Flipside Classified Pen Pal
Why did I burn the letters?!
In some ways, writing a memoir is knocking yourself out with your own fist, if it done right. Sure, there's the pleasure of doing work guaranteed to engage you emotionally – who’s indifferent to their own history? The form always has profound psychological consequence on its author. It can't not. What project can match it for that? Plus you get to hang out with folks no longer on this side of the grass. Places and times you may have for decades ached after wind up erecting themselves around you as you work. But nobody I know who's written a great one described it as anything less than a major-league shit-eating contest. Any time you try to collapse the distance between your delusions about the past and what really happened, there's suffering involved. - Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir
Yes, it's true: I had a Flipside Classifieds Pen Pal. Doris Domen (above) was her name. Back in the early 80's we began writing to each other. She lived in California, I was on Long Island, in my mother's house. Our friendship lasted years, with several letters every week until I made the mistake of flying out to meet her a day before my 23rd birthday, Sep. 4, 1985. She was 19, a freshman at U.C. Berkeley and I show up with nowhere to stay, thinking “I'll crash in her dorm!” Her dormmate Michelle (also above) was having none of that. I commandeered a couch in the common room but the Berkeley kids (like Mara, below, with Doris on guitar) thought I was some bum from New York (which I was).
The common room takeover worked two nights and then I needed a place to flop. Doris and I didn’t quite vibe in person (until my last night when we went to see the newly-released Stop Making Sense in the Tenderloin). She was “hippie-adjacent” (showing up at the airport barefoot, for instance) and I was punk rock. I needed a place to stay, so we parted ways. On my birthday, and on a hunch, I went in search of my friend Paul Poplawski (now Paul Bearer of Sheer Terror). He’d told me “If you ever get to San Fran look for me hangin’ around near Golden Gate Park.” So I got on the BART train and went to Golden Gate Park, spotting two skinheads (the good kind!) ducking into a McDonald’s on the park’s periphery. I followed them in, tapping one on the shoulder as they waited in line to order.
“You know where I can find Paul. From New York?”
Who’s asking’?
“I’m Chris T. From the Nihilistics? Paul and I are friends.”
They took me to a dilapidated house up the block on Haight Street and I proceeded to have one of the strangest nights of my life (since dubbed “Night On Bald Mountain”). These skinhead kids, they liked their alcohol, and on one beer run two of them got the bright idea to grab a concrete block they found lying around and sail it through the rear window of a car with the effrontery to sport a bumper sticker reading MONDALE / FERRARO (don’t ask me which one they disliked more).
“RUN!”
And I did, as fast as my fat little legs would carry me. The skinhead crew stayed up all night blasting music and swilling Schaefer.
The set up wasn’t great and the air of menace was a bit much (I was also charged $20 by a skinhead chick with a black eye – I didn’t ask – for staying over). I rang up Tim Yohannon (RIP) at Maximum RockNRoll and he invited me to bunk down at their new their new spot a few nights. Here’s the Editor-in-Chief giving rival fanzine publisher Lyle Hysen (Damaged Goods), the finger (as a joke!):
Not wanting to wear out my welcome and in need of a friendly face, I managed to get childhood chum Jeff Maschi on the phone. He’d recently moved to Phoenix for work and agreed to host me. I lucked into a hastily-arranged night flight and spent the remainder of my vacation hanging out with him. Here’s me, displaying my Grim Reaper bandana in Jeff’s apartment before we head out to see Jeffrey Lee Pierce perform at the Mason Jar:
I also got a picture with Rob Halford, which I can’t find… but this one, me with two Native Americans, sure:
For kicks Jeff drove us to the Grand Canyon (I'll never forget going through the Painted Desert) and on the way we spent a night in Flagstaff. We also stopped at the incredibly creepy roadside attraction Bedrock City (somewhere in this house many more pics from that trip are buried).
When I got home things fell apart between Doris and me. In a fit of pique I burned her letters (including, most unforgivably, photocopies of mine to her). To this day it remains among my biggest regrets. Those letters were more than the ramblings of two young dopes. They were a record of what was going on in my life at the time.
Recently, I found the only letter that remains, the second from me to Doris, telling her about this band (The Nihilistics) coming together. Here it is.
Thursday, August 9, 1981 4:30 PM
Dear Doris:
How is the weather in California? I really like the picture you sent - you look pretty cool. At my house right now it’s warm but not too bad. We don’t have air-conditioning but there’s a huge attic fan and another one in the hallway ceiling. They pull most of the hot air out, except what comes from my brother, ha ha.
I’m living in the small room, the one my father built years ago, over the garage. I don’t know if he built it as storage or if it was meant as a room for my oldest brother, Mario. But that’s who moved into it. After that, my brother, Marc, and I shared the large bedroom. The three of us used to live in there. Mario had his own bed and Marc and I had bunk beds. I slept on the bottom because I was heavy and Marc was skinny. But Marc used to wet his bed. I woke up a few times to this awful smell. It never came through the mattress but I always thought it would. I think he stopped eventually. He also banged his head at night to fall asleep. He’d slam his head down on the bed, hitting the headboard sometimes. He goes bang, UGH. Bang. UGH. Bang. UGH. Bang. UGH. He’s been doing it for many years.
Anyway, it’s not too hot in here because I have a fan in the window. There’s only one window in the room and it’s way down low. I tried to take a picture of it but it came out too dark. I like my room. It’s too small for most people but I think of it like a cabin. Maybe that’s why my father put the “Second Mate” sign on the door?
By the way, I’m typing this on my mother’s new IBM Selectric. She lets me use it. The Royal is still around, though I won’t go back to it. This electric is cool and even lets me make corrections. Notice how there’s no mistakes? It also sound likes a machine gun. I was up here up late last night, writing a short story. Maybe I’ll mail it to you with this letter.
I’m really glad I answered your ad in Flipside. It’s nice to write back and forth to you.
I was trying to tell you in my last letter about how hard it is to live here. Right now my Cougar is not running and I feel trapped. It’s okay when I can get out of here and go visit Mike. We can drink a few beers and play some records or just jam. We started a band. It doesn’t have a name yet. He plays the bass and I play – what else? – guitar. We just got a singer. We met him at that club in Valley Stream, the one I told you about, the one with the Mafia guy who owns it? At least we think he’s in the Mafia. He acts like he is. Mike met this guy Ron in the parking lot. Ron was playing the Dead Boys on his car stereo and Mike said “At least someone around here plays some good fucking music.”
So far, Ron has been pretty good. He really likes Sid Vicious. He looks like a heavier, more Italian Sid. And he does his hair up, with the gel or whatever. And he wears the leather jacket. But I like him.
Now all we need is a drummer. Mike things he knows one. We’re having him over to my basement or Mike’s next week. If he comes over here, I have to plan this for when no one’s around. Next week my mother’s going to see Frank Sinatra at Westbury Music Fair and my brother will be working out at his friend’s house. So we might have a drummer – a REAL drummer – next week.
I’ll send you a tape we made.
Marc actually came downstairs last time I was hanging out with Mike in the basement. He came down with Jimmy. Usually we try to avoid each other in the basement but we run into each other once in awhile. I hate Marc so much you have no idea.
God, I don’t even know if you have any brothers and sisters! Tell me when you write back, okay?
Sincerely,
Chris
Doris, if you're out there, contact me...
Hi Chris. I like and prefer this format, black letters on white background, easier for my old eyes on my small phone. I've been re-reading Joe's memoir, and I do like to relive some past times.
Keep writing, I'll keep reading.