133, 135, 142–46, 149, 151, 155–58, 159, 160–65; at Main Event, see Wrestling’s Main Event; mother of, 31, 34, 36–37, 38, 47, 63, 92, 280; as musician, 35, 49–53, 54, 61–63, 179–81; see also specific bands; pseudonyms used by, 7, 15, 20, 277, 278, 283, 320; relationships with women, 17, 28–29, 74, 76, 78, 100–101, 111, 112, 113, 117, 119, 121, 141–42, 151, 155–56, 179, 180–82, 215–17, 230–31, 246–48, 249, 250–51, 279, 280–81, 286–87, 313; on Rock against Reagan tour, 43, 44–47; sexual harassment accusations against, 244–46; stabbed at White Castle, 111–13; on trip to Fez, 156–58, 255; as writer, 18–23, 47, 49, 53–55, 61, 62, 75, 136–37, 159–60; see also specific publications and columns
Edison Cure, 53, 73, 141, 167, 301
Edison Rocket Train, 282–87, 295, 296, 312; solo tours, 295–301, 315, 322–25
egg cream, chocolate, 167
“Eight Days a Week,” 164
Electric Bowling Trophy, 35
Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), 41
Ellis, Bret Easton, 306–308