“Tomata was like a Norman Rockwell painting gone dada, Howdy Doodee meets Tallulah Bankhead, or possibly Jimmy Stewart on a lost weekend. But onstage with the Screamers in a hospital-issue straight jacket held together with duct tape, he was riveting and dangerous, the living embodiment of true insanity. Seeing him perform, you’d never know that this was nothing close to his true nature.”
“Paper cups in hand, Lisa, Exene Cervenka and I ventured into the kitchen to get more Sangria, when all of a sudden, an extremely tall and portly man with a bullet-shaped shaved head and preternaturally blue beady eyes eyes uttered a huge shriek that sounded like an elephant about to go rogue. With that, he picked up the gigantic pot of spaghetti and marinara sauce that was bubbling on the stove and hefted it skywards with both hands before dumping the entire thing over his head. Everyone in the kitchen shrank in horror against the walls, trying to avoid the tomato sauce carnage. Black Randy wailed again and ran from the room and down the back steps, the spaghetti pot still on his head, blinding him. There was sauce splattered on the ceiling like a Manson murder scene, and worms of cooked pasta everywhere; on the walls, hanging from the gay streamers, and all over everyone’s leather jackets. The entire room was silent with shock. We could hear him bellowing all the way down the street.
Tomata, ever the impeccable host, merely commented calmly,
“Oh, that Black Randy… what a card! He’s a fabulous recording artist, who has just signed a contact with Danger House Records!””
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