Nowadays, all the punkers I used to know are either dead, retired or settled into boring “elder statesman” roles. I myself haven’t touched a drum in more than ten years. I’m still a holy terror at work sometimes, but if truth be told, I’m much more afraid of them than they are of me.

There was a time though, a million years ago, when we ruled this town. Or at least it felt like we did. And back then, one band supplied the soundtrack. Throughout 1977, the Consumers — featuring David Wiley (later of the Human Hands) on vocals, Paul Cutler (later of Vox Pop and 45 Grave) on guitar and John Vivier (later of Killer Pussy, Feederz and too many local bands to mention here) on drums — were the hardest working punk rockers in town.

The Liars would always be my favorites, but the Consumers ran a close second. Even though their sound struck me as generic, and much of their repertoire felt like it had been written in one afternoon (which it probably was), their shows were must-see events. You never knew if you’d make it through the night without getting your ass kicked.

My friends and I tried to get the Consumers to play at one of our teen church functions once. That went badly. The minister took one look at them and put the kibosh on the whole thing. But the hour long argument between him and the band on the front steps of the church more than made up for it. That was the kind of confrontation we all dreamed about back then.

Punk rock never really panned out like we hoped. Once it started getting popular and lost the power to fuck with people’s heads, most of us got bored and moved on to other things. In early 1978, the Consumers left Phoenix for Los Angeles, where they broke up before the end of the year.

Fortunately, the band recorded a handful of studio demos before they left town. I’m pretty sure the CD is out of print, but you can still find it online. Good thing too, since the demos capture them far better than this surviving live recording does. The audio quality here is pretty rough, and I don’t ever remember the names to half the songs. But it stands as an important piece of local musical history for those who want it. Even with all the confrontational posturing and “Children Of The Damned” antics of their stage act, the Consumers were still a hell of a band. They may have been small potatoes — just a bunch of posers from the hinterlands. But in their day, they were the best Phoenix had to offer.

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My first reaction to punk rock was a triumph of misanthropy. In high school, people outside of my immediate circle were like demons to me; I avoided them whenever possible. Punk rock seemed like a chance to explore my reject status with like-minded outcasts. How naive I was.

The punk rock scene turned out to be just as exhausting an emotional game as high school. I spent more effort trying to figure out why people were doing what were doing than I did figuring out what I needed to do. For me, “the scene” was a waste of time.

You can’t say I hadn’t been warned. Back in the late Seventies, the New Times Weekly used to publish a veritable society column devoted to the local punk scene. The “Dewey’s Webb” feature was probably first conceived as a nod to Phoenix’s disco-era nightlife, but soon scribester Dewey Webb’s own interests took hold. As he began to fill it with the doings of his cronies, Dewey’s pieces became an unabashed advertisement for punk.

Dewey eventually moved on to bigger things, though on occasion he’d return to his roots for the odd where-are-they-now piece. But his early work best evokes that nascent period when a night of getting beat up by biker chicks still managed to carry an air of sophistication. Here’s a sample:

• The Exterminators, new pock-mark on the face of punk, are master-minding a When Punks Collide battle of the bands, according to lead screecher Johnny Macho. The Exterminators’ local exposure (of the decent variety) so far has been limited to a poorly publicized Zoo break and high decibel home-wrecking on the private party circuit. The Dils, L.A. punks ferreted out of a back street Hollywood dive, are expected to cross state lines to appear at the punkathon, tentatively scheduled for February at the Tempe National Guard Armory.

• On other punk fronts, Consumers’ bass player Mike Borens waxed enthusiastic over their new show, which has yet to be unleashed on the public. “It’s a 1970′s return to normalcy! We’ve gone beyond punk — we’re the first of the Pap Rock!” As a concession to normalcy Borens has pruned his fright wig into a more conventional collegiate coif. Part of the act? “Nah, I had to get a job.”

• Former Mesa bombshell Liz Renay is the latest Valley star in the heavens with her lead role in “Desperate Living.” The comedy is John Waters’ (“Pink Flamingos” and “Female Trouble”) latest exercise in poor taste and his first feature sans gargantuan cult heroine Divine. Fifty-one-year-old Liz, a mid-life sex kitten, has a checkered past that won’t quit. She left the Valley after being crowned Miss Stardust in a pageant sponsored by a girdle manufacturer. In the late Fifties she exploded into the headlines playing den mother to the mob and by being grilled in connection with a gangland murder. The blond on a bum trip was sentenced to three years in the clink on a perjury rap in the early Sixties but bounced back into the news some years later by streaking Hollywood Boulevard at high noon. Liz’ last Phoenix appearance was a couple of years ago at an East Washington burlesque house where she and thirty-two-year-lid daughter ‘Baby’ Renay did a mom-daughter strip act.

• The Exterminators and the Consumers may pay lip service to violence but they got more than they bargained for when they made their Tempe debut at Lil Abner’s. The bloodbath started early on during the Exterminator’s set. As he is wont to do, crooner Johnny Macho leaped from the stage and launched into his canned epileptic choreography shtick. A well-oiled biker of mammoth proportions who didn’t cotton to this New Wave Fred Astaire lumbered onto the dance floor and began pummeling John Boy before a couple bouncers interceded. Minutes later Big Bruiser returned for round two, this time seizing upon Sealo’s Frank Discussion, who demonstrated his kick-boxing prowess before bouncers intercepted once again. When the Consumers took the bandstand, a pair of Motorcycle Mamas decided to prove to the audience that a woman can be tough. Their knock-down-drag-out rough-and-tumble slug fest didn’t cut much ice with the bouncers who broke up the melee. Next at bat was a disgruntled character who had unsuccessfully auditioned for the Consumers not long ago. His sour grapes had long since turned to wrath. He exhibited his consternation by yelling obscenities and making ominous gestures with a knife. Our final contestant stormed the stage and walloped the guitarist for no discernible reason. Her next trip to the stage was with more larcenous intent. As the band prepared to call it a night, she enlisted the aid of her boyfriend to pin the guitarist’s arms while she absconded with his guitar and rushed for the exit. Vigilant bouncers nailed her and the ax was duly returned.

• Dooley’s was the scene of the wildest night in many moons as the Runaways and the Ramones turned the macramed cavern into Bacchanalian Bandstand. Eschewing the slobbering cretin image generally associated with punk in favor of basic black leather, the Runaways took the stage looking fresh from an escape from a correctional facility. Lead thrush Joan Jett cooed “Don’t be shy,” spurring a mass exodus to the dance floor that didn’t break up until the show was over. Although they didn’t break any new ground musically and their lyrics are strictly rock-style Dick and Jane, the girls whipped the audience into a lather with their high-kilowatt performance. Joan worked herself into a state of heat as she wailed through teen laments of square parents, reform school riots, and teen lust in El Lay. With the Lennon Sisters in dry dock, the Runaways are easily the most interesting girl group since a trio of Playboy Bunnies masqueraded as the Carrie Nations in “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.” The Ramones seized upon the audience’s frenzy and parlayed it into near mayhem with their Fun City brand of punk. Fueled by a spectrum of pharmaceuticals running from A to Q, the dance floor crowd was a sea of shades jerking cheek to cheek. But the whole show wasn’t on stage. Economy-minded BYOB-ers transformed the men’s rest-room into a makeshift bar. When Dee Dee Ramone answered a call from nature, punk molls were left in the lurch as their dates dashed to the can to meet the teen sensation. Ubiquitous Erica, still wearing her “Story of 0″ drag, spent a good deal of the evening evading bouncers trying to censor her errant mammary. She did find time to flash a few unsuspecting ringside patrons and cruised Dee Dee. Unsuccessfully.

• New Wave fans and necrophiliacs might as well make alternate plans for February 20. The final shovel of dirt has all but been thrown on the alleged Dead Boys concert at The Zoo. Those who know claim that there was never any truth to the story. Zoo personnel are fielding phone queries about the alleged concert with some of the vaguest and most evasive answers heard this side of a politician in election year.

• Chalk up ASU’s “Desperate Living” premiere as a misguided fiasco. The Cultural Affairs Board scored a coup by unleashing the recently released underground side-splitter before the local midnight movie circuit could get its meathooks into it. So far, so good. Then insaner heads prevailed and Phoenix’ foremost punk faction, The Consumers, were booked to do their thing as a prelude to the preem. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Eligible bachelor Frank Discussion showed up wearing an Ethel Mertz housedress with “DIE” spray-painted on it, topped by a premature Easter bonnet. (Girls: Take him, he’s yours.) Fashion plate Lisa Ramaci and side order Sharlene Celesky shlepped through the throng in Gay Nineties widow’s weeds, and in case anyone wondered, explained “This is our French whore look.” Avoiding the Halloween rush, girls? The Consumers did a half-baked pre-screening warm-up and their effort to add new dimensions to their act by distributing 3-D glasses to the audience fell flat. Grasping at straws, the tone-deaf wimps carted a large cake on stage and started flinging it all over the place. The Three Stooges did it better. When the house lights went on at the conclusion of the movie, the high drama began. Neeb personnel, aghast at beer bottles strewn from here to eternity and the crumby aftermath of the pastry melee, demanded that the band clean up the stage. Never ones to clean up their act, The Consumers refused. Highly vocal negotiations continued and a source close to the band reports that ultimately no money changed hands due to the punk breech of contract.

• Phoenix’s fave boys’ choir, The Consumers, may not be long for this Valley. After too many moons of paying their dues in a town without pity, they’re lashing out of Desertville and making a stab at stardom. Opportunity rocked at their door in the guise of a two night stand at Hollywood’s musical trend palace, The Whiskey (nee “A Go Go”). Nonetheless, they’ll have to beat off some mighty stiff competition — sharing the bill with them are The Alleycats, Word, and The Dils, heavyweights all. There’s no small irony in this talent line-up. Back in February The Consumers produced a concert at the Valley Art that answered the musical question “What’s there to do on a Saturday afternoon?” In addition to the defunct The Liars, they do some wheeling and dealing with the LA-based Dils and convinced them the Tempe exposure would do them good. After agreeing to take part in the punk package, The Dils pulled a last-minute no-show, with little or no advance warning. Courteous Consumer Mike Borens (or “Bill Fold,” as he called himself at the time) remarked “The Dils sure live up to their name.” He wasn’t talking pickles.

• And finally … rival punks The Liars have disbanded after their last gig at The Zoo had the minuscule audience making tracks for the exits en masse. Evidently working under the assumption that their ill-fated imitation of art was a case of the whole being considerably less than the sum of the parts, the drummer has defected to the Consumers and the bass player to The Exterminators (don’t these kids realize the tragic consequences of this incestuous cross-pollination?) The lead singer has reportedly packed up his fifty pairs of sunglasses and headed to L.A. with the remainder of the band where they’ll regroup as The Yvonnes.

- Dewey Webb (New Times Weekly)

Back in 1977, the Phoenix club scene was a typically undistinguished landscape, lousy with wannabee progressive rock and disco bar bands, clinging tight to its local kids made good, like Stevie Nicks, Alice Cooper & The Tubes. This excerpt from an old local music rag of the day tells the sad story:

“Smokey [is] far better at playing funk and jazz than they are at rock even though they insist on cranking out such classics as ‘Takin’ Care of Business’….Once merely a Yes-copy, Be has expanded their style to include more basic rock and funk…well worth the price of admission (provided it’s under a buck and a half)….Once a cult-rock band with lyrics about shamans and devils, the defections of a very talented singer and lead guitarist left [Autumn People] in more of a space-classical mode.”

- Larry Schweikart (Sounds)

You can imagine then how angry I was to pick up the Phoenix New Times one afternoon and read the following:

It’s Wednesday, October 26, in the musically momentous year of 1977 and it’s too late. You blew it. The Consumers and The Liars played the Zoo last night, the New Wave began pounding away at the distant desert shore of Phoenix and you … weren’t … there … You might as well forget about being in the local musical vanguard; you might as well stop trying to claim you’re on top of things. It’s all over – and you’ve blown another chance at boosting your status immeasurably…

How does it feel to know that you’ve missed something that’s going to change the shape of things to come for quite awhile, something small and obscure and almost beneath notice but something so torqued it promises to twist the lives of everyone it touches?

- Bart Bull, “Even in Arizona: PUNK ATTACKS!” (New Times Weekly)

I had really wanted to go to that show. I had tried to scam my way past the bouncer, but at seventeen, I had no idea how to navigate Phoenix night life. So I sat down and wrote Bart Bull an angry letter, damning him for his smugness and whining about being left out. And that’s how I met Bart and his roommate David Wiley.

David sang for the Consumers. He wrote me back immediately, included his phone number, and invited me over to get high and listen to records. I learned I’d been following David for months in “Sounds,” where he reviewed punk records under the name “Canker Phelge.” As for Bart, he was an editor there. Between the two them, they had contributed probably ninety percent of everything thing I knew about the punk scene up to that point. Now, they proceeded to turn me on to all the records that I’d had only read about.

David moved to California shortly thereafter, only to reenter my life a couple years later. In the meantime, Bart stayed in touch. He used to push me to start up a band. The Atomic Bomb Club had not yet started, and all I was doing at the time was noodling with a few high school buddies. None of them had any interest in punk rock or any desire to perform live. But they finally caved in to my pressure and allowed me to present ourselves to Bart as “Elmo & The Electrocutions.” There, in the safety of my mom’s guest house, we jammed impotently for about an hour. Afterward, Bart mustered enough grace not to make too much of it.

Bart had an annoying (to me) habit of inviting me to party with him after every show we’d attend. I would turn him down every time. After-parties — even with the coolest folks in town — were entirely out of the question for me. I hate parties to this day, even get-togethers with my own family. In this respect, I was always a complete failure at being a rock star. Bart eventually got the message, dismissed me one night with an exasperated “fuck ya!” and permanently rescinded the offer. Soon afterward, I moved to Tucson, started school, and lost touch with the Phoenix scene. Bart continued to pursue his journalistic ambitions and eventually moved away.

Decades later, Bart called me one day out of the blue. He was married to Michelle Shocked at the time, and wanted to know whether or not my record label, Rykodisk was worth a shit. I gave him a non-committal description, and as soon as he rang off I called my label guy. He was happy to share his thoughts on whether or not he thought Michelle and Bart were worth a shit.

More recently, Bart has taken a stab at chronicling his contribution to Phoenix punk on the We Are The Consumers blog. But that site’s now two years moribund, though Bart continues to be prolific elsewhere. His boosterism from the “New Times Weekly” and “Sounds” makes for great reading. Though somewhat dated, his Lester-Bangs-meets-Julie-Burchill-at-Woody-Creek-Tavern style really captures the spirit of the times. I hope he posts more of it.

As for David, he returned to Phoenix in the mid-80s, and dabbled in local promotion and rock journalism, but nothing really caught fire for him. The last time I remember seeing David before he died in 1986, he was waiting tables at a Tempe restaurant. But in his 1977 heyday, the rhetorical fire burned hot. Here then is “Canker Phelge,” in all his glory:

REPRESSION!! Repression is the word of the day. Repression of our music on the airwaves, those sacred media tools that inevitably make or break. Repression! Ignorance!! What more do they want? Cover stories on virtually every national ‘zine, not to mention Sounds and New Times locally. And still they choose to ignore the ONLY thing happening in modern rock ‘n’ roll with any validity. That’s right, the ONLY THING. Call it what you like. Love it or hate it, you just can’t ignore it any longer. If you close your eyes it will not go away.

Obviously, in this town anyway, the only way you will find out exactly how great this music is, how vital and important it is in relation to the modern world, how it can creep in and liven your very existence, is to buy it. That can be a problem too. You may have to order it; any record store that carries imports can get a wide variety of import and some domestic new wave LP’s and 45′s. (I’m talking about the relatively obscure stuff, like DEVO or THE DILS. You can find new LPs by STRANGLERS, TALKING HEADS and others anywhere.) Whatever it takes. Demands, threats … violence … We mean business. It’s time the people in power became aware that this is not a passing phase. Turn off your TV’s, Phoenix is BURNING!

Everybody knows about the stuff they play on the radio, on Top 40 radio, because everyone who’s remotely in touch hears it just about everywhere. I mean, I could discuss at length the social merits of “Jet Air-liner” or add some cute little anecdote about the new mass-murderer of rock’ n’roll, Shaun Cassidy-or how about a list of hates and loves from those ancient sea cows Crosby Stills etc. Nah — that’s boring. That music’s just there, there’s little we can do about it. It’s there whether we enjoy it or not, and if you want to find out about it tune your radio to any number of stations for a full survey of what America likes. If that dictates your tastes you’re a stretcher case and should read this column faithfully (twice! three times!) every issue.

45′s, believe it or not, are back in vogue thanks to the efforts of those involved with the new wave. It’s the perfect medium for a short statement without all the hassles of an album. Some groups and individuals even form their own labels, avoiding big company pressure, and give the artist complete control. More time and care is put into the product, so that most singles now are more than just a song pulled off an album because it’s commercially viable, it still happens, but the music I’m talking about generally doesn’t sell much at all. It is picking up rapidly, through word-of-mouth and the printed word: radio has yet to recognize its potential. Distribution is a problem. but most can be purchased or ordered through any store carrying a decent import LP selection. Almost all are stereo, are excellent recordings and have picture sleeves.

SURFING IN FROM CALIFORNIA come THE WEIDOS, THE DILS, THE GERMS, THE ZEROS and CRIME. THE ZEROS are from San Diego. They try to look real tuff. One of them looks like Donny Osmond, blows the image. They’ve been called “the Mexican Ramones” but while their sound may resemble the Ramones’ stark metallic drone they lack the wit and punch that separates the Ramones from all this other stuff. B side: “Wimp” is limp. A side: “Don’t Push Me Around” (Bomp 110) has kind of a neat riff but the lyrics are dumb and it gets boring real fast. Save your money for THE WEIRDOS’ great maxi-45, “Destroy All Music”/”Life of Crime”/”Why Do You Exist” (Bomp 112). Hot stuff here. Almost captures the controlled hysteria a la the Three Stooges that reigns during their performances. They look great, where are they coming from exactly? Hollywood alley chic with a cheap perfume aura. They take the Theatre of the Absurd conception to a new height (or low, depending on how you look at it).

Fast faster fastest… THE DILS are aiming for the latter. They pack so much energy into 21/2 minutes it leaves you breathless. They play like they’ve been on an amphetamine binge since they were born. They shun drugs, by the way, and also concentrate on message numbers like their first single “I Hate the Rich” and “You’re Not Blank (So Baby We’re Through)”. They have other songs like “God’s A Korean,” etc. etc. They’re on fire. Primitive, yes. I hear Chip Dil bashes the pure piss out of his guitar. On the other end of the primitive spectrum lie THE GERMS, who have been billed as “L. A.’s most despised band.” Cute names: Lorna Doom, Bobby Pyn, Donna Rhia (who’s since been replaced by Cliff Hanger) and Pat Smear. If you enjoyed the first couple Velvet Underground albums, the Godz, the Fugs and think that John Cage is a real mover, this is essential. Especially the “Germs Live” side, which most of my friends can’t stand. All these marvelous records, as well as all the others I’ve mentioned in the past, are available by mail from BOMP Records, Box 7112, Burbank, CA 91510.They’re prompt as hell, they’re reasonable with their prices and they will rtd a tree catalog on request.

CRIME’s second 45 (missed the first one, -eh? — you’re not alone) is pow’rpacked with their trademarked jagged, sputtering feedback and dark lyrics delivered in stabbing thrusts. They aim for the brain. They infect your lilywhite soul with composed sloppiness. “Murder By Guitar.” “Frustration,” the A-side, has thoughtful lines like ” all you hippies can fade away … ” Hmmmmm…good beat, danceable…I’d give it an easy 94. For more of the same try “Baby You’re So Repulsive” and “Hot Wire My Heart”, their first one. Both can be had from CRIME, 537 Jones St., Suite 9062, San Francisco CA 94102, which is also their fan club address. Which criminal’s your fave? Johnny Strike? Brittley Black? Ron the Ripper? Frankie Fix? They’re all so special.

- David Wiley (Sounds)

About a year ago, I discovered a post on the Anti-Snob blog entitled “Because I Wasn’t There,” written by Will Tynor, aka Vil Vodka. Professing an odd outsider’s obsession with the late ’70s Phoenix punk rock scene (he didn’t actually move to town until 1988), Will set out to document those early years using whatever second-hand info he could find. Naturally, Will’s article stirred up my own memories, and it was all the excuse I needed to fish out some of my own ephemera from those days.

Perhaps my most cherished keepsake from back then is a beat up old cassette containing a live show from 1977 by three guys who used to call themselves The Liars. They were just some older guys from another high school who decided to put on thrift store sunglasses and take up instruments they didn’t play very well. But they were also the first “real” punk rock I ever heard, and though it seems like a stupid notion thirty years later, the Liars may have changed my life.

My friends and I first got to know John “John E. Precious” Vivier through our relentless search for a good pot connection. I no longer remember who introduced us, but it turned out that John not only had a taste for the good bud, but he and his pals also were into the same music we liked: cool obscure (for Phoenix, at least) groups like King Crimson, Gong, Eno and Kraftwerk. John’s band at the time was the Heavy Metal Frogs, a progressive sort of proto-punk noise outfit that would pound out abrasive renditions of “Helter Skelter” and “20th Century Schizoid Man.” They played at my high school once, but of course the students hated it. In fact, when they played one night at a local desert “boondocker,” John received a severe beating from one of our drunken redneck classmates who did not appreciate this “faggot” music.

To be honest, most of my friends hated it too. They preferred their good old Grateful Dead, Yes, Zappa or Crosby Stills Nash & Young. But I loved punk rock the minute I heard it, especially Los Angeles groups the Germs and the Dils, and of course the Sex Pistols. But it was John’s new group, the Liars — featuring John on guitar, Don Bolles on bass and Dale Smith on drums — that really got my blood flowing. They were the first band that really spoke my language. I don’t suppose you’d hear it any more, the passing of time having made what was so special about them commonplace now. But thirty years ago, their covers of Leif Garrett’s “That’s Rock And Roll” and Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” played with such nihilistic abandon, hit me like a bolt from the blue. Their original songs, “Science Teacher,” “Just Like Your Mom” and their signature “Bionic Girl,” became the archetypes for my emerging aesthetic. Even the endless between-song tuning was a revelation to me.

I was so star struck by The Liars, that when I finally met them, the experience was actually traumatic. The only time I ever saw them actually play was in John’s living room (I was too young to get into clubs). I was so self-consciously awestruck, I could hardly stand to be in the same room with them. I’m sure the good bud didn’t help.

The Liars didn’t last long. Don moved to the coast and landed a spot with the Germs. John quickly joined every other punk rock band in town, including the Feederz, Killer Pussy, International Language, the Cicadas, Chicken A-Go-Go and the Precious Secrets. And as the Phoenix scene grew, John and I began to hang out more, though I had to masquerade as a Meat Puppet in order to work up the courage. But we were never close. He was older, and had his own crowd. And, though I was too naive to notice at the time, he was also seriously addicted to hard drugs.

As my own band’s future began to grow brighter, the parties at John’s house grew darker. New “friends” began to show up that I’d never seen before. And as doors began to open for me and my band, doors began to close for John. He became a no-show in his own home, rarely emerging from his bedroom. I finally stopped going over there. I had begun to feel like I was intruding.

John didn’t last very long either. Complications from his self-destructive lifestyle killed him before he managed to reach the age of thirty. Word quickly circulated that anyone who’d partied with him should visit a doctor and get a shot. His passing marked the end of an era in Phoenix. The same week they buried John, Phoenix’s first ever first punk club, The Hate House, was demolished. Shortly thereafter, Curt Kirkwood became the father of twins, and the Meat Puppets completed the record that would truly change my life, “Meat Puppets II.”

And so, the world moved on, without Johnny Precious. John was one of the few “heroes” I ever had, and the only one I ever actually got to know. And now that the endless nights of my youth are nothing but fading memories, I’m glad I hung on to these old tapes. There’s plenty from my past that I’d like to forget, but my memories of John and The Liars are some I’d like to keep.

DOWNLOAD: Multiupload | Mediafire

Watch Don Bolles & Vox Pop play “Just Like Your Mom” on “New Wave Theater”

When I was growing up, nobody could explain my grandfather’s job to me. Even when I was an adult, my mom couldn’t really tell me what he did for a living. I knew he was a Shriner, because I saw his hats. I knew he liked to collect restaurant menus, because I saw the blog posts. Beyond that, all I ever knew was he had an office downtown. Last month, I finally learned the truth.

My grandmother was a regular fangirl when it came to her husband. From the 1930s right up through the mid-sixties, she kept a huge scrapbook about my grandfather, tirelessly collecting hundreds of photos and newspaper clippings documenting the ups and downs of his career. And while my grandfather was no Frank Sinatra or Mikey Mantle, he was quite a superstar in his own right.

The story begins shortly after my grandparents’ marriage and finds my grandfather working for a liberal newspaper in Syracuse, Nebraska. In 1936, the Otoe County Democrats elected him the youngest party chairman in the nation.

In short order, he was formally swept into the local bureaucracy, first as Assistant County Clerk, then as a trucking inspector for the Nebraska Railway Commission. Thanks to his ties to the newspaper business, or maybe just due to his basic inherent interestingness, my grandfather collected boatloads of ink throughout his career. He gathered tribute every time he climbed the ladder, garnering praise and support from peers and politicians. Along the way, he signed off on major issues of the day, and contributed “humorous” human-interest filler that would be considered inappropriate today.

Alas, despite Nebraska’s deep roots of progressive populism (or maybe because of it), the state couldn’t sustain a consistent majority for FDR. In the spring of 1940, my grandfather managed the Democratic candidate in a special election to fill the vacancy left by the death of a sitting senator. The Republicans campaigned against the New Deal and won by a landslide. Later that year, after Nebraska awarded its electoral votes to Wendell Wilkie, my grandfather found himself out of power and planning his return to the private sector. He soon relocated to Minneapolis, reinvented himself as a successful businessman, immersed himself in the Chamber of Commerce, and continued to generate column inches in the local newspapers.

Around this time, his media visibility expanded and took an unexpected turn. During the war, my grandfather began appearing as a model for print advertisements. (An earlier accident kept him out of the service.) Significantly, the roles he adopted charted both his own trajectory and the country’s — out of the Depression and the war, and into the boom of the late Forties and early Fifties. The earliest of these ads portray him as an overall-clad working class hero putting his back into the war effort. Later, he’s an upwardly mobile everyman in a hurry to claim his slice of postwar prosperity. Finally, he’s a successful self-made man, living the model suburban dream.

After the war, my grandfather owned several successful businesses before he finally moved out west and joined CIT Corporation (yes, the very same CIT that’s been struggling for its life lately). As the vice president in charge of the Phoenix office, he doled out financing for many of the construction companies that built the modern Arizona. Here, he finally becomes recognizable to me as the man who became my grandfather — the guy with the carving utensils, serving up the holiday meals with a gruff efficiency and a policy of zero tolerance for tom-foolery at the dinner table. While these later years tend to strike me as anticlimactic, this period certainly brought him his greatest rewards. Like so many of the men of his generation who saw his country through the crises of the day, he was glad to take his place in line when it was time to reap the rewards he deserved.

And yet, my grandfather lived long enough to watch his country become unrecognizable to him. He saw the Democratic party fall apart during the Sixties, prey to both its own hubris and events beyond its control. Unable to corral its own disparate elements, the party splintered. (Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?) Eventually my grandfather switched sympathies. But if he found any real satisfaction in the party of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, he never said anything to me about it.

In the end, extreme age and deteriorating health telescoped his life into a series of restless nights and passing days. I got to know him a little better once I got older, and he always impressed me as a serious, savvy son-of-a-gun. To hear him tell it, he never knew a fool that he suffered gladly. As his photos clearly show, he was a good-old-boy to the core, even as a young man — a true big fish in a small pond. And though I might not have believed it when I was younger, nowadays I can’t help but see a little bit of him staring back at me in the mirror. I’m glad I finally found out what he did for a living.


These Ron Paul supporters showed up at a poorly managed Hillary campaign stop in Phoenix. We never got near the actual event — it was drastically over capacity and no one appeared to be directing the crowd. But we did stand in line long enough for me to capture these two. Then we walked back to our cars, where it took over an hour to untangle ourselves from the parking lot jam.  

Last year, my grandfather’s memory was honored by the school that bears his name, the Bostrom Alternative Center. This photo was taken afterward, during a visit to the nearby family plot. While my father and his siblings alternated between somber contemplation of my grandparents’ final resting place and enthusiastic discussion of arrangements to join them, I wandered the grounds, getting a better feel for shallow depth of field.   When my father-in-law visited us last year, my wife dragged him down to Bisbee and the surrounding area. I stayed behind, unable to free myself until later in the week. As my wife is quick to point out, it is she who holds the true creative talent in our relationship. It would be foolish, therefore, for me to omit her very nice composition from that trip.   Since my father-in-law likes to gamble and I like trips to the desert hinterlands, my wife decided that we’d kill two birds with one stone and visit Laughlin, Nevada. Along the route, we stopped at as many ghost towns and tourist traps as we could stand. This shot is from the underside of London Bridge in Lake Havasu City.   Late one night after a lively family get-together, I accompanied my nephew Lucas and his buddy Carbon to The Ice House, where they were preparing for a small exhibit of their work. Lucas’ triptych was stunning, but my photos of it sucked. But I liked this detail from Carbon’s piece.   I always wanted to visit Crown King, but neither of our little cars are worthy of the rough dirt road up into the Bradshaw Mountains. Last summer,we rented something large enough to take us there. Turns out Crown King is less a ghost town than a thriving community of off-road enthusiasts, bikers and folks otherwise disabused of city living. Even nearby Bumble Bee is more of an abandoned tourist exhibit than a bona fide ghost town. This shell looks to be barely a couple decades old.   A trip in the fall to Victoria, British Columbia on Vancouver Island gave us a nice break before the onslaught of holiday season. It also gave me the opportunity to to shoot in something other than my desert environment for a change.   These two shots are both from the gardens of Hatley Castle, a beautiful early 20th Century estate built by coal and railway magnate James Dunsmuir, and later used by the military for officer training. It now serves as grounds of Royal Roads University.   While in Victoria, we stayed in a very nice b&b right on the water. It was during this trip that I came to understand that vacations are not for sleeping late.   At some point during our trip to Canada, detail started creeping into my highlights and my shadows began to not block up so much. As I started to not mess up my technique, my composition started to improve and I started seeing greater rewards from my efforts.   I can only imagine what someone with actual skill could do with such a location, but I’m learning.   Eventually, we had to leave the island and prepare for re-absorption into our real lives. But I couldn’t leave without a quick tour of Vancouver’s historic Gastown district. I chose my wife’s point-and-shoot for the early morning photo walk, but what I lost in control I more than made up for in feelings of personal security.   A short afternoon rainstorm, rush-hour freeway traffic and someone else behind the wheel all contributed to this shot. As my wife cursed the other drivers, I scrambled around in the back seat getting this picture of a very lucky Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport.   Thanks to the recession, you can find smokin’ deals on some pretty swell digs. No sooner had we settled into our Pricelined room at the Loews Ventana Canyon Resort in the Tucson foothills, I grabbed my gear and went hunting for some long exposures. The night was overcast, and the lights of the city reflected an eerie brick red back up into the clouds. Afterward, I told my wife, “don’t ever let me leave the house again without my tripod.”   I don’t get out to my brother’s property in Pearce nearly as often as I’d like. Last fall, we decided to visit him for Thanksgiving. As luck would have it, the day was gorgeous. The sky was full of fat clouds which combined with the open terrain to charge the scene with magical hues of gold, blue and gray. The vegan feast wasn’t half bad either.   We took our final trip of the year around Christmastime, to visit family in Georgetown, Texas, north of Austin. Georgetown is home to Southwestern University. Founded in 1840, Southwestern is the oldest university in Texas. And as such, its surrounding neighborhoods are a treat for the eye, full of classic old homes.   The light was right for this one.   Salado College was built in 1860 in Salado, Texas, just north of Georgetown. One last ruin to round out the year.

The launch finally happened last week. We were there all right, and I even got some halfway decent pictures. (In that sense, the delay was a good thing — I got in a lot of shooting practice between September and May). But whatever enthusiasm I had for tying in the event with larger themes has dissipated. For one thing, blogging has been taken largely off the table. I decided it was more important to try to exercise more, sleep better and resist the urge to schedule every single minute of my week, for crying out loud. Those are honorable goals. Even doing nothing is better than stressing over self-imposed, meaningless deadlines.

For those of you who might be curious, the thrust of my argument was something along these lines:

Over the years, we’ve forgotten the true lesson of the Apollo missions. Nowadays, people would rather believe that the moon walks were faked. Or we miss the point altogether, second-guessing NASA’s share of our resources. But the true beauty of our space program lies not so much with its specifics, but with the idea that when given a clearly stated goal, and the passion to reach that goal, humans can whip up the will and the discipline to do just about anything. It starts with leadership: “We choose to send a man to the moon by the end of the decade.” Simple, clear, concise. No room for misinterpretation. No points for wriggling out on a technicality. “Get it done — find a way.” If the public of the 1960s were awed by the technical mastery and gratified by our winning “the space race,” they were also inspired by the sight of a team making it happen, right before their very eyes.

Yep, that sounds like me, all right. But these days, I’m not feeling all that particularly sold on the “great man” theory. Reality is too complicated and time is too precious to waste it waiting around for the few strong willed people who come along to show us the way. We just end up following them anyway. Then they flame out, and we’re back to chasing our own tails again. Better reserve our energy for muddling through, and leave the “solutions” aside.

On the other hand, the launch was freaking awesome. And they did manage to fix the Hubble. And my pictures didn’t turn out half bad either:

Say what you will about the convenience of the cloud, there are still some people who prefer the greater perceived permanence of a piece of plastic that they can stick on their shelf, toss in the back seat of their car or stash in the back of their closet. Those folks will relish the following piece of news: the Love Workshop Box Set is finally a reality!

Yep, Andy Olsen at Radio Free Phoenix has finally put final touches on his six-disk compilation of KDKB’s legendary comedy program from 1976. And now, he’s offering this labor of love to the public for less than what you’d pay for a tank of gas these days. Andy and his shopping cart and standing by right now, waiting for your purchase:

http://radiofreephoenix.com/loveworkshopcd.html

Whether this makes the shows archived here, at WFMU’s Beware Of The Blog and at Archive Dot Org more or less of a valued public service depends, I suppose, on how you stand on this whole getting-your-entertainment-for free-from-the-Internet issue. It’s moot point to me, since I received my copy for free anyway (I was, after all, a contributor). But if I hadn’t, I’m sure I’d buy one just the same.

Be sure to visit the Bostworld “Love Workshop” tribute pages for more info on this great program, including audio from the show, articles from the period and a lengthy exclusive interview with one half of the “Love Workshop” creative team, Russ “Wonderful Russ” Shaw.

(Now, if someone would come forward with recordings of “Bunkhouse Capers…”)

Last year, the best “new year’s resolution” I could think of was “make better pictures.” I don’t know if I succeeded or not, but I had a new camera last year, so it seemed like the obvious choice. But this year, I’m back to my old tricks. The average person might announce, “I promise to lose ten pounds and keep it off at least until mid-November,” or ” I hereby resolve to finally begin and hopefully complete that tedious home improvement project that’s been haunting the bottom of my to-do list,” But I’m more inclined to redouble my efforts to shed attachments and cultivate acceptance of the inevitable. A lofty goal perhaps, but not exactly productive.

When I look at the world around me, I start to think this is less of a cop-out than it seems. More than ever, our entire physical, social, economical and political landscape seems ready to just fall away. What’s the point of announcing, “this year, I resolve to separate my recyclables more carefully and think twice before I use my car to drive up to the corner,” when it’s so clear that decades of distancing ourselves from responsibility has left this country all but circling the drain? Why try to delay the inevitable? And besides, it’s unlikely that when the boss up in Washington starts getting the itch to push that doomsday button of his, he probably won’t stop to remind himself that Derrick made a greater effort this year to print on both sides of the paper.

But these are all just excuses; better that I just say it and be done with it and get on with my life: “this year, I resolve to make a greater effort to do things that will make my life a better one to live.” Of course, what I really mean is “my best chance of making it out of this year in one piece is to lower expectations.” Either way, it’s all about sacrifice.

And now, we party:

“Love To Be Your Man” – The 13th Power “Niagara Vizeses” – Tabanyi Mihaly Es Szolistai “Young Girl” – The Raymonde Singers, Etcetera “McCloud” – John Gregory Orchestra “Yes I Understand” – The Flying Machine “Rosemary’s Baby” – The Brass Ring “If This Isn’t Love” – Dean Martin & The Hi Lo’s “Tell Me What You Want” – Armada Orchestra “The New Generation” – Sqibb Pharmaceuticals “Glide Time” – High Llamas
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