"Mom's afraid of the dark"

The living room could be anyone’s. A cheerful, grey-haired grandmother tries to coax her tiny grandson into a state of slumber. An older blonde boy sprawls on the couch and watches a re-run of Hee-Haw. Upstairs, a little girl patters about unseen. It’s Los Angeles’ answer to suburban Long Island. I sit in the comer, loading my tape recorder, awaiting the subject of this interview. Ozzie Nelson? Glen Campbell? Gerry Ford?

Nope. Frank Zappa.

As I slide the tape cartridge into the sputtering Sony, I try to envision Zappa’s entrance. This has to be some sort of set up. Being a fan of Frank’s for ten years, I just KNOW he’ll do something bizarre. Maybe he’ll throw up on the carpet. Or carry in a large stuffed giraffe with a likeness of Jimmy Carl Black strapped on its back. Or burn a carrot on a cross.

“Frank’s on his way here now,” Grandma Zappa smiles sweetly while trying t£> burp her tiny ward. “His photo session ran a little longer than scheduled.”