Los Angeles

Steven Shearer

Blum & Poe | Los Angeles

In seventh grade, when whip-sexy Butch Lauer informed me that Kiss had really wanted to call themselves “Albatross Shit,” I thought I had finally made it. Despite never having been a big Kiss fan, I’ve never not remembered the band’s secret name and the guy who clued me in; and when my eye fell on an adorable snapshot of Steven Shearer beaming in full regalia (black-and-white makeup, Klingonlike costume) amid the long wall of photos and photocopies that make up Scrap #2, 2003, I felt punch-drunk love. (Has anyone come to terms with what’s cauterized—a psychic as well as libidinal branding/staunching—during adolescence through response to culture [all kinds]?) Another photo from Scrap #2: three stacked Black Sabbath 8-tracks (red 8-track on top of black on top of white), titled Masters of Reality, Sabotage, and We Sold Our Souls for Rock ’N’ Roll. When Shearer’s portrait and Sabbath 8-tracks

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