—Photo Courtesy of David Fewster
MY SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION
(Los Angeles, 1977)
In September of 1977, after only 6 weeks in LA,
having been divested of my money and guitar by
junkies
and only a couple weeks’ rent left on my room
in the dilapidated rooming house a half block from
Santa Monica Pier,
I got a job as a A/R clerk
at Sunshine Enterprises,
a division of Andy Wall Advertising,
and truly one of the premier
Scumbag Organizations I have ever come across.
These guys put out bogus magazines
targeting different ethnic/racial groups—
Nation Review (Jewish), National Minority Review
(Black),
National Hispanic Review (self-explanatory),
And Local Communities (catch-all.)
What they’d do is call businesses—
Say, Epstein’s Radiator Repair—
and explain they were a non-profit publication
working for the cause, and could you advertise
from anywhere between $25-$250 a month,
all aboveboard and tax-deductible.
Then our ‘editorial’ department would cut-and-
paste
previously published (and uncredited) articles
along with crudely designed ads for
Ernie’s Nacho Pit and the like.
We’d print up just enough copies on
coarse, cheap colored bond to cover the advertisers,
who would faithfully receive their proofsheets in
the mail,
and everyone was happy—
Andy Wall, a matinee-idol handsome Jewish dude
who drove a Mercedes;
our advertisers, who went to bed at night
thinking they were helping fight the good fight;
and me, making $3 an hour handwriting payment
records
on 3x5 index cards,
but at least I wasn’t working in fast food.
O, where are the workmates of yesteryear?
Cydney Walsh, our bloated whiskey-voiced coke
hag supervisor
who somehow reminded me of Shelob the spider-
goddess
from Lord of the Rings;
Max, the fiftyish half-Mexican half-Irish troll,
campy beyond human endurance,
who used to paw me just to see the reaction
and regaled us with stories of his days as an
“ACT-or”
(and it turned out that he actually had a small part
as a trapped miner in Billy Wilder’s 1951 classic
Ace In the Hole starring Kirk Douglas,
which made me both feel part of the fabric of
Hollywood legend and also sense
the fickleness of fleeting fame inherent within;
Jerry, the fat old hippie/merchant marine/free love
pervert
who used to work overtime so he could have
the office to himself to lure teenage runaways
for sex under the guise of who-knew-what promises;
Yolanda, the lesbian biker who for some reason
felt vaguely maternal toward me and
would chastise Max for infringing on my personal
space;
Jenny, the young Taiwanese émigré,
who taught me to eat with chopsticks;
and Val Vandrey, our typist,
a 31-year-old brunette from Nebraska,
aspiring actress/model, moonlighting topless dancer,
personification of Neil Young’s sad “Country Girl”,
upon whom I developed a massive crush that
lasted a full six months after she quit the firm
to get her substitute teacher license.
I used to take the two-hour bus ride to Glendale
to give her guitar lessons,
took her to Clapton’s “Slowhand” comeback show
at the Santa Monica Civic,
and generally mooned around like an idiot
until I got it out of my system by writing my epic
song
“Sad-Eyed Lady With a Warthog”
in a six-hour stretch at Sambo’s on Pico & Ocean
Ave.,
drinking so much coffee it was almost like
my first acid experience.
Also, I still have the old Polaroid selfie
taken by on old boyfriend of hers from Oklahoma
of the three of us the day after Christmas 1977.
And, for those with a sense of justice,
Andy Wall got busted for felony mail fraud
about a year or so after I quit in July of ’78.
His partner and accountant totally ratted him out
in a plea deal.
* * *
SAD-EYED LADY WITH A WARTHOG
(with no apologies to Bob Dylan or anyone else—
I was 19, for crissakes)
With your cheesecake face and your Dr. Pepper
dreams
And the autographed hickey you got from
Steve McQueen
And your brain that’s been replaced by a jar of
Vaseline
How could they ever have passed over you?
With some elephant scab snake vomit owl piss tea
Aardvark abortions fat nun’s pee
Four hundred pounds of pigeon droppings I’ve
collected since I was 3
Are you sure you want me to write this song for
you?
Refrain
Sad-eyed lady with a warthog
Does his bristly snout make your heart bog down?
My moss-grown toothbrush, my rubber toad Ralph
Could I place them on your shelf?
Or would you rather I just fucked myself?
You stir your morning coffee and see it’s just as
you feared
Romance has passed you by and left his old under-
wear in your ear
All you asked for was something along the line of
John Travolta with a beard
How could they be so unreasonable?
You spent 10 years studying acting in L.A.
It cost $8,000 which some would call ‘money
thrown away’
But it was worth every penny because now you can
truly say
“I may not have talent, but I can do a great duck
imitation”
Refrain
Your defenses were by far the best I’d seen
I’ve been to the Great Wall of China and gargled
with Listerine
Yessiree, I’ve kicked around the world so much
my toenails all turned green
But I never did manage to get close to you
But I’ll never forget that time in Paris by the Seine
I had on a beat-up trenchcoat, we were walking in
the rain
I said “The past is gone, honey, only this moment
will remain”
You always adored me when I was profound
Refrain
So you meet a guy at the counter in Sambo’s
He’s read Lord of the Rings seven times and he
even knows
That Frodo was gay and turned on by the hair in
Gandalf’s nose
Travolta he’s not, but definitely Elliot Gould
So you invite him out to the Bergman fest
But you find out in the balcony he’s just like the
rest
As he smears grease fat from his popcorn all over
your chest
You blind him with frozen yogurt and leave
Refrain
I cried for hours at your doorstep until all your
mail was soggy
Then I left a trail of blood that even Ray Charles
could see
But you never took the time to see what became
of me
Maybe I was too incredibly subtle
But then again maybe I kept too much in my head
I never said “I adore your eyelids, let’s go to bed”
But I was stopped by what I knew you would have
said
“AAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
So we both will go our separate ways
Two ships that pass in a violet haze
Yes, I’m an asshole, but it’s by my own rules that
I plays
Such integrity eventually pays
Refrain, fade out & die…
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Songwriting is a weird game.
—Keith Richards
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to David Fewster for his intriguing poetry today!
We’d print up just enough copies on
coarse, cheap colored bond to cover the advertisers,
who would faithfully receive their proofsheets in
the mail,
and everyone was happy—
Andy Wall, a matinee-idol handsome Jewish dude
who drove a Mercedes;
our advertisers, who went to bed at night
thinking they were helping fight the good fight;
and me, making $3 an hour handwriting payment
records
on 3x5 index cards,
but at least I wasn’t working in fast food.
O, where are the workmates of yesteryear?
Cydney Walsh, our bloated whiskey-voiced coke
hag supervisor
who somehow reminded me of Shelob the spider-
goddess
from Lord of the Rings;
Max, the fiftyish half-Mexican half-Irish troll,
campy beyond human endurance,
who used to paw me just to see the reaction
and regaled us with stories of his days as an
“ACT-or”
(and it turned out that he actually had a small part
as a trapped miner in Billy Wilder’s 1951 classic
Ace In the Hole starring Kirk Douglas,
which made me both feel part of the fabric of
Hollywood legend and also sense
the fickleness of fleeting fame inherent within;
Jerry, the fat old hippie/merchant marine/free love
pervert
who used to work overtime so he could have
the office to himself to lure teenage runaways
for sex under the guise of who-knew-what promises;
Yolanda, the lesbian biker who for some reason
felt vaguely maternal toward me and
would chastise Max for infringing on my personal
space;
Jenny, the young Taiwanese émigré,
who taught me to eat with chopsticks;
and Val Vandrey, our typist,
a 31-year-old brunette from Nebraska,
aspiring actress/model, moonlighting topless dancer,
personification of Neil Young’s sad “Country Girl”,
upon whom I developed a massive crush that
lasted a full six months after she quit the firm
to get her substitute teacher license.
I used to take the two-hour bus ride to Glendale
to give her guitar lessons,
took her to Clapton’s “Slowhand” comeback show
at the Santa Monica Civic,
and generally mooned around like an idiot
until I got it out of my system by writing my epic
song
“Sad-Eyed Lady With a Warthog”
in a six-hour stretch at Sambo’s on Pico & Ocean
Ave.,
drinking so much coffee it was almost like
my first acid experience.
Also, I still have the old Polaroid selfie
taken by on old boyfriend of hers from Oklahoma
of the three of us the day after Christmas 1977.
And, for those with a sense of justice,
Andy Wall got busted for felony mail fraud
about a year or so after I quit in July of ’78.
His partner and accountant totally ratted him out
in a plea deal.
* * *
SAD-EYED LADY WITH A WARTHOG
(with no apologies to Bob Dylan or anyone else—
I was 19, for crissakes)
With your cheesecake face and your Dr. Pepper
dreams
And the autographed hickey you got from
Steve McQueen
And your brain that’s been replaced by a jar of
Vaseline
How could they ever have passed over you?
With some elephant scab snake vomit owl piss tea
Aardvark abortions fat nun’s pee
Four hundred pounds of pigeon droppings I’ve
collected since I was 3
Are you sure you want me to write this song for
you?
Refrain
Sad-eyed lady with a warthog
Does his bristly snout make your heart bog down?
My moss-grown toothbrush, my rubber toad Ralph
Could I place them on your shelf?
Or would you rather I just fucked myself?
You stir your morning coffee and see it’s just as
you feared
Romance has passed you by and left his old under-
wear in your ear
All you asked for was something along the line of
John Travolta with a beard
How could they be so unreasonable?
You spent 10 years studying acting in L.A.
It cost $8,000 which some would call ‘money
thrown away’
But it was worth every penny because now you can
truly say
“I may not have talent, but I can do a great duck
imitation”
Refrain
Your defenses were by far the best I’d seen
I’ve been to the Great Wall of China and gargled
with Listerine
Yessiree, I’ve kicked around the world so much
my toenails all turned green
But I never did manage to get close to you
But I’ll never forget that time in Paris by the Seine
I had on a beat-up trenchcoat, we were walking in
the rain
I said “The past is gone, honey, only this moment
will remain”
You always adored me when I was profound
Refrain
So you meet a guy at the counter in Sambo’s
He’s read Lord of the Rings seven times and he
even knows
That Frodo was gay and turned on by the hair in
Gandalf’s nose
Travolta he’s not, but definitely Elliot Gould
So you invite him out to the Bergman fest
But you find out in the balcony he’s just like the
rest
As he smears grease fat from his popcorn all over
your chest
You blind him with frozen yogurt and leave
Refrain
I cried for hours at your doorstep until all your
mail was soggy
Then I left a trail of blood that even Ray Charles
could see
But you never took the time to see what became
of me
Maybe I was too incredibly subtle
But then again maybe I kept too much in my head
I never said “I adore your eyelids, let’s go to bed”
But I was stopped by what I knew you would have
said
“AAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
So we both will go our separate ways
Two ships that pass in a violet haze
Yes, I’m an asshole, but it’s by my own rules that
I plays
Such integrity eventually pays
Refrain, fade out & die…
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Songwriting is a weird game.
—Keith Richards
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to David Fewster for his intriguing poetry today!
David Fewster
A reminder that
Nationaal Poetry Month
continues in our area with
Sierra Poetry Festival 2025
(reg. starts at 9am); and
Publishers Day/Book Fair at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 12-8pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Nationaal Poetry Month
continues in our area with
Sierra Poetry Festival 2025
(reg. starts at 9am); and
Publishers Day/Book Fair at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 12-8pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
