Legend of the 20th Century Weirdo
The best of our 20th century weirdos are dying, if not already dead. It’s worth taking a moment to feel the devastation of this.
Rock and roll was born in 1940s America. Hip hop in the mid-80s. Films with sound began in the 20s. Films with color in 30s. The first recognizably modern comic book was published in the 30s. Gonzo journalism in the 70s.
Jesus—it’s fair to think—what art forms still popular with the masses today didn’t get created in the past 100 years?
There’s a lot to be said about the passing of great artists of the 20th century. But a lot has already been written about that. Much less attention is paid to the passing of the 20th century weirdo whose identity revolved entirely around the art, music, and politics of the past century.
It might seem like a small thing, to lose such weirdos, unless you’ve met one yourself. I’ve met a few. Most memorably, a guy named Frank Andrick. A longtime local poet in Sacramento, CA, Frank was best known to appear at café poetry readings to ironically read a poem titled “Frank Andrick Is a Name-Dropping Whore.”
He did indeed name-drop a lot. Almost incessantly. “When I hosted a radio show in the Bay Area with Patti Smith…” he’d say, launching into a story about hippies and rock music. “Did I ever tell you about the time Ozzy Osborne tried to steal my Aleister Crowley coke spoon?” he’d ask randomly to a roomful of blitzed musicians after a show.
One time I had the chance to interview Frank about hanging out with Kurt Cobain in San Francisco. In the interview, I put together a few details about how he came to know so many cultural icons. During the 80s and 90s, Frank worked as a DJ in the Bay Area and he also had some type of job with A&M Records. Hanging out with rock stars was all part of a day’s work, it seemed. “It was still possible to just talk to people back in those days,” Frank told me casually.
But Frank’s name-dropping was never off-putting in the slightest. Rather, it was his most authentic state of being. It was his way of sharing his lifetime accumulation of treasures with the world. That’s what these stories were to him: treasures to share.
The result was to enrich those who had the good fortune of knowing him. He made the artists of the 20th century seem accessible, while still remaining godlike. He also added to their mythology by inserting himself into their lives in the most unusual ways. Meanwhile, due to his extreme weirdness—a pleasant side-effect of a life overloaded with art and drugs—he cultivated his own mythology.
Frank was the last of the Knights Templar. That’s how weird he was. I’d say more if I had a clue what this meant. A book on Frank’s mythology might explain it. That book has yet to be written—but it could be.
I haven’t seen Frank for several years. He’s had a monumental slew of health issues since I’ve known him. I never expected anything but for Frank to prove himself immortal—but, really, it was only a matter of time. Last week, I learned through a friend that Frank had died.
Social media has seen an outpouring of sadness over his death, often with illusions to art and culture. Two such comments reads:
“RIP, Frank. We see you up there with Baudelaire and your Egyptian Goddesses and all your favorite kitties, enjoying a bottle of absinthe and swapping stories. When Gene Bloom swings by for a bowl, tell him we said hi. XOXO” – Kimberly White
“I am extremely privileged to have known Frank as intimately as I did, and I haven’t and probably will not ever know another mind and spirit like Frank possessed. A true Renaissance man, maverick, spiritual seeker, mystic, storyteller, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.” – Sam Eliot
The transhumanist community—which is ideologically anti-death—believes we should treat death as a disease and do anything we can to stop it. One particular concept from this community always gives me pause: each human brain is a unique library of information. If this concept is aptly applied to anyone, it’s Frank, for sure.
Frank’s library (his mind) was inconceivably weird and glorious. And therein lies the element of devastation. It’s sad and tragic to lose a person. But to lose the Library of Alexandria, or any of its equivalents, is devastating.
Just as Frank has passed, and his library has gone away, so are libraries of this same cultural variety going away every day. We’re losing the libraries of 20th century weirdos. We can’t stop it. But we can, at least, take a moment to reflect on what it means for humanity and for culture going forward.
Long live the mythology of the man and his library.