Thursday, July 1, 2010


Phil Spector fires guns. At walls. At John Lennon. I thought this was crazy hilarious until he blasted the face off that blonde in his Los Angele’s fuck pad. Anyone who brings a loaded pistol to a recording studio housing 'Nazi Fetishist' Johnny Ramone has some kind of twisted cat and mouse complex going. Word on the street is that Phil placed the barrel of his 9mm handgun against Dee Dee’s head in the hope that he would play a singular chord repeatedly until he felt the take was perfect. Turns out that the music still wasn’t hitting the mark six hours later so Phil aimed the glock at Dee Dee’s chest, ordered the band into the piano room, locked the door and forced them to listen to him sing pop ballads till dawn.

Now here’s the thing I ain’t buying. Phil’s gone to jail for 19 years in the California State prison system. First of all, you put a freaky millionaire like Spector in the Pelican Bay penal colony and the dude’s getting bailed up in the shower block in under 2.5 seconds by some Hells Angel murder monster that didn’t quite like the drum overdubs on The Ronettes Be My Baby. We’re talking serious first aid by nightfall. Secondly, I don’t think he did it. I don’t think he blasted that blonde until she dissolved in a pool of her own tepid blood, her frontal lobe splattered on the walls like an abstract Brett Whitley paiting. Now, I’m no conspiracy theorist but have you seen Spector’s hair? Anyone who scrapes Alabama roadkill off the highway with a set of car keys then places the prize on his head, is asking for an exorcism. I’m putting money on the vision that Phil pulled over on some desolate, hillbilly highway during one of his “spells”, John Lennon’s Imagine blaring from the stereo, and feeling insecure about his vast nylon wig collection and doomed forecast baldness, scratched a flattened swamp rat off the asphalt, rubbed it into his cranium, then drove off in a cloud of smoke and rubber into a liquid pink sunset. If that's the case then the swamp rat has been living on Phil’s head for a long while. Until that doomed and tortured evening when it woke in a Germanic rage and began plotting to take out Z-grade Holywood slut-muppets.

As Phil slept the good sleep with his pistol under his pillow, his wig was out on the town attacking prostitutes and vagrants on Hollywood Boulevard and eating french fries in Denny’s. Then, as dawn broke over the hills and the city woke to a smog filled sky, Phil’s beloved hair piece crept back into the bedroom and pretended to rest on his teakwood nightstand until his Master’s fat fingers slapped him back on top of his greasy dome.
Then came Lana Clarkson. The hot ‘has been’ blonde. Wig got jealous. Wig decided to love Lana from a distance. Until Wig could take it no more. He leapt from Phil’s head, snatched up the pistol from the nightstand and screamed “Kiss the gun sweetheart” before blowing her brains through the back of her skull.
But hey, that’s just my theory. Keep on believing that it’s only hair. One day, when you feel a rustle on your head and the click of the chamber, you’ll know I was right all along.

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