“ h man, I’m seeing... cartoon characters!” Stanton LaVey is on the phone, but he sounds shaky, like a voice on a sun-warped cassette tape. It’s 10 A.M., rather early in the morning to be hallucinating, but apparently he’s on a bad trip against his will. “Oh shit, I think somebody slipped me some mushrooms. Have you ever woken up and started hallucinating? Is that bad?” It’s the ugly tail end of an all-nighter. LaVey is trying his best to be coherent, but it’s not working. “Shit, I’ve got to take some medicine or something.” Click. Bummer. I’ve been trying to get ahold of LaVey for a week or so, and when I finally reach him, he’s having a tea party with Woody Woodpecker and Elmer Fudd. A phone call with Stanton LaVey can’t be a blown opportunity; it’s kind of like using up your one call in jail. It’s gonna be awhile before we hook up again, I just know it.
Fully recovered from his bad trip, LaVey calls a week later. This is one Angeleno whose demeanor doesn’t exactly scream, “Let’s do lunch,” but here he is scarfing down a sandwich at a Venice, California café, feeling spry and hale even if he looks like the Angel of Death. He had a rowdy night with Hollie Stevens, a star of porn videos—clown-porn videos—so it’s a good kind of tired. “She wears me out, dude,” he says. “I mean, dude, I’m in good shape, but I can only go for so long!”
The 30-year-old LaVey looks terrifying today, but then he always does. He’s tall—six-four—with a shaved head, sallow cheeks, meticulous Vandyke, and piercing blue eyes that are usually shielded by wraparound shades. He’s wearing black from head to toe, covering a giant LUCIFER tattoo emblazoned across his chest and twin lightning bolts that ripple across his rib cage. Even in a city that breeds freaks as plentifully as it does pool algae, LaVey draws stares.
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