*"I once rode a hippopotamus with a crocodile saddle,” declares Kim Fowley, who resembles a steroid-pumped giraffe on rollerskates, a waif-like, real-life Irish-American Frankenstein’s monster. “The hippo got a hard-on, but it didn’t move too much as a girl started masturbating it – all to the sound of the band playing and people laughing.”


The underground record producer, publisher, songwriter, publicist, talent scout, occasional recording artist and legendary scenester is regaling us with his tales of heady nights at hedonistic Hollywood parties. Makes sense, as we are currently perched outside the Rage club on Santa Monica Boulevard for the birthday celebrations of another party monster, James St James.