Shaved Heads and Pop-Tarts

Almost every night at 10, you’ll find heavy-metal rock ‘n’ rollers with long hair, pierced noses, tattoos, biker boots and leather jackets cruising the aisles of the Hollywood Ralphs on Sunset.

It’s not how you’d envision a rocker’s natural habitat, but even headbangers have to eat. Sure, any 7-Eleven will do when you have a craving for beef jerky and Junior Mints, but metalheads do not live by preserved meat and candy alone.

So in Hollywood, the grocery store of choice has been dubbed Rock ‘N’ Roll Ralphs. It’s a hulking structure on the east end of the strip, near Poinsettia, a few minutes’ drive to such rock clubs as Gazzari’s, the Roxy and Coconut Teaszer.

At the clubs, the long hair, tatts and motorcycles belong. Seeing those same people at Ralphs is a case of when worlds collide, a surrealistic blend of shaved heads, Pop-Tarts and Muzak, where baskets contain generic corn flakes and Metal Edge magazine and punkers share the space with more mainstream types.

On a Thursday night in the liquor aisle, a woman hoists a large bottle of whiskey and hands it to her male companion. She is barely in her 20s. She wears Kabuki-ish makeup, her faced whited out and accented with bright pink lipstick and eye shadow; ; she has a small hoop in her pierced eyebrow. She wears a black and white polka-dot floppy hat, an old T-shirt, pink and black horizontal striped tights and pink boucle bike shorts. The man with her is yin to her yang--middle-aged, dressed in brown trousers and a plaid shirt. They disappear down the aisle.

Two young guys stand in front of the deli counter. One keeps combing his hand through his dark Pre-Raphaelite hair. They stare and stare at the selection of luncheon meats for several minutes before Mr. Hair says, “Uhhhhh . . . so d’you like pickle loaf?”

Two more rockers, one with long bleached blond hair, the other with long blue-black hair, lope on gangly legs to the bread aisle, where they pick up a few loaves, squeeze and then abandon the bread. They take two cookies from the bakery pantry and eat them.

A tall, skinny guy with a skull and crossbones T-shirt and black baseball cap with “Suicidal Tendencies” stitched on it rushes over to the frozen food section clutching a coupon. He looks furtively up and down the case until he finds a box of Nestle’s Crunch ice cream bars, grabs it, then picks up four six-packs of Coke and heads for the express line.

In the household aisle, a young woman with hair dyed to match her purple miniskirt methodically eats California rolls and contemplates extension cords.

Meanwhile, a touching scene is unfolding by the cat food. A man with chunky silver rings and biker boots crouches down and takes about 10 minutes to decide between the 9-Lives chicken and cheese and the tuna for his pampered pet.

It’s fair to say that most rockers who shop here aren’t stocking up for the long haul. They come for the essentials, what it’s going to take to get them through the night. The most frequently purchased items appear to be:

* Beer (usually 12-can packs in the cardboard carrying case)

* Water (gallon jugs)

* Luncheon meats

* Chips (tortilla, potato)

* Canned chili and soup

* Dried pasta

* Hamburger and hot dog buns

* Steak

* Pet food

Female rockers tend to make healthier choices, going for yogurt, fresh fruit, tuna and low-cholesterol margarine.

Even the wildest clubbies appear somehow tamed in this benign world of the grocery store. While they may spend every night in clubs, banging heads to Metallica, Megadeth and L7, here they’re entranced by the Zen-like calm.

Maybe it’s the flatness of the fluorescent lights, or the Muzak. It’s hard to get jumpy when a syrupy rendition of the already syrupy “Garden Party” plays over the loudspeakers, or when the Video Recipe of the Week offers tips on how to cook a pork tenderloin. (“Sprinkle with parsley and serve!”)

It’s an atmosphere that’s conducive to spending quantity time vacillating between hamburger dill chips and zesty bread-and-butter pickles. Faces go slack and eyes glaze over as the staggering number of choices renders people passive. Conversations rarely consist of anything more substantial than “Should we get the low-salt chips?” . . .