Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Another Anniversary
It was 22 years ago today when I first met Jenny. I must confess that my memory of that day is fairly fuzzy, most of which I will blame on the opium. It is a bit of a strange story to tell, chronolgically speaking. Lets just say that it started on a sunny Saturday afternoon, 6/15/87, in Ventura. Back to that momentarily. So six weeks later I find myself in the parking lot of Anaheim stadium floating before the Dylan/Dead show. This number with long brown hair walks up to me and says "Hi Paul". The mental rolodex starts flipping. For any younger readers that is manual version of todays PDA's. With a little cajoling my memory kicked in.
"Hey how you doin'?"
"Great. My band is going to be playing at the Roxy in a couple weeks. Why don't you come down?"
"Sure."
"Cool."
We parted ways until the nite of her show. I must say she could have used a better band. She had a good voice, but beyond that, she could gyrate like Janis. After the show she said that she'd be up in my neck of the woods in a few weeks, maybe we could get together. 'Yeah, alright". Well as predictably unpredictable as I was at that time I got a little lost and missed her. However, in my absence Ol' Jack Hyman ran into her and she relayed the story of how we met. With her recollection being better, and a different perspective this is the story that she related to him:
It was between sets and I was standing behind a chain link fence off to the side of the stage. I was tripping and getting a lot of negative feedback from people. I looked out and saw paul sitting on his sleeping bag (I was about 15 feet out, center stage). He looked at me and with his finger gestured for me to join him. (Hows that for cool? Take that Fonzie) We sat there thru most of the set not saying a word, just looking at each other. When they played Morning Dew we both started to cry. After the show we spent the nite together on the beach. In the morning we parted ways.
The next day I dropped some more acid, hit the show, then hitched home. Needless to say it was a great weekend, but that saturday story is just too good to let go.Where ever she is I hope she enjoys telling this tale of her youth to her friends, maybe even her children. Who knows, maybe some day I'll hit a Dylan show in LA and see if Once Upon A Time truely does end Happily Ever after.
"Hey how you doin'?"
"Great. My band is going to be playing at the Roxy in a couple weeks. Why don't you come down?"
"Sure."
"Cool."
We parted ways until the nite of her show. I must say she could have used a better band. She had a good voice, but beyond that, she could gyrate like Janis. After the show she said that she'd be up in my neck of the woods in a few weeks, maybe we could get together. 'Yeah, alright". Well as predictably unpredictable as I was at that time I got a little lost and missed her. However, in my absence Ol' Jack Hyman ran into her and she relayed the story of how we met. With her recollection being better, and a different perspective this is the story that she related to him:
It was between sets and I was standing behind a chain link fence off to the side of the stage. I was tripping and getting a lot of negative feedback from people. I looked out and saw paul sitting on his sleeping bag (I was about 15 feet out, center stage). He looked at me and with his finger gestured for me to join him. (Hows that for cool? Take that Fonzie) We sat there thru most of the set not saying a word, just looking at each other. When they played Morning Dew we both started to cry. After the show we spent the nite together on the beach. In the morning we parted ways.
The next day I dropped some more acid, hit the show, then hitched home. Needless to say it was a great weekend, but that saturday story is just too good to let go.Where ever she is I hope she enjoys telling this tale of her youth to her friends, maybe even her children. Who knows, maybe some day I'll hit a Dylan show in LA and see if Once Upon A Time truely does end Happily Ever after.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
She said...
I stood next to her as she peered down thru a veil of tears at the chalk outline on the pavement. The drops hit the cement like ink from the nib of a fountain pen dripping on the parchment. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing when I looked over at her. The mascara that had streamed down her face left her looking like Alice Cooper. I could hear "Welcome to My Nitemare" emanating from her cranium. It was then that I heard her mutter between sobs, in Greek the only language that she knew. She said, oh God, it still tugs at my heart strings. She, she mumbled "phi beta kappa" which loosely translates to "I would have loved him anyways". As she said it she spewed out a mix of mucous and baklava. A piece landed on my forearm. Not wanting to be rude I pretended not to notice. The more I ignored the more it bored into my flesh and burn into my blood stream. Trying to forget about it I stared down at the outline.
Something wasn't right. The blood stain showed the entry wound to be on the right hand side. The chalk drawing depicted that a gun had been held in his right hand. But he was left handed! His strength was in his right, but dexterity in his left. I learned this the hard way. I walked in one day to see him sitting at the end of the bar. The bartender told me he had been there for eight hours. He had started the day sullen and worked his way to surly. I suppose that is what eight hours of nonstop thinking will do to a man. I walked up and said "Hello old chap" only to be greeted with a right hook. From that day on I have wondered two things. First, how can some one think for eight solid hours and land a punch so squarely on the jaw? Second, will I ever be able to blow bubbles again? My suspicions were to grow even more when I saw the crime scene photos. He wasn't smiling. Had he done himself in he would have done so with a smile just to give us cause for thought. He oftened smiled for no apparent reason to those outside of his head. But back to the present.
I looked over again at her tear stained face wondering if she was masking her emotions. Were those actually tears of joy being camoflauged with sobs? My head was reeling. I was overwhelmed with theories. I was starting to sweat and needed to sit. I directed her to a near by bench. As I sat down on her lap passers by stared in wide eyed wonderment. Some made comments such as "Peter Ustinov is trying to eat Audrey Hepburn". There were multiple Mr Peanut and Colonel Klink mockings. In this day and age of tolerance one is not free to use a monacle. It was not as if I was a bear on a unicycle wearing a fez. Noting my discomfort she invited me to her home in Palisades.
It was a sprawling estate with the main house, guest house and pool spead out over two acres. Very park like with topiary trees in the shape of old time actors. She directed me to the pool as she went in to get lemonade. She came out wearing one of those new fangled bathing suits that revealed the entire calf and foot, and the peg at the end of the other leg. Her arms were bare from the shoulders down. As she approached the only option I had to disguise my excitement was to jump into the pool. "Semper Fi?" she queried. Not being up on my Greek I figured she was either asking if I liked sushi, or if I always swam in my clothes. I laughed a nervous laugh and said yes. She walked over and cranked up the Victrolla. It played Little Feats "Fat Man In the Bathtub". Edison was mocking me. I vowed on that day to collaborate on a song with Johnny Cash called "A Girl Named Alva".
She walked over to the edge of the pool and extended a glass of lemonade to me. As I stepped out she put her hand on my shoulder, leaned in and whispered in my ears those three little words that to this day sends shivers down my spine. She said "Phi Beta Kappa". I would have loved him anyways.
The above is an excerpt from THE TRINI LOPEZ DIARIES
Actually where it all came from I really don't know.
Something wasn't right. The blood stain showed the entry wound to be on the right hand side. The chalk drawing depicted that a gun had been held in his right hand. But he was left handed! His strength was in his right, but dexterity in his left. I learned this the hard way. I walked in one day to see him sitting at the end of the bar. The bartender told me he had been there for eight hours. He had started the day sullen and worked his way to surly. I suppose that is what eight hours of nonstop thinking will do to a man. I walked up and said "Hello old chap" only to be greeted with a right hook. From that day on I have wondered two things. First, how can some one think for eight solid hours and land a punch so squarely on the jaw? Second, will I ever be able to blow bubbles again? My suspicions were to grow even more when I saw the crime scene photos. He wasn't smiling. Had he done himself in he would have done so with a smile just to give us cause for thought. He oftened smiled for no apparent reason to those outside of his head. But back to the present.
I looked over again at her tear stained face wondering if she was masking her emotions. Were those actually tears of joy being camoflauged with sobs? My head was reeling. I was overwhelmed with theories. I was starting to sweat and needed to sit. I directed her to a near by bench. As I sat down on her lap passers by stared in wide eyed wonderment. Some made comments such as "Peter Ustinov is trying to eat Audrey Hepburn". There were multiple Mr Peanut and Colonel Klink mockings. In this day and age of tolerance one is not free to use a monacle. It was not as if I was a bear on a unicycle wearing a fez. Noting my discomfort she invited me to her home in Palisades.
It was a sprawling estate with the main house, guest house and pool spead out over two acres. Very park like with topiary trees in the shape of old time actors. She directed me to the pool as she went in to get lemonade. She came out wearing one of those new fangled bathing suits that revealed the entire calf and foot, and the peg at the end of the other leg. Her arms were bare from the shoulders down. As she approached the only option I had to disguise my excitement was to jump into the pool. "Semper Fi?" she queried. Not being up on my Greek I figured she was either asking if I liked sushi, or if I always swam in my clothes. I laughed a nervous laugh and said yes. She walked over and cranked up the Victrolla. It played Little Feats "Fat Man In the Bathtub". Edison was mocking me. I vowed on that day to collaborate on a song with Johnny Cash called "A Girl Named Alva".
She walked over to the edge of the pool and extended a glass of lemonade to me. As I stepped out she put her hand on my shoulder, leaned in and whispered in my ears those three little words that to this day sends shivers down my spine. She said "Phi Beta Kappa". I would have loved him anyways.
The above is an excerpt from THE TRINI LOPEZ DIARIES
Actually where it all came from I really don't know.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Closing in on 40 years
Not myself, the so called Helter Skelter murders. As for me closing in on 44 altho I don't even feel 34. Mostly 28, but thats besides the point. Yes forty years on Aug 9. If memory serves me well that will also be my brothers 12th anniversary. Again, besides the point. 40 years and yet the truth has yet to come out. Everyone from Doris Tate to Charlie (Except Vincent Bugliosi) knows that "Helter Skelter" was not the real motive behind the killings. Even Susan Atkins who has a relatively new ebook on her website now admits it. I believe this is her fourth rendition of the tale. Again she points fingers, belittles Charlie, and lightens her own burden of guilt. However, if you would like some interesting reading about the cases and those involved I suggest you check out www.beausoleil.net It is a wedsite by and about Bobby Beausoleil in which he answers people questions about his music, art, and of course the crimes. Very informative and forth right. So far he is the only one connected with the various murders of the summer of '69 who takes all the blame for himself. No excuses. None of "the devil made me do it" sympathy seeking. Even if you're not interested in the crimes, the dialogue is a great study of homan nature. After you read it I am sure you will agree with me that the young, now mature man has paid his dues and turned things around. With the same candor that he responds to readers emails I must say FREE BOBBY BEAUSOLEIL!
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