The White Power T-Shirt

One very very fine bubonic autumn morning, when there was just a hint of whore frost on the unraked leaves, gathered in my front yard like so many discarded and lonely crack vials on a Harlem sidewalk, Dave E., Paul and I, John "Broken Hand"® Morton, wended our way down to "White Power Headquarters," conveniently located in the white trash fiefdom of Cleveland known as the Near West Side.(Brian was in one of his "Fuck you I'm out of here!" modes at the time.)

It was Mickey, Paul's brother and itinerant Weatherperson (noticed how I updated the term to make it Pejoratively Correct?) that first awared us W. P. H. Q. It was nestled in its fine rundown edifice completely commensurately ubiquitous and camaphlogalogicaly blending in with the surrounding second hand stores, junk stores, salvation army stores, garage sale stores, used furniture stores, pawn shops and bars, taverns, tavernas, watering holes, speaks, dives, hooch houses and buckets of blood.

I was struck by the simple stark simplicity of HQ upon entering, it was totally german, I mean germane to the neighborhood. (That was such a good line the first time, and seeing as I have no shame, I used it again !) Just a large oak desk with a beleaguered and belugered sixty year old man looking like a shorter version of Max Von Sydow ( I always thought he was Swedish ) sitting on an oak chair, his brown shirt, and I do mean brown shirt as in brown shirt, was lovingly complimented by his swastika armband. Xerox pamphlets with titles like "Who Needs Niggers" and "Pull The Triggers on the Niggers" lay on the desk. I think they might have been free.

The Piece of Resistance, was a be-fucking-eautiful ten foot Nazi Flag pinioned on the wall behind the desk. The flag and the pamphlets were about the only things that differentiated it from Col. Klink's office.

"Yess?? Boys??" one eye cocked. With our long hair and Dave E.'s limp, we didn't seem like the best potential candidates for the Aryan race. Dave E. just smiled his typical hysterical looking smile, I kind of paced the store muttering "fucking niggers" under my breath. I was a real people pleaser back then. I would do anything to ingratiate myself.

"Yes Sir, we are keenly aware of the implications generated through the grass root voices of fine organization like your own, in the belief that America was founded upon the tacit mandate of . . . etc. etc."

Within five minutes, the guy was all smiles handing us each a copy of all the pamphlets. Dave E. inquired if the flag was for sale thinking (rightly) that it would make a great stage backdrop for the Eels.

"One of our members sewed that for us. She's 72 and has terrible arthritis. I don't believe she's up to making another one, no sir, I don't believe she is, but I'll tell you what, we do have, we have the white power T-shirts!!" and he showed us the beautiful, now infamous, shirts. At just $2 each, we should have bought ten, but I believe only Paul and I, John "Broken Hand" Morton made a purchase. Dave was much too fashion conscience too ever wear one. He actually owned some of the "Johnny Carson Collection." Also, it would have defiantly clashed with the rattraps attached to his trench coat.

I had this black friend, . . . oh I'm sorry, . . . I had this African-American friend, Donald Avery who thought the shirts were great and wanted me to get him one. In my naiveté, I gave him the address and told him to pick one up for himself.

One fine day, Peter " take the guitar player out for a drink and maybe a shot of ritalin " Laughner announced a forthcoming gala to be held at his digs in "The Plaza", to which Paul and I were invited with the specific request that we don our white power T-shirts. Also on the A list was Billy Bass, a way-cool Blac . . . a way-cool African-American Disc Jockey on way-un-cool FM radiostation, WMMS. (I used to see Billy at way-cool "Music Grotto" where I mercifully did not buy the first "Chocolate Watchband" LP.)

We got to the party earlier than Billy while Peter was secreting away a pint of Jamesons. When I expressed an interest in imbibing in some, Peter carefully explained it was that it was Billy's favorite, but I could sure just help myself to the P.O.C. That is the kind of stand up guy Peter was (at least, when he was alive.)

When Billy showed up he was incensed, incensed I tell you. HE DID NOT FIND THE WHITE POWER T-SHIRTS AT ALL AMUSING and DID NOTcare a FIG, a FIG I tell you about our semantic - political - agenda, Brucian, Hiakawin, Swiftian, and /or Wigensteinien arguments.

The Jewish Club owners would not hire us (not that there would have been much chance of that anyway) Later on, we were to be censored by the Zionist record company owners,The Hasidim controlled media . . . The Masada is plotting against me, I . . Oops . . there I go again . . irregardless, the Eel's fascination with the swastika still remains a provocative issue.

Well, I've done my best to explain our totemic leanings to the inverted good luck symbol, ( please don't forget, I am very dyslexic!! ) but if you don't buy my story, or like Billy, you don't give a fig, don't give it credence, don't want to fall by the wayside, want to make you voice heard, be counted, you may kindly register your complaint on the "O.F.E.E.H.© Complaint Form" simply by clicking the ojo of mi amigo, the Cubano artista, Alberto Casado.