tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66203951085431661622024-03-13T05:21:48.330-07:00Violence GirlViolence Girl - From East LA Rage to Hollywood Stage. The memoirs of Alice Bag. Publisher: Feral House 2011Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-28729729235875060242016-09-23T10:27:00.001-07:002016-09-23T10:27:17.669-07:00The Wrestler's DaughtersWhen I was about 8 years old, a new family moved into the apartment building next door. The father was a large, imposing Samoan man and the mother looked like a lovely Tahitian beauty. Our new neighbors operated one of the two bars in our neighborhood. I can't recall the name of it, but it was a small bar on Union Pacific Avenue. The couple had 4 daughters, including a girl about my own age who was named Claudia. The youngest daughter was always called Baby, even though she was probably about 5 years old. I don't know if Baby had any other name, because nobody ever called her anything else.<br />
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Claudia and Baby told me that their father was a wrestler. A wrestler! How glamorous and exciting a profession that must be! Thanks to my dad, I was an avid spectator of professional wrestling, or <span style="font-style: italic;">lucha libre</span>, as it is known in Mexico. I had grown up watching Blue Demon, Mil Mascaras and the original wrestling movie star - El Santo - battle vampire women, zombies and satanist cults. We watched wrestling on TV, broadcast live from the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles as well as <span style="font-style: italic;">lucha libre</span> bouts from the Arena Coliseo in Mexico City. Some of the Mexican wrestlers worked the American circuit. In Los Angeles, some matches were designed to appeal more to <span style="font-style: italic;">lucha libre</span> aficionados. I always found the Mexican bouts more colorful and eclectic than the American wrestling match ups. On <span style="font-style: italic;">lucha libre</span> nights, it was not unusual to see women's wrestling or little people on the bill. Many of the costumes rated high on the tacky scale but I always thought of that as a plus.<br />
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Matches were not just for a title; titles were for ordinary athletes. <span style="font-style: italic;">Luchadores</span> were more than athletes - they were real life superheros with near mythic status. They didn't just stand for might and brawn, they often championed causes. Their matches were for higher stakes than a trophy or a belt; a masked wrestler might risk his anonymity by staking his mask against another man's prized Samson mane. But it was not just the hair or the mask that would be lost by the defeated wrestler, it was seen as a blow against whatever cause the wrestler stood for.<br />
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Heroes like Ray Mendoza stood for the indigenous underdogs, the Indians throughout Mexico who made up the poor and often marginalized lower classes. In Mexico, to say someone looks or behaves like an "Indio" was considered an insult, akin to being called a savage. It was widely rumored that Ray Mendoza was illiterate, but instead of that being a source of shame, it was seen by his fans as a sign of how far one could rise despite the lack of a formal education. El Indio, Ray Mendoza, was one of my childhood idols. Ray Mendoza had been a <span style="font-style: italic;">rudo</span> who turned <span style="font-style: italic;">technico</span> (aka <span style="font-style: italic;">scientifico</span>); a bad guy who turned good. He always kept the rough edges of a <span style="font-style: italic;">rudo</span>, but being 8 or 9 years old, I didn't need to do a lot of analysis of what he stood for; El Indio was clearly for the common people. His brown skin and long black hair were a source of pride for him and for his fans who saw a bit of themselves reflected in this powerful wrestler.<br />
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I had the opportunity to see Ray Mendoza fight a bout in which he wagered his long, Indian locks. My parents and I went to the Olympic Auditorium that night to cheer on our hero. The place was loud, raucous and the crowd was fired up. Ray's fight was the main event. I wish I could tell you who he was wrestling but I don't remember because it didn't matter. Ray fought valiantly in what turned out to be a very bloody brawl. We shouted and cheered him on until we were all hoarse but in the end, he was defeated. As soon as the winner was announced, a chair was dragged into the middle of the ring and Ray's beautiful long black hair was cut off, right there in front of the packed audience at the Olympic and thousands of fans watching at home. I was nearly in tears. My hero had lost.<br />
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Through this seemingly vapid sport of <span style="font-style: italic;">lucha libre</span>, I learned to understand the concept of duality at an early age. It was the same kind of duality that I experienced when I realized that I both loved and hated my father, that a "<span style="font-style: italic;">rudo</span>" - a villain - could also be a good guy. It was as much a part of Mexican culture as eating a sweet apple with salt and chili, or celebrating the bleak inevitability of death by making brightly colored sugar skulls with your name on them.<br />
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Claudia and Baby's father turned out to be a completely different type of wrestler. He was an athlete, not a superhero. I, on the other hand, was a daughter of duality, a violence girl wanting both to destroy and coexist with love in a wrestling match that would last for years.Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-15576757157059230502015-01-12T10:04:00.000-08:002015-01-12T10:04:17.282-08:00Beyond The Classroom<img src="http://alicebag.com/jesusconfusil.jpg" /><br />
<strong><em>"En Nicaragua, Jesus carga un fusil."</em></strong><br />
<em>"In Nicaragua, Jesus carries a rifle."</em><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>Photo taken in Nicaragua by Alice Bag.</em></span><br />
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I soon realized that nothing in my relatively comfortable upbringing had prepared me for the reality of living in a country at war. The pops of automatic rifle fire in the distance were almost as common as the clucking of the hens and roosters that woke me at sunrise. Nevertheless, I quickly fell into the rhythm of the household with the warm support and encouragement of my new family. The three regular meals each day were invariably beans, tortillas and a thick, muddy coffee. You could count on eating the same thing pretty much every day, but on special days, we'd have a dish called <em>Gallo Pinto</em>, which was just red beans and rice; sometimes a bit of <em>queso fresco</em> would find its way onto the table.<br />
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After a few days, I decided to rescue the family from our culinary monotony by going to the market to buy some groceries I could contribute to the household. After all, I'd been in town for three days and hadn't spent any money at all, which was an unfamiliar feeling. When I got to the store, I noticed that many of the shelves were empty. There were some bottles of hot sauce, dry beans, dry rice, a small selection of ugly looking vegetables, a few household items and not much else. Everything was inexpensive. I asked the woman behind the counter about the scarce selection. She informed me that when something was in stock, it was priced cheaply enough that anyone could buy it and so it would sell out quickly. The very idea of setting the price of groceries based on the law of supply and demand was counterrevolutionary to her. I understood her ideology but I still didn't fully understand the empty shelves.<br />
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"The US has declared an embargo against us, but they will not break us. We'll eat beans forever if we have to." There was disapproval in the woman's voice. "You are a guest in this country. You do not buy the groceries." It suddenly struck me that what I was doing was rude. Who did I think I was, coming to their country, thinking I could buy better food because I had more money? I immediately felt foolish and decided against the groceries, hoping to buy some toilet paper instead. I had brought a roll of toilet paper with me because I knew that it was scarce, but what I didn't know was that it was not only scarce, it was nonexistent. I'd put the single roll in the bathroom and it was quickly gone, to be replaced by little squares of cut up newspaper. I hoped to score a four pack of toilet paper but here again I was thwarted.<br />
<br />
<em>"Papel hygienico?"</em> I asked.<br />
<br />
She looked amused. <em>"No hay."</em> "There isn't any. You need to go back to your family and live like a Nicaraguan," she said, still smiling in a tolerant way. I walked out of the market, my sole purchase a baggie filled with a frozen fruit punch concoction known to the locals as <em>posicle</em> (I thought it sounded like Popsicle.) I bit off the corner of the baggie, sucked on the sweet frozen treat and tried to cheer myself up after being exposed in all my ethnocentric ignorance.<br />
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I got right to work after that. I made arrangements to visit and deliver supplies to some of the local teachers. School buildings were used for morning, afternoon and evening classes: waste not, want not. The literacy program was open to everyone. Men, women, boys and girls would gather around a few large, mismatched tables. Some people stood for the entire class while others walked in carrying chairs they'd brought from their respective homes. There were men in dirty work uniforms, <em>campesinos</em> with calloused hands who had worked the farms all day and still found time and energy to attend classes, women with toddlers on their laps. They all wanted one thing - to learn to read. Unlike the school books I'd grown up with, here there was no Tom and Jane to read about. These texts were meaningful with stories of Augusto Sandino, Carlos Fonseca and The FSLN. The simple stories were first read for meaning, then broken down into simple sentences; the sentences were then broken down into syllables and finally into individual letter sounds. It was the exact opposite of how it's done here in the US. When I learned to read, I was taken from abstract letters and sounds to concrete meaning; why not start with meaning and then break it down?<br />
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Going from concrete to abstract was a strategy that made sense to me, especially for second language learners but it also occurred to me that the historical texts we were using to teach people were a form of political indoctrination. They all espoused the revolutionary ideals of the ruling socialist party but the literacy classes inevitably included some open discussion of the material. Did everyone agree with the point of view of the author? If not, why not? Of course, given the circumstances of a social revolution, it would have been hard to disagree with the material or the socialist economic philosophies being taught. I thought about the ways we Americans were indoctrinated by the mass media in our own country and I wondered how much of my own core beliefs and values had been hard wired by my education.<br />
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It wasn't too long before I realized that what this town needed even more than literacy coaches were strong legs, arms and backs to do the heavy lifting and building for neighborhoods that lacked running water, plumbing and electricity. Since I had no construction skills, I was given the simple task of transporting bricks from the brickpile to a construction site on top of a hill. After my weak arms gave out and I dumped a wheelbarrow of bricks down the side of the hill, the frustrated foreman shuffled me from assignment to assignment until he figured out that I was pretty much unfit for manual labor.<br />
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"What can you do?" he finally asked.<br />
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Thinking back to my muralist days at Garfield High, I responded that I could paint. They then assigned me the task of painting seeds with the likeness of Augusto Sandino which they made into necklaces and pins to sell.<br />
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<img src="http://www.alicebag.com/pins.jpg" /><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>Some of my handiwork.</em> <em>I didn't do the bad one in the middle. Photo by Alice Bag.</em></span><br />
The fact that I was bilingual in English and Spanish was also valuable, since they needed to translate documents. I was happy to have found a skill I could use, not realizing that the documents in need of translation were repair manuals for truck engines, sewing machines and power generators. Of course, I didn't know the Spanish words for such technical terms as "flywheel" or "spark plug," so that was a bit of a challenge. I did a fair job of translating the <em>charlas</em> between the community members and the foreign students who had a limited Spanish vocabulary. These weekly meetings helped keep the school at the service of the community. I'd listen and simultaneously translate Spanish to English and then back again. It's harder than it sounds and gave me a real appreciation for the role of translators.<br />
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I spent a month in Esteli, helping out in some of the classrooms, interviewing people who had learned to read through the literacy campaign and then had gone out to remote villages to teach others, forming youth brigades which fought against ignorance and battled illiteracy as an extension of a social revolution. It was then I realized that teaching someone to read was itself a revolutionary act. I observed and learned as much as I could but mostly I learned about myself and about my government, which had imposed an embargo against the tiny country and was helping to train and fund the <em>contra-revolucionarios -</em> Contras, as they were known in the States, or <em>Freedom Fighters</em> as Ronald Reagan had attempted to name them but even in the US the name Freedom Fighters wouldn't stick.<br />
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Aside from constant volunteer work, I spent my spare time hitching rides through the Nicaraguan countryside, seeing some of the outlying towns and visiting with the people who lived there but this was no tourist vacation. Once, while walking down a dusty street and talking to a villager, I found myself face down in the dirt when bursts of automatic rifle fire went off just a block away. Being so close to the border with Honduras where the Contras were staging their counter-revolutionary attacks meant that I had to be constantly aware of my surroundings and prepared to duck and cover at the first sign of a gun battle. Every place I went - from the largest city to the tiniest hamlet - had its own personality but they all shared a common vision: to rebuild their war-torn country from the inside out.<br />
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As poor as these people were and despite the difficulty of their circumstances, I found in their spirit a warmth and generosity that I'd rarely experienced before. I learned by watching their daily example that what was important in life was not wealth nor material possessions, but purpose and resourcefulness. Being in Nicaragua at that time also allowed me to witness firsthand some of the effects of war in a way that was not sanitized for my consumption.<br />
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<img src="http://www.alicebag.com/ninos.jpg" height="601" width="640" /><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>Children of Esteli.</em> </span><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">Photo by Alice Bag.</span></em><br />
After more than a month of living, teaching and working in Nicaragua, I boarded a flight for the return trip to the States and my job as a schoolteacher with a renewed sense of purpose and dedication. The most lasting impression I have of Nicaragua is of the indomitable spirit of its people. Their hunger for knowledge and self determination would teach me to never be complacent about what I have and what I have to lose.Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-4086315526064525262013-08-29T15:59:00.000-07:002013-08-30T12:15:11.475-07:00Chicano Power!Late in the summer of 1970, just as my summer vacation was coming to an end, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicano_Moratorium">Chicano Moratorium</a> organized a huge march through the streets of East L.A. to protest the war in Vietnam, the many Chicano soldiers who were being drafted and sent overseas to fight it and the higher than average mortality rate among Chicano soldiers.<br />
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<img src="http://www.alicebag.com/chicanomarch.jpg" /><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Chicano Moratorium March, August 29, 1970.<br /><span style="font-size: 78%;">Image courtesy of Dept of Special Collections/UCLA Library, A1713 Charles E. Young Research Library, 405 Hilgard Ave, Box 951575, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1575; http://www.library.ucla.edu/libraries/special/scweb/</span></span><span style="font-size: 78%;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 78%;"><br /></span></span>
My father never liked the term "Chicano" because he believed the word was derived from a derogatory term used when he was young and working as a <span style="font-style: italic;">bracero</span> and he did not usually get involved in political demonstrations. This time, he surprised us by volunteering to take us to the march. We parked our car near the 7 (now the 710) Freeway, just a couple of blocks away from Whitter Boulevard, where the march was already underway. We walked up the street and were able to find a spot where my sister and I could see. I think we were expecting a parade but there were just a lot of everyday looking people: mothers, fathers, kids and students with signs, crosses (to symbolize the fallen soldiers) and fists pumping in the air, some chanting "Chicano!" while the onlookers would yell back "Power!" I remember being most impressed by the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_Berets">Brown Berets</a> and being totally dazzled by their coolness.<br />
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<img src="http://www.alicebag.com/brownberets.jpg" /><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Brown Berets stand at ease.</span><br />
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After a while, my sister and I begged to join the march but my father was looking uneasy. The crowd was swelling and we found ourselves being pushed back. My father, sensing something was wrong, pulled us back even further. To my surprise, we saw police cars parked along the side streets. Not ten minutes had passed from when he'd forbidden our participation than we saw a young man throw a beer bottle towards the marchers, then quickly run and disappear into the crowd. There was no one following him but we could see a wave of people push back as he shoved his way through the crowd. I couldn't see where the bottle landed, but I did see the results. Suddenly, people were shoving and yelling. More projectiles flew through the air; one hit the roof of one of the police cars. Panic broke out as the crowd pushed in all directions, trying to get away from the situation. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended as the attackers fled on foot through the crowded sidewalks. A few cool heads tried to calm people down and reorganize the marchers, but my father rushed us back to our car and drove away. As I watched out the car window, I could see the policemen on their radios calling for backup and getting out of their own cars. I thought they might have been waiting until things stopped flying through the air before stepping in, but they didn't seem to be too concerned with catching the people who threw the bottles. I could see parents holding their children's hands and trying to stand their ground as we turned the corner and sped away from the danger.<br />
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<img src="http://www.alicebag.com/rubensalazar.jpg" /><br />
<span style="font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">Ruben Salazar, L.A. Times Reporter, killed by LAPD during the<br />Chicano Moratorium march, August 29, 1970. </span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://danielhernandez.typepad.com/daniel_hernandez/" style="font-style: italic;">Photo courtesy of Intersections by Daniel Hernandez. </a></span><br />
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At home, we watched the news on TV and we heard that a riot had broken out when a bottle had been thrown at a police officer. From my perspective, it had been a minor altercation and the police had made no attempt to catch the individuals who had been throwing bottles in the first place. A reporter named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruben_Salazar">Ruben Salazar</a> who was favorably disposed towards the Chicano movement and had been an outspoken critic of police brutality had been shot and killed by a deputy sheriff. The riot squad had been called in to clear out the demonstrators, using tear gas and batons, resulting in dozens of injuries and three deaths. I shuddered. remembering the worried faces of parents as they clutched the hands of their kids. I couldn't believe that what had started as a peaceful march protesting a war halfway around the world had turned out to be so ugly.<br />
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I will never forget that day, August 29, 1970, for two reasons: one was that I had never before realized that I was part of a minority group and I felt good about being part of something as powerful as the Chicano Movement; the other was that this group had enemies who weren't afraid to throw bottles at us or shoot us. Throughout my early childhood, policemen had been the knights in shining armor who had rescued my mother from my father's vicious attacks. In my eyes, they had always lived up to their motto, "To Protect and Serve." That day, I saw my knights like the other people in my life: their capacity for good was matched by their capacity for evil. It seemed that diametrically opposed impulses had to exist for things to make sense. My world was coalescing into a ball of love and hate, trust and treachery.<br />
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<br />Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-82962402060843987862011-10-18T09:36:00.001-07:002013-08-30T12:25:11.320-07:00Feminista! (A deleted scene from Violence Girl)Another deleted scene from Violence Girl. Enjoy!<br />
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<b>Feminista!</b><br />
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It seems like the whole time I was growing up, the world was trying to teach me the role of women. From the first time I saw my mother cowering at my father’s feet, to the current state of insidious inequality, I’ve been confronted with the message that females are somehow weaker, less capable than men. I began questioning the validity of these messages early on, inspired by the women around me. My mother, my sisters, my friends, aunts and cousins - each one constantly refined the definitions of femininity, androgyny and the true nature of equality in small ways through their daily routines. Sometimes these women discarded antiquated cliches of lady-like behavior in favor of an assertive, can-do attitude. At other times, they tried to squeeze themselves into someone else’s idea of womanhood. Either way, they helped me figure out that the tidy stereotype labeled “femininity” had to some stretching to do to catch up with my evolving female consciousness.<br />
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In the 1970's, my mother found herself by stepping up to help my father in the male-dominated construction business; my girlfriends were pushing the boundaries, too. The L.A. punk scene was densely populated by female musicians, artists, writers, photographers, roadies and more. These were the modern suffragettes in my life who, without banners or demonstrations, quietly led by example. Not that I oppose banners and demonstrations; I’ve participated in my share of marches, but it was the tiny changes that the women around me made in their personal lives<br />
that spoke the loudest.<br />
<br />
Patricia and I learned early on from auditioning male musicians that every one of them thought they were the next Jimi Hendrix or another Keith Moon. While most of the women we auditioned apologized in advance for not being very good, all the males wielded their axes with a bravado that seemed like second nature to them. Even the lamest male guitarist would talk up his skills, acting cocky and confident while the women underplayed their experience. After a bit of this, Patricia and I learned to adapt. We figured that when people wrote reviews about the band, they mentioned the two of us more often than they mentioned the guys. This gave us confidence and after awhile, we learned to do away with the modesty. It felt great to be able to say, “I’m a musician” without feeling the need to tack on an apology.<br />
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Changing the way we spoke about ourselves as musicians and artists was like tossing tiny pebbles into a sea of conformity, making ripples, making waves, bringing about change that starts from within and spills out into the lives of those around us. The words were so powerful that the more often we said them, the truer they became. Now, when we stepped on the stage we weren’t asking for approval, we were flaunting our talent.Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-2327589382941517052011-10-07T10:46:00.001-07:002011-10-07T10:47:31.479-07:00Violence Girl, From East LA Rage to Hollywood Stage - Review<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/N3ilElOoQQM" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
Five Star Amazon review of Violence Girl!<br />
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"Read this book, it will open your eyes."<br />
<blockquote>"This is an autobiography unlike any other..not selectively choosing only the flattering memories to tell the reader, but rather openly, willingly, painfully at times & with great humility Alice's recollections are conveyed. As a woman who was part of the same music scene a few years already into her genesis as a frontwoman for the Bags, I am humbled to have shared the intimate details of just how this woman put HERSELF up front. There is a constant thread throughout this book...it is one of hopefulness & truth. The lessons in futility become the fuel for this formidable female who realized her value emanated from within not from the external view..there is great beauty in this book, even within the violent times painful as they must have been. This is a story for everyone..about growing up, rising up, surviving, finding your voice & healing your heart through your own actions. Inspiring, interesting, funny & powerful define this book....these same traits describe the Author. Get this, share it with your daughters. Empowering." - Nancy Sheets, 10/2011 </blockquote>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-90823210553901453312011-10-02T12:53:00.000-07:002011-10-02T12:53:42.115-07:00Violence Girl Trailer<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/N3ilElOoQQM" width="560"></iframe><br />
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Music video trailer for Violence Girl, From East LA Rage to Hollywood Stage - A Chicana Punk Story by Alice Bag. Published by Feral House. This video features elements, themes and images from Alice Bag's memoirAlice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-73852807798075860072011-08-30T21:37:00.000-07:002011-08-30T21:37:24.446-07:00Violence Girl Available for Pre-Order<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vSoB-NCcoJc/Tl26IJSypuI/AAAAAAAAAKM/5xa7d67TsYs/s1600/Violence_Girl_cover_front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vSoB-NCcoJc/Tl26IJSypuI/AAAAAAAAAKM/5xa7d67TsYs/s640/Violence_Girl_cover_front.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-60773833883010277922011-08-23T22:00:00.000-07:002011-08-23T22:00:13.113-07:00Fruits of the Recycler and Cart Before The Horse<img src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51CRmuDqIJL._SS500_.jpg" /><br />
<br />
Geza X joins the Bags and Joe Nanini parades down Hollywood Blvd wearing nothing but a jockstrap and a shopping bag. Read excerpts from my soon to be released book, Violence Girl here.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Order your advance copy at a great discounted price here:<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Violence-Girl-L-Hollywood-Chicana/dp/1936239124/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1313545626&sr=8-1">PRE-ORDER VIOLENCE GIRL</a>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-75172311719401177702011-08-06T22:58:00.000-07:002011-08-07T16:19:09.026-07:00Bags - Live and Raw - 1978<blockquote>"Musically in keeping with the fundamentalist pick-up-guitar-and-go punk aesthetic, the Bags frequently trumped "melody" with raw, enraged emotion, speed and overall sound, more hallmarks of hardcore speed thrash; hence they anticipated and set the tone for <i>hardcore extremis </i>to follow." - Brendan Mullen, an excerpt from <i>On Surviving the Manimal and the Origins of US Hardcore.</i></blockquote>Here we have a bootleg recording of the Bags playing live in 1978, circulated for years by tape traders despite the nearly unlistenable sound quality. Intro, instrumental and Violence Girl. We've tried to clean it up as much as we could and present it here for your enjoyment.<br />
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<object height="81" width="100%"> <param name="movie" value="http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F20578963"></p><p></param></p><p><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></p><p></param></p><p><embed allowscriptaccess="always" height="81" src="http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F20578963" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="100%"></embed> </object> <a href="http://soundcloud.com/alicebag/bags-intro-and-violence-girl">Bags Intro and Violence Girl Live</a> by <a href="http://soundcloud.com/alicebag">alicebag</a>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-744650125183055312011-07-12T17:00:00.000-07:002011-07-12T17:00:32.809-07:00Downward SpiralAn excerpt from Violence Girl - scheduled to be released in Fall 2011 on Feral House. Enjoy...<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The Dilaudid tablets simmered and dissolved into a couple drops of water in the spoon. The flame had to be moved around under it to distribute the heat evenly. Sheila and Shannon watched hungrily, like ravenous vampires waiting to feed. I had never seen the process so I was curious, but I wasn’t a fan of needles and wondered why anyone would want to stick something in a syringe and poke themselves when they could just as easily swallow a little tablet. The girls tied off their arms, filled the syringe and, pausing only to wipe the needle with another ball of cotton, shared the mixture.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">“Do you want some, Alice?” asked Shannon in her deep Garbo voice. She seemed to be having an orgasm; her head rolled back, eyes semi-closed. She reclined on the toilet seat and let the wall hold her up. Sheila sat on the edge of the bathtub. She smiled like a satisfied cat, her head tilted downward, looking up at me with seductive eyes:<span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">“Try it Alice. It’s sooooo gooood.”<span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">“No thanks,” I said, offering a pained smile. “More for you, right?”<span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Sheila finished off the contents of the syringe.<em> </em><span>“<em>Riiiight</em>,”</span><span> </span>she purred.<span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span><img src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lo7iplM7Nz1qjsg68.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I have to admit that I was afraid of intravenous drugs. It was a time before we knew about HIV/AIDS, but images of Diana Ross as Billie Holiday in<span> </span><em>Lady Sings the Blues</em><span> </span>came to mind. I remembered the feeling of disgust when I’d seen the part of the movie where she’s fixing heroin, and I thought,<span> </span><em>So much talent… what a waste.</em><span></span>I guess I imagined that because my choice of drug was legal, it must be less destructive. I took a sip from the can of Dr Pepper that I had spiked with rum and walked out of the bathroom, leaving my two friends together with their new lover.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Dilaudid and Percodan were the new heartthrobs in town, seducing many of my friends. The stray Quaalude still found its way into the Canterbury from time to time, but, like last month’s boyfriend, nobody else was that interested so I sometimes got them. I didn’t mind taking an occasional pill or tablet. I never paid for drugs — booze, sometimes; drugs, never. I was in a band, after all, and we were playing again. Fans offered me drugs as gifts, but I was never a big fan of drugs. I had been a sickly kid and had hated swallowing medicine or getting shots at the doctor’s office. It was also easier to drink than to go through the whole circus of buying drugs. The clubs gave band members drink tickets or drink tabs, and the Whisky had a punk soft-drink menu designed for the teens who usually made up the bulk of our audiences. The punk menu included a drink named after me. The bartenders there always comped me the pineapple juice and lime concoction whether I was playing or not, adding a splash of rum to create what they called the Real Alice Bag cocktail. And if my favorite bartenders (who served up the Real Alice Bag) weren’t working, I could usually convince someone to buy me a pint of rum at the liquor store across the street.</div><div style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><img src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lo7is5yaT11qjsg68.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I was underage, so I still had to talk someone into actually buying the stuff. I had once tried to buy a pint of Bacardi Light at the liquor store nearest the Whisky, a place next door to a club called Filthy McNasty’s. When I asked for the bottle, a young man working at the register looked me over before grabbing the bottle and putting it on the counter. He was about to ring me up when an older man walked up behind him. “She’s not 21.” His eyes bore into me, and as he denounced me I felt myself getting jittery. “What year were you born?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><em>No mister, please don’t make me do math!</em> I thought to myself. I wanted to add two years to my age, so I quickly added two years to my real birth year. “1960,” I replied. The man laughed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">“Go back to high school, kid,” he said, picking up the bottle and putting it back on the shelf. I stared at him, feeling stupid. “Go take some math classes!” he cackled. I don’t think I ever lied about my age again after that, not because I was opposed to being dishonest, it was just too difficult to keep the numbers straight.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong><em><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">An excerpt from Violence Girl – a book by Alice Bag, to be published Fall 2011 on Feral House. Copyright 2010, Alice Bag. A</span></span></em></strong><strong><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">ll rights reserved – excerpt provided for promotional/editorial purposes only and may </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6e7173;">not be reproduced in print without the express written consent of the author</span></em></strong></div>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-41479298148722164652011-02-20T18:51:00.000-08:002011-02-20T18:51:43.617-08:00Women Who RockI had the opportunity to attend the <a href="http://womenwhorockresearchproject.wordpress.com/">Women Who Rock conference</a> this weekend in Seattle, hosted by both the University of Washington and Seattle University. My old friend, Quetzal Flores invited me to be part of a panel who would attend the workshops and then lead a discussion in a general session. Although I had never done anything like this before, I was excited to be included and I looked forward to being in the company of so many dynamic women. I met archivists, writers, artists, musicians, dancers, scholars, community activists, students and filmmakers, all interested in voicing and listening to what women and especially women of color, had to say about a wide variety of topics. These topics ranged from how to build community through music to ways in which we can assert our reproductive rights, concerns about stereotypes, how to empower young girls, gender and transgender inequality, gaining and disseminating historical perspective.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m5VS3DJvcGc/TWHTIo0RjnI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/RPR__nTTx-g/s1600/wwr_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m5VS3DJvcGc/TWHTIo0RjnI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/RPR__nTTx-g/s320/wwr_sm.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br />
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From keynote speaker to closing, the participants were embraced by a palpable feminist energy that felt assertive, determined and mature. Ideas were like ripe fruit harvested from the trees that our sisters before us had planted many years ago. I had the feeling that the seeds had been lying dormant, but on fertile ground. The soil had thawed. We had endured the cold negation of the term "feminist" over the years and now here it was again, bearing fruit to nourish our souls.<br />
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For me, the conference was exciting, emotional and above all, inspiring. It reminded me of all the work that is yet to be done and it made me feel that I, along with the other people in the room, had the power to do that work.Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-81293271659310853422011-02-08T20:16:00.000-08:002011-02-08T20:16:08.969-08:00A Valentine to My Fave Bad-Ass Girls - StarbuckThe next stem in my Valentine's bouquet of bad-ass women is dedicated to a character so fucking tough that not even death could beat her. Yes, I'm talking about the intensely physical, dangerous, but still sexy Viper pilot Kara Thrace, aka Starbuck (played by Katee Sackhoff) from the Syfy series Battlestar Galactica (a show which had several amazing roles for women, I might add.)<br />
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In the original 1970's Battlestar Galactica television show, the rough and ready Starfighter pilot role of Starbuck was played by a male actor. The Syfy show producers took a chance and re-wrote the character for a female lead and in so doing, they created a bad-ass icon for the next millenium.<br />
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Check out Starbuck frakkin' shit up in this video compilation with music by Peaches.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tvS0Yk1KQkQ" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-45951617736740968932011-02-06T10:46:00.000-08:002011-02-06T10:52:07.935-08:00A Valentine to My Favorite Bad-Ass GirlsThe recent passing of Tura Satana got me thinking about my celluloid heroines, those bad-ass women who take no prisoners. A woman with a good left hook will always find a place in my heart.<br />
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Too often, we allow ourselves to believe that the world is a civilized place. It is not. I have always been inspired by heroines who defy the stereotype of frail femininity. At a subconscious level, they tell us that it is OK to hit back, to defend ourselves.<br />
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There is an ancient proverb that says “every rose has its thorns.” Generally, this is interpreted to mean that even things (or people) which appear to be perfect also have flaws, only I don’t agree that the thorn is a flaw. The thorn performs the vital function of protecting the rose. We women need to find our thorns.<br />
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When my stepdaughters were little, we showed them the martial arts film <i>The Heroic Trio</i> starring three kick-ass women. When my daughter was 12, we watched Tura Satana in <i>Faster Pussycat Kill, Kill</i>. When my elderly aunt came to visit me from Mexico, we watched <i>The Long Kiss Goodnight </i>with Geena Davis in the role of a lethal assassin named Charlie Baltimore. These experiences are memorable for me because I had the feeling that we had shared in an unspoken conspiracy sparked by the guilty pleasure of watching the girl beat the guys, for once. The women in those movies are bad-ass, physically strong and unapologetically aggressive. They are roses who have found their thorns. <br />
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This month, I’d like to share my unabashed love for these heroines, fictional and real. Here’s the first stem in a Valentine's bouquet of my favorite roses.<br />
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Rest in peace, Tura Satana.<br />
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<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/R2xWMelRPGw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-20894296720225586112011-02-05T13:41:00.000-08:002011-02-05T13:46:52.296-08:00R.I.P. Tura Satana<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">I wanted to acknowledge the passing of the legendary Tura Satana with a blog posting. There is nothing I can add to her own story as told by Eric Kohn on his blog, <a href="http://blogs.indiewire.com/kohn/">Screen Rush,</a> which I am reposting here. </div><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JaDkAspii9E" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe><br />
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<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;"><br />
</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;"><br />
</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">Tura Satana, born Tura Luna Pascual Yamaguchi, July 10, 1935, in Hokkaido, Japan, grew up in an Italian, Jewish, Polish neighborhood on the west side of Chicago, IL after her family were released from the Manzanar relocation camp for Japanese-Americans after the war. Asians didn’t mix well in the neighborhood and Tura found herself constantly fighting with the African-American girls on her way to and from school, skills that would serve her throughout her life. At age nine an a half Tura was brutalized and raped by five boys from the neighborhood. She then formed a girl gang with her Italian, Jewish, and Polish girlfriends called the Angels. After her parents placed her with an abusive uncle, Tura walked away to start her own life, becoming a cigarette girl at the Moulin Rouge on Hollywood Boulevard.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">By age 15 she was a burlesque dancer with a fake ID. She was discovered by Turk Prujan who hired Tura for his Trocadero nightclub, also on Sunset. She also earned money modeling, becoming a favorite of famed actor Harold Lloyd, with results printed in Harold Lloyd’s Hollywood Nudes in 3-D. During her tour in New Orleans, Tura performed down the street from Lili St. Cyr before working for Harold Minsky, who was married to Lily’s sister. While performing in Chicago at the Follies Theater, Elvis Presley became infatuated and the two started an affair resulting in a marriage proposal. She declined, but kept the ring.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">While working the Follies Theater in Los Angeles, a Warner Brothers scout approached Tura and she earned her Guild card on Hawaiian Eye. Subsequent television roles including The Man from U.N.C.L.E., The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., and Burke’s Law. While working at the Pink Pussycat in West Hollywood, Billy Wilder and his wife came in one night and enraptured with Tura’s performance realized they had finally found the girl to play Suzette Wong in the Shirley Maclaine-starring Irma La Douce. Tura’s performance earned her additional roles as the nightclub dancer in Dean Martin’s Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed? and the job of Carol Burnett’s choreographer for the film.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">Tura earned her most visible role while performing in Irma La Douce. She got a call from her agent to come read for Russ Meyeer. She didn’t have time to change so she showed up in the wedding dress she was wearing for Irma La Douce. Russ handed her the script for “Leather Girls,” the original title of Faster, Pussycat! Kill Kill! and asked how she would play her. Tura replied, “I’d make her kind of feminine, but also a bitch on wheels.” After her cold reading Russ told her, “You are definitely Varla.”</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">Ted V. Mikels gave Tura two more classic roles in Astro-Zombies, and Charlie’s Angels precursor The Doll Squad, where she starred alongside Francine York and Michael Ansara.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">Deciding to spend her time raising her two daughters, Tura left show biz and returned to her nursing career which she first studied while in high school, and continued to go to nursing school while dancing. One nigh, a druggie who had been turned in to the police by one of the doctors came looking for him and shot Tura twice but only hit her once, in the stomach. In 1981 she was hit by a driver without a license, heading at her at 60 miles per hour in a 25 mph zone. She spent two years in the hospital. They told her she would never walk again but she told the doctor, “Not only will I walk again, doc, but I’m going to do everything else I used to do.” She made that promise shy of her martial arts moves.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">When I interviewed her, I asked her if she had any words to live by. “One of the things that I always said, and it was one of my father’s favorite sayings, ‘Always be good to the people on the way up, because you’re going to meet them on the way down.’ I have always lived by that philosophy.<br />
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“The one thing you’ve got to remember is that you just never accept defeat. Remember to never let life get you down, because there is always something new to learn tomorrow. Life is to be lived, and lived well.”</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #FFFFFF; display: block; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 500px;">Tura Satana passed away February 4, 2011, in Reno, NV.</div>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-6064046152292519512011-02-01T08:32:00.000-08:002011-02-01T08:33:28.196-08:00Violence Girl on FacebookJust a quick update to let you know that I'll be doing most of my updates and interaction for Violence Girl on the official Facebook page for the book, which you can reach by clicking the link below. We've already posted a few videos there. It is a great venue for discussion and sharing and I encourage you to join the Violence Girl community by "liking" the Violence Girl Facebook page.<br />
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Thank you!<br />
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Violence-Girl/142878472438474">Click Here for the Official Violence Girl Page on Facebook</a>Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-33877524359179233222011-01-31T08:35:00.000-08:002011-01-31T11:11:47.340-08:00Who Is Violence Girl?I'm very excited to announce that Feral House is in the final editing and layout stages of my book, which is tentatively entitled "Violence Girl - From East LA Rage to Hollywood Stage, a Chicana Punk Story." Stay tuned to this page and the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Violence-Girl/142878472438474?v=wall">official Violence Girl Facebook page</a> for personal appearances and other projects leading up to the release date.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mfE-acDwqwc/TUbjhpYKx7I/AAAAAAAAAII/iRGnPAqk4G8/s1600/ab2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mfE-acDwqwc/TUbjhpYKx7I/AAAAAAAAAII/iRGnPAqk4G8/s320/ab2.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>I am also kicking off a web campaign to encourage females to share their stories, music and art - I encourage you to unleash your inner Violence Girl. More details to follow on this project.<br />
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In the meantime, here is a <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=28359&id=142878472438474">small sampling of photos</a> from the book to whet your appetite.<br />
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Thanks for your support and spread the word!Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-17692122377683871492009-08-06T13:25:00.000-07:002009-08-06T13:28:01.804-07:00Violence Girl NewsJust a quick note to let fans of Violence Girl know that I have signed a publishing deal with <a href="http://feralhouse.com/">Feral House</a> to release a book edition of True Life Adventures of Violence Girl (working title). Yay!!<br /><br />That's all for now, more news as it comes...Alice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6620395108543166162.post-92124022217241866672009-05-03T19:10:00.000-07:002009-05-03T19:13:21.614-07:00Update for Followers of Violence GirlDear readers of Violence Girl,<br /><br />Violence Girl is being edited and we hope it will resurface in a different format soon. In the meantime, please visit my regular blog at <a href="http://www.alicebag.blogspot.com/">www.alicebag.blogspot.com</a> to keep up with my writing (if you wish) and/or follow me on Twitter. <a href="http://www.twitter.com/alicebag">www.twitter.com/alicebag</a><br /><br />Thanks again,<br /><br />AliceAlice Baghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697810636017503496noreply@blogger.com2