“He’s worth idolizing. He’s extraordinary. That was a really interesting period. I wasn’t supposed to have kids, and I’m the oldest of nine and had mothered all of them, so I wasn’t ever in a mode where I was looking to settle down and raise a family, so that definitely changes the gene pool you’re dipping into.”Continue reading
In a 2019 interview with NPR, Henry Winkler (AKA Arthur Fonzarelli, The Fonz, Fonzie) told host Terry Gross that the origin of the stunt began with the fact that he had been a water-skiing instructor as a teenager at a summer camp. Winkler’s father used to say to him “every day for years—tell Garry Marshall that you water ski. Dad, I don’t think I’m going to do that. No, no. Tell him you water ski. It’s very important. I finally tell Garry, my father wants you to know I water ski.” Winkler did all of the water skiing for the scene himself, except for the actual jump.Continue reading
Tom Zutaut (who signed Guns N’ Roses) on Slash’s heroin OD, where he died and was brought back to life, that freaked the shit out of Axl Rose… “They found him dead near an elevator in a hotel somewhere. I don’t know how long it took for the ambulance to come but he was blue for a long time, but they got him back.
I think Axl genuinely believes that the soul of Saul Hudson left his body when Slash OD’d and there is a replacement Saul that has taken over Slash’s body and Axl truly does believe that. And I think that has been the greatest stumbling block in getting the band back together. Whoever is in Saul’s body right now, it seems like Slash to me.”
“Beach Run” photograph by Richard St. Clair– Meet the artist Richard St. Clair and see his collection of oil paintings in person at the New Hope, PA TSY shop Saturday June 17th 6-9PM. You’ll see 12 of his original oil paintings alongside his original photography.
“Beach Run” original 34″ x 34″ oil painting by the artist Richard St. Clair
When I first met Richard St. Clair at his home outside of Philadelphia I was immediately put at ease by his disarming demeanor and quick smile. Soon Dick was leading me to his studio where I was instantly absorbed in his paintings, the layers of mementos from years on the road, and all his incredible photos taken during his years of traveling the country. Seeing the photos behind the paintings in person made me appreciate the paintings more, as the authenticity and honesty in the photos are staring you in the eye.
Richard St. Clair on his 1961 Harley-Davidson Panhead, AKA Queenie. “The bike came to me in 1975 at the time my wife was expecting our first child. So we sort of had twins — one for the barn, one for the crib.” (Come meet Dick and see his work at TSY June 17th, 6-9pm.)
“If you don’t know Richard St. Clair– you don’t know Dick!“
The first time I tried-out this line on Dick St. Clair– he cackled with delight. Not one of those forced, polite laughs– this was like a kid facedown in birthday cake kinda laugh. You see, Dick to this day is simultaneously amused and annoyed that something as honest and simple as going by the name Dick (his given name, mind you) makes certain people uncomfortable. Some people will wince, others kindly ask if they can call him by another name. Yes. If “Dick” makes you uncomfortable, please call him– Biggus Dickus.
Now that we got that outta the way.. Seriously– You really don’t know dick about biker art if you’ve never experienced the works of Richard (Dick) St. Clair. Dick is the real deal– having spent a good many years logging countless miles on his Harley in the ’70s – ’90s riding cross-country to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, Daytona Bike Week, Harley Rendezvous, and everywhere in between. He took photos that captured the life of free-wheelers, outlaws, and strays living life on their own terms. Many of these photographs gave birth to his epic paintings. There are many sides of Richard St. Clair to discover– he’s a storyteller, writer, photographer, and yes– one amazing fucking painter.
On June 17th, TSY presents “Live Cheap– Never Die” The Art of Richard St. Clair.
The last time TSY posted the epic Photography of Pulsating Paula the interwebs superhighway stream was so strong it blew the plastic housing clear off my Commodore 64. I’ve since upgraded to a refurbished Apple III and am ready to roll. With Daytona Bike Week fresh on everyone’s mind, let’s go back to a time before many of you were born– the 1980s. Not the strongest era in terms of aesthetic, but these are bikers. And luckily for them they’re largely immune to vapid societal fashion trends and fancy pants grooming. What you get is straight-up lettin’ it all hang out, livin’ the life Daytona. You don’t like it, stick it.
Pulsating Paula tapped TSY with her eye-popping photographic archive of the New Jersey bike and tattoo crowd she shot back in the ’80s & ’90s. These images speak of authenticity, grit, and good times. Looking at these raw, honest shots what speaks to me is that life itself is f’ing good, if you have the nuts to truly go out and live it. It’s not the stuff. You need to show up, be authentic, truly appreciate family & friends, where you are and what you have. When you do that you realize you have all you need.
“Born in Jersey City. Moved to New Brunswick when I was 8. Got married to my first lay in 1973. 10 years later he bought me a camera, a Canon AE1. I still have it. Started taking photos of biker parties and tattoo events. Sent them into ‘Biker Lifestyle’ magazine who later Paisano publications took over. They came out with ‘Tattoo’ magazine first of it’s kind ever. Between the Biker and Tattoo magazines I had thousands of photos published. The 10 minute set up of my photography studio consisted of 2 flood lights that burnt the shit out of any poor person in front of them, and a 6×9 foot black cloth I got from Kmart that was tacked onto a wall. Never considered myself professional ever. I just loved doing it with every fiber in my body. I know the wonderful people I met and places I been in this journey will live on forever in my photographs. I’m so glad I was there with you.” –Paula Reardon (aka Pulsating Paula)
Kind and patient persistence does pay off. Ann Simmons-Myers, the photographer behind these amazing images that follow, finally after 3 months agreed to allow TSY to publish her Biker series dating back from 1983-1985. It’s very close to her heart, understandably, and I’m so grateful to be able to share these with you now. Ann, thank you very much. And Corrina from LA, thank you as well. These images are just incredible glimpes of authentic “livin’ the life”, taken I believe in Tucson, Arizona– my hometown back in the ol’ school days.
Dr. D Madd’s .357, 1985 — Photograph © Ann Simmons-Myers
Whenever I hear ‘Crazy Train’ I’m immediately transported back to 8th grade Guitar class. One dude will forever be etched in my mind. Dave was 1/2 Japanese, all of about 5 ft tall, and probably weighed 80 lbs soaking wet, if that. His hair, alone worthy of open adoration, making up the bulk of his weight and height. This ‘Metal Mane’ was streaked, sprayed, and stood a good 6 inches above his head, cascading down to the middle of his back in perfectly teased strands. My 13 yr old brain could not fathom the ridiculous routine and expense this must have required. But damn if he didn’t more the rockstar part than 90% of the bands on the cover Cream and Hit Parader magazine. His bare arms were like sinewy, wire pipe cleaners. And I’d never seen jeans that tight in my life. Not even on a girl. No sir. I don’t know where the hell he found them, or how he breathed. The entire situation was delicately perched upon tiny black (or white) Capezio, soft-as-hell-leather lace-up dance shoes. Boom. Mind blown. Only a handful of dudes had the nuts to wear these. Dave’s look was definitely balls-out for West Phoenix. But nobody questioned him, because Dave was the reigning guitar badass. While the rest of us fumbled through the opening of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, Dave was staring at the ceiling tiles, biting his lip, soloing like the Segovia of Heavy Metal.
Dave even brought his own guitar to class. Lugged it around in a case thicker than him, covered in cool stickers. Rather that than play the nylon-strung acoustic beaters they had in class. I don’t remember what kind of acoustic it was, but the strings (always Dean Markley) were so light that you could hardly see them, let alone feel them. You had to lean in to hear a damn thing, but it was worth it. And the action was set so low that you could run scales faster than a hot knife through butter. But if you strummed it would buzz like crazy. No worries. No one was strumming shit. Everyone was shredding– with varying degrees of success. Dave was a Rock God in the making, and everyone at Maryvale High School seemed to sense it. Dave was into the hot, new Japanese Metal bands that no one else even heard of. And he spoke of Yngvie, Eddie, and Randy in hushed whispers like they were comrades. Knew all their solos and tricks, and could perform them on cue. Eruption, Spanish Fly, Dee, and of course, Crazy Train were all in his finely honed repertoire. We moved from Phoenix to Tempe that year, and I changed schools, so I don’t really know whatever became of Dave. But my fascination with the marvel and mystery of Randy Rhoads was firmly cemented. No head-banging hooligan. A sensitive, immensely talented man taken too soon.
“I never really got into Black Sabbath when I was in England. Right? And then Ozzy came out with this great first album, you know, it really was good. And we got to see them play after that, like almost every night. And so, Randy Rhoads, although being a wonderful guitar player, could not play Asteroids for shit. I beat him right across this country. From East coast, to West and back.
Randy Rhoads was like just, brilliant. You know, I mean of course he got better after he died. You know, because everybody does. Right? But uh, I loved Randy, yeah. He took risks. He wasn’t scared, you know. I mean, he knew his instrument, you know? So he’d just go for it. That’s what I used to like about him. And you could…like, Ozzy used to just throw him around, throw him up on his shoulders while he was playing. And he never missed a note.”
–Lemmy from Motorhead
Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) remains one of my favorite teen / high school films of all time. It brilliantly captures the cultural touchstones of a generation, and the glory days of youth long gone by– before we were slaves to technology and all this social media bullshit.
A young Cameron Crowe, then a freelance writer for Rolling Stone magazine, went undercover as a student at Clairemont High School in San Diego, CA to write a book (of the same name), which he also adapted for the film. In Fast Times we get to witness a bevy of young Hollywood stars already in the making– Sean Penn (who totally stole the film, and birthed an army of Spicoli wannabes in high schools across the country), Judge Reinhold, Phoebe Cates and Jennifer Jason Leigh. There are also early appearances by relative unknowns at the time who would go on to major stardom– Nicolas Cage, (then Nicolas Coppola), Forest Whitaker, Eric Stoltz, and Anthony (Goose) Edwards. Fast Times’ soundtrack was also groundbreaking, featuring a quintessential blend ’70s & ’80s rock & roll artists, that to me, will forever be connected with the film. I mean, who can hear “Moving in Stereo” by The Cars without instantly thinking of that hot, hormone-raging pool scene? Epic.
Haters gonna hate, but eat this– In 2005, Fast Times at Ridgemont High was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant”. If you’re of this era it’s definitely a film that still resonates and makes you want to roll a fat one, throw on your Vans, hit the arcade, grab some tasty waves, and meet some babes.