Tales Of A RATT Read online

  Pete decided to take me to the police station. So he hauls my ass into the Torrance P.D., with me just blazing on LSD. Lucy in the Sky With Diamond, bro, and she was singing her song loud and clear. This one cop walks up, and I swear, the guy's nose was turned up like a pig's snout, and he was talking in grunts and oinks.

  I was like, "Fuck! Look at that!” I wound up embarrassing the hell out of Pete, giggling at the pig-cop. Pete took me outside and roughed me up a little bit, but not as bad as I probably deserved. He took me home, and the Partridge Family was on TV. I was so confused. They looked like a bunch of cartoon people. I looked at my Mum and went, "Are they real?!? They look so funny!”

  She got super pissed.

  I was tripping out on everything, like the curtains. I watched all these patterns and lines moving around. It was like a kaleidoscope effect. Really fucking bizarre; especially as a pre-teen. In truth, I was scared shitless. So, I kept trying to describe it to my Mum.

  Finally, she was like, "Go to your room!”

  That was a great call, because I got into my room, killed the light and turned on my blacklight with all of my blacklight posters in the room. I cranked Hendrix and Zeppelin records. Then I understood! Then I got it! I was like, "Oh, yeah. All that other shit's pretty scary, but this makes the whole trip worth it.”

  With the blacklights and the Hendrix, the whole thing turned out to be really fun.

  But, now I had the biker kids after me. Richard Wood and Ron Ellerman. I still remember their names.

  LA taught lessons fast, I was to discover. That's fine, because I'm a quick learner; eager, even. The Seventies were all about having a good time at the expense of everything around you. People were too busy getting laid, drunk and stoned; posing in front of their bedroom mirrors with broomstick guitars. They didn't spend time worrying about underlying problems. It's the perfect environment for reckless youth.

  It wasn't long before we settled in a little house on 226th street in Torrance. It was the sort of house that blended into the rest of the LA basin. Not spectacular, but not a shit-hole either.

  I find it amazing today that our house that sold for $40,000 in 1972 now sells for $750,000.

  I went to Sam Levy Elementary on 229th street. Again, it lacked the elements of the spectacular. But, it wasn't long before I had some great friends in that neighborhood.

  The best, hands down, was Drew Bombeck. Drew and I were fast compatriots, mutual offenders, and always the usual suspects when something questionable happened around school; that was us. I think it was because the two of us had a general disdain for anything involving structure. Let's just say, we didn't "blend.”

  First off, we were the only two boys in the school with longhair (and attitudes to match). We had a lot of mutual interests; dirt bikes, chicks (Drew had, hands down, the hottest sister on the planet...alas, I could only love her in my mind...which I did often), but most of all, we bonded over music. Hendrix. The Rolling Stones. And, above all, the Beatles. I don't know if we were just fixated on the music of the Sixties, or if we hadn't found anything better in the Seventies. But, the Beatles WERE music as far as we were concerned.

  I'm not getting down on the music of the time. Some of that music was great. But, glitter and glam flooded everything we saw: clothes, music, cars, candy, everything. It was hard to figure the talent from the shit. Some of it was easy; The Sweet, Mott the Hoople, and the absolute genius of David Bowie. That was talent. Some of it wasn't; The New York Dolls, The Sex Pistols, et al. To me, that was shit. It was the whole transvestite thing. I just never got it. Especially when it was used to simply mask a lack of real skill and musical talent. Mind you, Bowie had that look, but he had the brilliant song writing to back up anything he wanted to do.

  Punk was experimental, and experimental is fine. Some of it is groundbreaking. But, I wanted to be on the radio. Even back then, I knew what I was going to do with my life. But, to get on the radio, you had to make music that not only spoke to your soul, but spoke to the majority of the other souls in the world, as well. Punk did everything it could to be noticed, but then got pissed off when it did. Okay. If that does it for you. But it doesn't compare to being worshipped by 14,000 people in a stadium, all of who know your music better than you do.

  That's how it was with the Beatles. Modern rock and roll, almost without exception, can trace itself to the Beatles. Try to say that for the New York Dolls.

  Drew, my bro, got that. We'd hang out for hours at a time, listening to our albums, talking music, talking chicks, and doing everything we could to forget we were only twelve years old. We'd jump on our dirt bikes and destroy anything that remotely resembled a bike trail. It was a free life. And we were indestructible.

  Me, Carol, and cousin Chuck.

  Me, Carol, Michael with cousins, 1978.

  Photo of family above, Jeni, baby Michael, Bobby, niece Heather, Mom, Carol, nephew PJ, nephew Cris, Brother Michael. 1982.

  My grandmother on my mother’s side Birtha Thorp (bottom row left), and other members of that side of the family.

  Me in a dress, don’t ask me why.

  Uncle Ron Blotzer, my brother’s dad.

  Me acting kooky Torrance CA, 1972.

  Brother, sister Carol and me, 1982.

  Aunt Ann and Uncle Ron, after getting into the RATT catering, 1984 Billy Squier RATT Tour.

  Real Dad – Charles Blotzer – age 17.

  Bar full of Blotzers, imagine that!

  Me and nephew Cris – dancing under cover tour, 1987.

  Mom’s mom and dad.

  Bobby and Carol baby pics.

  Ronny, Carol, Bobby, 1964.

  The first guy I played music with, Harold Hawthorne. We lived in same apartment building, 1974.

  Harold and Me in 2003.

  Me, Jeni, and Pete, 1985.

  Stepdad Pete and Mom Lois 2003.

  Loved playing arcade games – Asteroids was my favorite.

  2

  The Virtues Of Cinnamon Toast And Black Sabbath

  Another of my good friends during this time of turmoil and self-expression was Tom Farnsworth. I met Tom in the 6th grade, at the aforementioned Sam Levy Elementary.

  Tom was a good cat. Likeable. He wasn't Drew, but I enjoyed hanging out with him. He gave me another excuse to be out of the house, especially since Pete had taken to punishing me by cutting my hair. My hair was very important to me. It was my look. So, when he would get piss drunk and take it out on me, my hair was always a casualty. The more I could stay out of the house, the less chance I had of looking like a cancer patient.

  So, Tom was a good alternative. But, it was Tom's brother, Lee, who had a much more influential impact on my life. Especially for my tendency to self-medicate.

  Lee sold weed. Actually, that doesn't do it justice. Lee sold a shitload of weed.

  One of the first times I saw Lee, he had an entire pound brick of pot laid out and ready to cut up. He was a generous guy, and introduced his brother's thirteen-year-old friend to the truly lofty feelings enjoyed by inhaling the smoke from a burning Cannabis Sativa plant!

  I don't remember much about that day. Lee got Tom and I soooooo stoned. All I remember was just lying under the bed, out of my mind. When I came out of it, I was as hungry as I've ever been in my life. I biked home as quickly as I could, put on Black Sabbath's Paranoid album, and ate twelve pieces of cinnamon toast.

  That was my first introduction to weed. Black Sabbath and cinnamon toast will always hold a place close to my heart. And, Lee Farnsworth showed me a wonderful way to supplement my income when I was a little older, and a starving musician who didn't want a day job.

  For years, I served as a middleman. Someone would come to me and ask for a load of pot. It started as a quarter pound, then a half. Before long, it was one or two pounds at a pop. I would run a couple of houses down the street, broker the deal with Lee, and then make a quick $500 or so.

  Through this, I was able to supplement my passions. Music, concerts, chicks and all t
he things that go along with that.

  Hey, it was the seventies. Consequences weren't a real consideration. Remember?

  When I was thirteen, two things happened of great significance. The first involved Pete.

  Pete was a stocky guy who had hands like canned hams. He worked at a bar; he drank like an Irishman; and he fought like a Scot. It really didn't matter who with, but my Mum and I were prime targets.

  Now, despite my personal actions and life experiences, I'm really not a fighter. Well, not physically, anyway. So, when Pete would occasionally get crapulous, he would simply beat my ass.

  One instance, in particular, when I was 15 or so, I came crawling into the house around four in the morning, as polluted as I've ever been. Pete and Mum were asleep.

  I never made it to my room, and passed out on the couch.

  When Mum came downstairs to find me on the couch, halfway to Heavington, she tried to wake me up and get me upstairs before Pete saw me. Noble, though her cause was, I didn't react well to being woke up.

  "Get the fuck out of here! I'm sleeping.” In hindsight, probably not a wise idea. She didn't take it well, and went to get Pete.

  About the time I got to my bed and laid down, Pete hit the door, all piss and molten metal. He grabbed me up by the hair and punched me square in the face. All in all, pretty intense. Thankfully, I was still drunk-numb, so the full effect of it didn't hit until I woke up, later.

  My face and lip were so swollen I could barely talk. My own damn fault, though. I got drunk and mouthed off to my Mum. Pretty much, I got my just deserts, so it wasn't really a big deal to me.

  When Pete saw it, though, it was a different story. The guy felt like shit over it. My face was so bad that Pete gave me the keys to the car and let me take it for the day. Mind you, I was only 15 at the time, and nowhere near having my license. But, I'd been taking the car since I was 11. Pete knew it, and felt this was the least he could do.

  The guy wasn't without his post-drunk remorse; not all bad, when you gave him a chance. But, we really weren't ever going to be best friends. He wasn't my buddy; and I wasn't his pride and joy. For the most part, we just tried to stay out of each other’s way.

  So imagine my surprise when Pete did the one thing that sent me on a speeding rail toward realizing my dreams.

  He gave me a guitar and amp.

  While music had always been a big part of who I was, it wasn't until Pete gave me the guitar that my path became clear.

  It was a weird night. Pete comes into the house, about half lit. He was working at a bar at the time. In his hands, he's carrying a guitar and a small amp. I never knew where he got it. It could be that some guy at the bar owed him money, or he might have bought it on the cheap. Shit, he might have copped it. Who knows?

  But, he walks in with it, looks at me and says, "You're into all this music and shit, so here you go.”

  Like I said, the guy wasn't without his moments.

  My tastes in music had never changed, but new bands were popping up that I was really enjoying. Granted, most of them were still British bands.

  Among them was Queen, David Bowie, The Sweet, Deep Purple, Humble Pie, etc. They were trash glam at its glammest. No question. They had the best make-up, the best bouffant ridiculous hair, and they wore pants so tight, we discovered Camel-Toe had an ugly little brother named Moose-Knuckle. Thankfully, The Sweet also had the best tunes.

  Ironically, when they fell apart, they did it in a monstrous way. The whole thing ended in bitter acrimony, alcohol, arguments and early death. It never occurred to us that RATT would follow almost the exact same path until it was too late.

  It's the wise man that learns from his mistakes, but it's that smart fucker who learns from someone else's. These days, I endeavor to be that smart fucker.

  I digress.

  Still, it was a time where clothes were ripped, make-up was caked on eyes with a putty knife, cheeks were pierced with safety pins, and nobody smiled anymore. The simple pleasures of glitter and gloss were easy to forget.

  But there was that new music movement. Call it heavy metal, hard rock, arena rock, I don't give a shit. It was that hedonistic sound and balls out attitude, preaching sex, drugs and rock. And, it cut right to my guts. Right to that place that made me exist.

  When I looked at that guitar, I saw that for myself. My possibilities wrapped up in six strings.

  I sat and jacked around with this thing, trying to make sense of it the best I could, but I wasn't really getting very far.

  I heard about a guy who lived in the same apartment building as me, named Harold Hawthorne. Harold was a guitarist, and I needed to learn how to be a guitarist.

  I dropped by the guy’s house and knocked on the door. His Mom answered, and I talked my way inside, and then went straight up to Harold's room where he was practicing.

  Remember when I said I make fast friends? Harold is still a good friend to this day. He and Drew are both parts of my childhood that I've carried all through my life and still hang out with today.

  But, unfortunately, the guitar wasn't meant to be. Not for me, anyway. Although, I still play, just not blistering leads, a la Warren DeMartini.

  Harold was a pretty good guitarist. He took lessons and knew all about music theory and scales. Shit like that. I didn't seem to have it. Not the patience, not the talent, not the "mojo.” Whatever it took to be an axe-slinging rock god, I didn't have it. And, it frustrated the hell out of me.

  While Harold and I hung out and practiced, and the talent gap continued to spread, another kid in the neighborhood hooked up with us. His name was Marty Cory, and Marty was a budding drummer.

  A drummer.

  I hadn't really thought about it before. But, it sounded good.

  It wasn't long before our little jam sessions began to evolve, but only for me.

  I got into the habit of sitting on the drum kit and working the beats while Marty picked up my guitar. In short order, I had surpassed Marty in as a drummer.

  We traded, straight up, my guitar and amp for his drum kit.

  Harold continued to bloom on his guitar, but our sessions never really went anywhere as a group.

  But, it wasn't four or five months later before I was playing band calibre drums. Joining bands was the next step.

  Life was pretty good, for me. And, thankfully, it was being lived on my terms, for the most part. Naturally, this existence would lend itself to trouble, but I didn't care. It was my life, with my decisions to make.

  School was no different. Drew and I were the designated offendees. Often times, we were guilty. Other times, not so much. But, I'd call it even, considering the number of things we didn't get busted for.

  Drew was the first to go down. He was kicked out of Sam Levy, and sent to a "specialty school.” It was sort of a special education / juvenile detention kind of place. Honestly, it was the sort of place they sent the disposable kids. You went there, and your academic potential would be pronounced dead a week later.

  Not to piss and groan about it, mind you. I mean, what else were they going to do with the kids they didn't know what to do with? It was just easier to sweep them under the rug than deal with them. The seventies were never that big on consequences. Know what I mean?

  My own educational demise at Sam Levy wasn't far behind, and oddly enough, it was a fairly minor infraction that spelled the end.

  One day, in 8th grade, we got to school a bit late. We'd been hanging out at the 7-11, smoking cigarettes and a joint or two. Needless to say, I got to class with a sinister case of the munchies. I'd have taken a bite out of the desktop if I hadn't found something to kill the cravings.

  Fortunately, I found something.

  In the desk belonging to the rather odd girl who usually sat next to me was a package of Dip N Sticks. For those who don't remember this shit, it was a foil package of a substance kinda like Kool-Aid. It was, basically, a bag full of flavored sugar. It even came with a little stick, which was white and made out of even more compre
ssed sugar. You could eat the stick! I'm surprised they didn't make a way you could eat the fucking bag! It was a sinister sweet treat capable of leveling the typical educational experience with a few gritty swallows of packaged sugar high.

  Needless to say, I was stoked.

  I snatched the package up and gave it a shake. Sure enough, the familiar sound of granulated tooth decay Rattled back.

  I unrolled it and upended the contents into my mouth.

  In hindsight, I probably should have considered the oddness of the girl who sat next to me. Because, surprises in life are often very enjoyable. This wasn't one of those times.

  It seems after consuming her package of Dip N Sticks, she saw the empty foil bag as a perfect place to hold spilled glue, and to her credit, the glue was still pretty fresh. But, it tasted like hammered shit, and I spat it all over the desk in front of me, gagging and choking. I was generally making a huge scene of the whole thing. The whole class ground to a halt, and watched me be a clown for a couple of minutes.

  Never one to leave an opportunity unexplored, I thought I might be able to get out of the rest of my school day if I made like the glue had made me sick, so I milked the moment.

  It worked a little too well. It got me out of that day, and all the ones after it.

  The teacher took me to the office, and after several minutes of arguing with the powers that be, I was unceremoniously kicked out of school.

  Generally, our teachers, parents, or any adult in a position of authority viewed Drew and I as troublemakers. We were rowdy, true, but we were kids. What did they expect?

  Thinking about what I was like as a kid, and often times as an adult, I was probably A.D.D. / A.D.H.D. If I had been a kid in today's world, they would have had me medicated to the nines, walking around like I was on a lithium drip. But, being the times it was, no one had a damned clue as to what Attention Deficit Disorder was...