ironfox's blog: "AnnDoll"

Redneck's famous last words at the family reunion... "Hey, watch this!" Well, I did it... while at the Packard Reunion 06 at Tiki Island, Texas, I felt the need to Carpe the old Diem. It all started as we arrived at our rented house late one evening. The lights were all out as we cousins wound around to the house entrance, facing the canal... "ker-Splash!" cousin George pitched off the deck into the inky black waters. "Da-amn" I thought. I mean, I could see being seized by some romantic impulse.. there under the pale blue moonlight, ripping off one's shirt, and taking a brazen midnight plunge... but cousin George? Sweet, mild-mannered, cousin George? As he thrashed about, it readily became apparant this was no romantic impulse... George had tumbled in. Luckily, as we hauled him in, the only casualty was his cell-phone. I just couldn't stop laughing. The story soon took momentum in it's retelling as "Cousin George's nude moonlight two-and-a-half." Not to be outdone, at dinner the following day I declared "I Will Now Swim Around the Island." My redneck moment had arrived. I had arranged with cousin Brian to follow along in his boat with the gang. We figured that it was under 2 miles to cousin Heidi's pad, and that the currents were working in my favor. I "Georged" off the deck, and it was on. The girls next door called out "How's the water?"... "Awesome" I replied... "Well, watch out, 'cause I was stung by a man-o-war right there yesterday." I took off like buckshot. The water got choppy and surprisingly, warmer as I plowed into the West Bay. Now, I don't like to think about it even now, but from time to time I would whack into something... unmentionable. I didn't stick around to investigate. My dad had mentioned an article about the bay's gators, so I was spurred on to an even hastier effort. Clusters of people cheered from the shore. Giving up was not an option. By the time I turned into Heidi's canal, the sun had long since set. Several canal-side homes had set up powerful halogen fishing lights, attracting schools of fish and crab. I recklessly plowed through, determined... unstoppable. Finally arriving at Heidi's pad, I scrambled up a barnacle-encrusted ladder, dashed across her lawn, and chased by a biblical swarm of mosquitos, cannonballed into her pool. God takes care of fools and drunks. Lucky, 'cause in my case... I'm both. Another gift from God came courtesy of Alberto, the first hurricane of the season. It was picking up in the gulf and pumping us some real waves. Cousin Peter, daughter Sonja and I didn't need any convincing as we grabbed some longboards and headed out to Galveston's beaches, looking for that magical break. Surfing can be like a prayer, and in that moment I realized... I am blessed. In the evenings we would gather to prepare meals. Sonja and I, as vegetarians, were the constant spoilers here- but we managed. Among these hardy, farm-bred types our vegetarianism was regarded with slight bemusement... and perhaps as something vaguely exotic. One evening I hit on an old joke. Remember Gene Hackman in Bonnie and Clyde, "Boy, whatever you do, don't sell that cow!"? That was me, as I regaled in the joke's telling and retelling. It went something like this: A lady goes to a sporting-goods store to find a fishing pole. After some searching around she finds a particularly sporty rod. *tap-tap-tap* A salesman in dark glasses and a white cane ambled up. "Can I help you ma'am?" "Why yes, I'm interested in purchasing this here fishing pole." *tap-tap-tap* The salesman ambled around the counter to the register. "You just go ahead and drop that rod right here on this counter." The woman plopped the rod on down. "Why that's a Berkley Cherrywood Classic. Twenty Dollars." Impressed, the woman fumbled through her purse for her credit-card, drops it, and while bending over to pick it up rips a virile fart. Startled, but determined to play it off she hands the blind salesman the card- not even bothering to excuse herself. The salesman hit the ringer: "That'll be thirty-four ninety-five." "Why, you just told me twenty dollars!" the lady protested. "Yes ma'am, twenty for the pole, eleven for the bird-call, and three ninety-five for the catfish bait." Reactions to the joke were decidedly mixed, ranging from uproarious hilarity to flat, expressionless silence. Nonetheless, I told and retold the joke with increasing fervor... to anyone who would listen... just like Gene Hackman. It's not so much the joke itself, or even in it's telling that I found so truly delightful. Heck, I had never even smelled catfish bait prior to that week- George had spent the week fishing off of the infamous deck. The whole arcane scenario might have been lost on me had I not paused to drink in the moment. I am indeed, truly blessed.

AnnDoll I was quite taken by AnnDoll. It was hard not to be. She was beautiful and worldly and slightly dangerous and well... she was AnnDoll. We? We were these grubby Venice street kids wearing short pants and a baa-ad attitude. Feral street urchins, really. Dead-enders with one foot in the grave, and another foot on a banana peel, sliiiiding on down the boardwalk. Somewhere along the line of pompous, overwrought 70s rock acts we had happened across these insane English imports. When Froggy and I cranked the Pistols on my dad's stereo, we scarely knew what to do. We had heard about this "punk" stuff from England, but this stuff was like speaking my truth. We had no real template as to how to look, talk, or dance, so when "God Save the Queen" was blasted out we could only look at each other incredulously.. flop over onto the floor, and start furiously writhing as if the Alien herself was pushing up through our chest cavities. The English stuff was quite dark enough, but when Rodney on the ROQ first spun these guys from the West-Side, the Germs... we did not know what to do with ourselves. Holy shit man these guys were us. Childhood in Venice had not been gentle, and in a moment we finally found that we had a voice. It was the voice of rage, and it screamed out against every hunger, every betrayal, every creepy pederast, every drunken fuckin' parent bursting through the door. We had a voice and we were going to be heard. Then AnnDoll showed up at the beach. Alabaster white skin, jet black shock of hair, fierce red lips and more vividly punk rock than anything we had yet seen. So we piled into her car, Froggy, Todd, Suzanne, Baby Paul, my little brother Damon (referred to as "The Boy," all of 12 years old) and I, and off to Dark Hollywood we went. The next several years were a roar of booze fueled anarchy, as we raged into the night. The roar seemed to grow louder and even more riotous as it took us to one particular night, October 24th, 1980. I'd been living in Hollywood at Lynda's, driving hookers around for a living, but still rolling with AnnDoll and my core Venice dogs. That night Black Flag was headlining a show at Bace's Hall, and my Venice posse turned out in full regalia. I knew it was trouble from the minute we rolled up. The cops had been provoking us all Summer, and whenever Black Flag played, they called up the reserves. This night they turned out in full riot gear, mounted, and spoiling for a fight. AnnDoll, Suzanne, The Boy and I joined the chorus of kids out front: "Sieg Heil! Seig Heil! Seig Heil!" Helicopter searchlight beams bathed us in an eerie glow. Inevitably, a beer came sailing overhead, arcing into the rows of jackbooted stormtroopers. Then another. Then two more. Then all hell broke loose. The cops charged. You could hear the sickening "thud" and "crack" of riot sticks as the cops plowed into kids out front. Suzanne and AnnDoll were stomped and wildly beaten down, breaking Suzanne's ribs and AnnDoll's leg. I grabbed The Boy and we ducked back into the show where incredibly, Black Flag was ripping into one of their many hard-hitting punk anthems. Here was our realtime soundtrack to this glorious, unfolding melee. The Boy and I leapt into the mosh pit and thrashed about furiously- at least until L.A.'s finest broke in and tear gassed us. We bailed out through the back, into a courtyard, and I hoisted him up and over a high cinderblock wall. As I tumbled over, a scene unfolded that could rightly compare with Dante's Inferno. Great clouds of gas slowly crept over the battlefield, enshrouding the clashing titans. The fog of war. Siren's wailed, helicopters droned, but the screams still pierced the thick night air. Black Flag played on. "Run man, run!" I screamed at The Boy as a gaggle of stormtroopers descended on us. As if on cue, Lynda and the posse roared up in this rusty El Camino, and we bailed into the cab- screeching off into the swirling night. It was us against them, and we clung to each other desperately. I last saw AnnDoll on the Venice boardwalk, cradling her newborn baby girl. She had her mother's alabaster white skin and expressive eyes. I was wasted out of my gourd at the time, barely able to form a sentence. AnnDoll just laughed her lusty laugh, eyes sparkling. She never judged me... nor anyone else for that matter. Fast forward twenty-five years. June of 2006. Suzanne forwards me the story from the Las Vegas Weekly (see blog). Homeless and profoundly strung out, AnnDoll- mother, artist, friend... has plunged into the bowels of Vegas. We cast our nets out far and wide, hoping for a hit. She is rumoured to be in jail, but our dragnet pulls up nothing. In addition to myself (14 years clean & sober), others rally. Suzanne (12 years clean & sober). Nicca (24 years clean & sober). Iris (9 years clean & sober). Dave (11 years clean & sober). Sara (4 years clean & sober). Defying the very laws of probability, we had all somehow managed to find our way onto the path of recovery. The Grace of God is a truly miraculous thing. Then last week we had a hit. We found AnnDoll. The search finally pays off. I reach her by phone and though disoriented, AnnDoll tells me she wants help. One ace-in-the-hole we have in Vegas is AnnDoll's friend Kurt (8 years clean & sober). Caveat: People tend to get clean & sober when they are good and damn well ready to get clean & sober. We all know this. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. However, we've decided that to do something is better than... to do nothing. We are all pulling together and getting our ducks in.a row. I fly into LA Friday, and I'm sending AnnDoll a ticket for LA this coming weekend. The hope is to get her off the streets of Vegas, off the junk, and into treatment. Please pray for AnnDoll this week.