IT'S NEVER COLD IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

 

 I've taken an unedited chapter from my unpublished memoirs. It describes one of my memorable Christmas Eves in Los Angeles when I was in my very early 20's.

Every word of this is the raw truth. Could be offensive to some. I'm sorry for that.  Most every aspect of life is offensive.

Jon

An annual event was a very popular  Christmas Eve concert at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion at the Los Angeles Music Center. The concert began at 3:00 p.m. and lasted until 9:00 p.m. and the entire six hours were broadcast on live television. The musical participants came from schools, colleges, churchs, and other organizations.

Since I was a member of a chamber ensemble at Cypress College, I participated at the live concert. There was nothing spectacular with our group. Five instruments playing music by  baroque composers. Telemann, Corelli, Handel. I was accompaniest on piano. Should have been harpsichord, but I was subtle and soft-pedaled.

Performing on TV was no big deal. My nerves were reinforced by the hash that me and Randy the cellist were smoking beforehand. We did the same thing before two previous concerts we gave at UCLA.

Afterwards, backstage, I was stunned to receive a quick thank you from Dorothy Chandler herself. She was a legend back then, the main force that devised and built the Music Center. Wife of the L.A. Times publisher Norman Chandler.

After the concert, the L.A. night was like a cool glittering afterthought. My good clothes became a burden. My regular attire - corduroy coat, Stetson hat, Levis, boots - were in my car. I quickly changed in a gas station rest room.

Typical shoddy unkempt rest room. On the graffiti covered wall a condom vending machine. Above, a hand-painted sign proclaiming

JESUS LOVES YOU

Christmas Eve. What to do? The notorious City of Angels was all decked out with colored lights and sparkling holiday attire. A glittering facsimile of ancient Babylon. 

Unusually chilly in the place that's never cold. Walking back to my car, a spectacular sunset was glowing in the distance - - the sky a fiery sea of blood red in a surrealistic display.

Why did that sunset inflict me with sadness, emptiness, hollow loneliness? As the brilliant light slowly melted away, so did the spirit in my soul.

Perhaps because this night is Christmas Eve. Lonely, painfully lonely. Every one I know is busy with their families. Every one. 

My parents were in Las Vegas - - at the persistent invitation of Uncle Frank, my father's brother. My mother didn't want to go. Frank was obnoxious, boisterous, and usually trouble. Rich? Hell, yes. I knew firsthand the stories that he and his thriving New Jersey business were deeply entwined with the Jersey Mob. This got him into trouble later in life. I've seen things firsthand when I recently visited Jersey. I wouldn't dare say more.

Tonight I desperately wanted Greg. More than anyone. We would have definitely been together, if he hadn't been forced to spend Christmas with his parents in their posh mountain cabin at Big Bear. Nice to be wealthy.

The sunset is waning, as it vanished the night became unusually cold. Nearly 32 degrees Fahrenheit - - damn teeth - rattling cold in L.A.

Greg, a pianist like myself. Our secret ongoing torrid relationship was carefully kept from his ex-professional singer psycho mother, who did everything possible to thwart his sexual predilection. I have no doubt she would hire a hit man to oust me away from her son. My love for Gregory was fierce and undaunting. Nothing could come between us.

An incredibly ugly scene. She claimed he was insane. The police smashed down his bedroom door. He was dragged to some kind of an institution. This long-ago diabolical ploy didn't work. He was released in three days.....

I shuddered thinking about it in the cold.

Nothing can bannish true love. We valiantly fought the obstacles.

Merry Christmas, City of Tarnished Angels.

Downtown L.A. is a haphazard, tawdry, dangerous place to be - - even on Christmas Eve.

Got into my car. Headed to Hollywood.  Dangerous, of course. But I knew the place very well and always feel safe there - - despite the hustlers, hookers, muggers, druggies...... and ubiquitous vice cops. All imperative players part of the after-dark scene.

I drink an intruguing amount of Bacardi Rum in my car. It gives me the mellow high that I want. Better with Coca-Cola, but sufficiently effective without it.

Hollywood Boulevard. Shimmering and sparkling holiday decor. The annoying star struck tourists will soon diminish. Not too many tonight. Xmas Eve.

A kid, maybe sixteen, asks if I want to buy some Blue Blotter. LSD? Hell, no. I don't like hallucinogenics. I prefer to be in the familiar custody of 80 proof. Or 45. Whatever.  I have a handful of quaaludes in my pocket. And a small whiskey bottle that I occasionally swig.

I'm feeling pleasantly inebriated. The holiday decorations sprawl above Hollywood Boulevard, glittering and shivering in the cold breeze.

Goddamn the holidays. The most annoying and loneliest time of the year. That's when acute sentimentality accosts you.

Getting colder. The frigid dampness is fighting to get through my coat and start rattling my bones. A passerby said it's 32 degrees. Freezing mode. Almost unheard of in L.A.

Male hustlers are looking miserable and annoyed. They're anxiously waiting for some desperate tourist who will eagerly go into an alley with them, and pay 20 bucks for a quick.......whatever. 

Be on the lookout for the vice cops. Maybe not too many on a cold Christmas Eve. I escaped from them on numerous occasions in the past.

I'm remembering the notorious Drake Theater on Melrose. A hotbed of debauchery after dark. One of my regular haunts. Nude male dancers on stage (I knew one of them). Rampant illicit sex in the backrooms. 

One night, a massive police raid at the Drake....determined to arrest everyone. An incredible fluke of good fortune. Since I was only seated doing absolutely nothing illegal (a rarity) the cops let me go!

Just a fleeting memory. Vice cops. My vices were profound, but my record was clean.

The biting cold seemed to slowly eradicate the people wandering on the Boulevard. They eventually dwindled to nearly nothing. Nothing left but the hardcore creatures of the dark. A few shivering male hustlers, a few homeless victims sleeping in doorways until the cops kick them out. A few random wanderers, so intensely plied with drugs that they have no clue where they might be.

Merry Christmas, dark angels of the night. Sweet fallen angels who have descended into the abyss.

Raw, undiluted Life is the real abyss.

I saw him walking towards me, unexpectedly interrupting my thoughts. One of the lone, scarce night creatures on Hollywood Boulevard.

He looked at me before passing, and when he passed I glanced back and he stopped and walked up to me.

On only a brief surveillance, I assumed he was a decade older than myself. Long hair and a stylishly short beard gave him the appearance of a saint.

He drew a cigarette from his pocket.

"Have a light?" he asked. That was an old ploy. I gave him my book of matches. He lit his cigarette.

"It's a bad habit," he said.

"I have lots of bad habits," I replied, knowing he would understand the connotation.

"They're the greatest pleasures of life," he said.

We were walking together on the deserted  Hollywood walk of stars. Casually glancing in the unlighted windows of the closed shops.

We suddenly were in the dusky alcove of a bookstore. I tried to read the titles of books in the windows, but it was too dark.

Very unexpectedly, he tossed the cigarette, extinguished it with his foot, and kissed me - with impressive expertise.

"Wanna come to my place?" he asked. "It's warmer than here."

"Why not?" I heard my words like a distant admission.

And an instant flash went through my inebriated mind. 

I'm remembering the final scene of the German 1929 film Pandora's Box. Louise Brooks is a prostitute on the London streets. On Christmas Eve she invites a man into her shabby room. They light a candle. She sits on his lap. He holds mistletoe over her head, asks for a kiss. As she complies, he grabs a knife from the table....and murders her.

Just a fleeting thought on a lonely Christmas Eve.

"I live on Ivar," he said.

We headed east on Hollywood Boulevard, turned left on Ivar, going past the ancient Knickerbocker Hotel.

His place was in a run down apartment building, third floor. It was intriguingly warm in his living room- - no mistletoe...but a few haphazard strings of colored Christmas lights.

We smoked a couple of mild joints. It trasported me to a mellow, congenial distant realm. The Christmas lights assumed enormous preportions. The deep kisses were lingering intimacies of ecstasy. The moment transported us to other, more intimate realms.

Just before dawn, while he was sleeping, I dressed and quietly left. The cold dampness awakened my muddled, aching hangover.

As I walked to Gower, where my car was parked, the faint glow of dawn was rising in the east.

Among the apathetic drowsy palmtrees I saw traces of frost on shrubs and grass.

The world would assume an optimistic glimmer as the sun came up with reassuring warmth.

Merry Christmas, city of lost angels.

Jon, a chapter from my  memoirs

AN OPEN BOOK

A continuation of my previous post

Will my life ever be an open book?

I just discarded nearly 200 pages. No lie. It's in the trash. Attempting to write my memoirs is much more difficult than I thought.

I have no trouble coming up with spontaneous fluff for this blog. Excavating the deeply personal realms of one's life, however, isn't easy. Facing the raw truth can be an extremely jolting experience. Presenting it with honesty and objectivity is more than a challenge.

Piecing together the fragments of a massive puzzle and presenting the result with a semblance of coherence and credulity is a near impossibility.

And perhaps most important is this:
since I completely baffle myself most of the time, how is it possible to convey a plausible self-portrait to others?

My thought process and writing skills aren't that advanced.

There's one thing I've decided for certain:
My memoirs will have to be in two volumes. I not only have a lot to tell, it needs to be divided into two separate realms - innocence and debauchery.

The first book will cover my childhood years, probably through high school.
The second will recount my post-adolescence descent into hell.

One staggering (not to mention annoying) aspect of my entire life is the  monumental complexity of it. It's overflowing with inconsistencies, contradictions, complications, and unexplained polar forces that are in a constant battle pulling me to opposing ends of the gamut.

Good vs Evil?
Saint or Sinner? 

The subject of my father's violence and abuse could cover an entire book in itself. The severe psychological impact it had on me resulted in a complete mental and physical collapse by the time I was 18. It's humiliating and painful to remember - but I managed to pull myself out of it without any help other than my own determination.

There were good times in my childhood, of course, but they were inevitably tainted and overshadowed by the bad ones.

Another thing to consider when writing my memoirs is the Mirror of Raw Reality.

An honest assessment of myself doesn't reveal a very likeable person. My flaws, weaknesses, mistakes, vices, selfishness, and extreme emotional immaturity aren't exactly inspiring.

And there are no happy endings.
I don't have any Come to Jesus moments.
I can't offer any endearing or enduring advice.
There is no substantial or satisfying apotheosis, except the fact that I happened to survive an incredibly destructive and wild ride.

A potent postscript:

When it comes to memoirs, putting your real name on the byline is a form of suicide. You're submitting your entire private existence to brutal public scrutiny and possible human sacrifice.
Not to mention potential law suits.....

I've learned the hard way while writing this blog (there are a helluva lot of vicious loonies out there)
How much worse will it be with a book?

I mean TWO books.

(should a wry *smile* be inserted here?)

Jon

High School

when I was unbearably innocent

IF YOU DON'T HAVE ATTITUDE, FAKE IT

Long ago, an enthusiastic critic of my blog said:
"You write too much about yourself, and you always twist everything to make yourself look good."

My (bitter and sarcastic) reply:
"I write about myself because I'm the most fascinating person I know. Since I already look good, I have no need to twist." 

This reminds me of one of my favorite personal mottoes:

NEVER discount your own worth or put yourself down. There are too many other bastards eagerly waiting to do it for you. 

I don't take criticism easily. It's probably one of my weakest points. And don't tell me about constructive criticism. That's extremely rare. Almost all criticism is intended to cut you to the quick.

What exactly is "the quick", anyway?

My father criticized me mercilessly and relentlessly my entire life. His cruel and caustic words shredded me like the razor-sharp blade of a knife. I quickly learned that words are more lethal than physical violence. 

Whenever he beat the shit out of me and left me quivering in a bloody pulp, I knew that the physical wounds would eventually heal. 

The psychological wounds never heal. Ever.

I've always had a complete lack of self-confidence. My mother also had very little confidence. She was absolutely gorgeous and brilliant, but my father managed to sap her self-worth as well as mine. He drained our souls, like a vampire drains blood.

Bullies desperately need victims in order to sustain their power.

Mom learned to cope with the insanity, and managed to project a false outer image of perfection and domestic tranquility. 

I harbored an immense amount of hate - - especially self-hatred. I loathed everything about myself and the very essence of my existence, but learned to camouflage it with a manufactured method of defense.


I (eventually) managed to transform myself into a fabricated image of a person that I never really was: tough, self-assured, alluring. And disarmingly mysterious.

A mask of defense.

In the safety behind that mask, I embarked on an inexhaustible journey of rampant self-destruction in Hollywood's seedy underworld. During that time I was amazed to discover that many people (both women and men) thought I was good-looking.
I never fully believed it, but definitely learned to use it to my advantage.

In essence, my life was nothing more than a disastrous jumble of absolute chaos and constant inconsistencies.
Extreme promiscuity, alcohol, occasional drugs, torrid affairs, half-hearted suicide attempts.
I willingly and enthusiastically courted danger.

A death-wish, maybe?
Definitely. But also a desperate attempt to escape from myself.


Today - when I consider my sordid past - I cringe with astonishment (and more than a little disgust). My youth was one helluva wild ride - a turbulent and reckless adventure that I wouldn't want to experience again.

So, why am I revealing all this?

I'm in the (very difficult) process of writing (and re-writing) my memoirs. Consequently,  an onslaught of random, unconnected thoughts are racing through my mind. 

Are my memoirs worth writing? Will anyone give a damn?
I'm mostly doing it for myself. Call it a catharsis.

More about the memoirs in my next post.

Hey -
welcome to May.




NOTE:
Sorry that I deleted some comments, but I felt it was best - rather than rehash old wounds.

I must say that ALL of the people who criticized my blog in the past did so specifically because they DESPISED my political views. 

Name-calling, hate, and humiliation were their childish weapons of choice.
 




 

WET DAYS, DRY CAMELS, AND WRITING

I removed my most recent post solely because I didn't like it. 
Sometimes I say so much of nothing that I annoy myself. I didn't delete it - I reverted it to a draft and kept the comments (Myra, Paula, LadyHawthorne).

It's pouring rain. Again. And again and again....Once in awhile I Google pictures of the sun just to remember what it looks like. That was lame, but I'm not in a funny mood.

I'm considering moving to Saudi Arabia. Sure, they get occasional rain but I've never seen a wet camel.....and I've never seen fifteen-foot-high weeds in the Rub al Khali (like they are in my yard).

I'm used to dust storms and Haboobs. Heck, I lived in West Texas.
And I feel comfortable in sheik garb.

Don't laugh. I'm an old man. I looked a helluva lot better twenty years ago. Okay, maybe forty.
By the way, I'm the one on the right.

Remember that children's book I wrote last autumn? I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. Last night I re-read it and it's surprisingly good. I'm sending it to some publishers.

I just started writing the book about the 1906 murder in New Jersey and my great-uncle who was hanged for the crime (mentioned in one of my previous posts).
I researched that story for several years, published an article on it, and have a surplus of information. Yet, I'm still finding new information that I never knew (via the Internet). I'm amazed.

After careful consideration and major trepidation, I'm also finally writing my memoirs. 
I used to jokingly say that I'm the most interesting person I know -  but sometimes I almost believe it.

I figure it's better to write it now before senility sets in - if it hasn't already.

There's a trend with bloggers lately - especially popular bloggers (which I'm very definitely not): 
they're all writing memoirs. I've read some of them on Amazon - and most are blase. Nothing interesting happened in their lives.

I endured one extremely long chapter about a 1963 trip to the drive-in movies. And I read several chapters about a quirky uncle who drank beer while watching Bowling for Dollars in his underwear.
ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I don't really give a flying fig.

Trouble is - writing truthfully about oneself is extremely difficult. Revealing all is even more difficult. Not to mention humiliating.

My life has definitely been unique. And colorful. There were many incredibly good times, but even many more brutally bad ones - the ravages of which devastated me emotionally. I never fully recovered.

I could easily write two books: my innocent childhood and my recklessly wild adulthood of destruction and debauchery.
I have an incredible memory. I can remember things from when I was only a few months old. 

Well, this blog post turned out to be even longer and more crappy than my previous one was.

It's far too late to quit while I'm ahead. 

DISCOMBOBULATED THOUGHTS

These are weeds but they're lovely

Discombobulated, Jon?

Yea, every once in a while I like to use big words. I have no idea what the heck it means. It just looks good.

In my previous post I promised that I would address all of your comments in my next post. Well, this is my next post and I'm too lazy to address your comments individually. I'll merely sort of generalize.

I've had a few beers, so I'll ask for forgiveness in advance for my disjointed ramblings.

First of all, mysterious and anonymous "NB" brought up the subject of scorpions and wondered if I ever saw my cats kill one. In Texas, my oldest cat Scratch killed several scorpions but I never actually saw how she did it. I had heard that cats are immuned from the venom of a scorpion sting - - but upon doing research I discovered that it isn't true. Cats have padded paws, thick fur, and tough upper palates which helps protect them from the sting.

On the subject of the memoir that I am thinking about writing: it's unanimous! Apparently everybody is in favor of me spilling my darkest secrets like sacrificial blood and offering them for public consumption. So I'll do it.
What have I got to lose - - except my dignity, my reputation, my privacy, my friends, and my relatives?

What reputation, Jon?

I actually think everyone should write a memoir. We all have special stories to tell and they should not remain unspoken. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece - - merely a documentation of memories. At any rate, it's a beneficial catharsis. Several of my blog readers have mentioned wanting to write and they definitely should. Don't let your existence evaporate.

End of lecture.

I've managed to overcome my apprehensions about writing my Hollywood memoir. I was initially worried that it wouldn't be interesting, but I actually have an over-abundance of intriguing stories to tell. And they're not all X-rated.

I was worried about the problem of name-dropping and the possibility of being sued, by the living and/or the dead. The dead can come back to bite. Trust me on that.

Careful evaluation of each situation and a selective choice of wording might save my hide. I'll also (unfortunately) have to change some names when relating compromising situations.
 Like the time I had a four-day non-stop tryst with a film director in the Beverly Hills Hotel.......
 .....or the time I was in the car with the naked actor and I leaped out and ran away when the police stopped us......
or the time I was in a midnight police raid at the notorious Drake Theater (those three incidents are worthy of a book in themselves)

I'm not bragging. I'm just saying.

I'm suddenly (and sadly) realizing that most of these things happened 35 years ago (or more), and many of the places and people I knew are no longer pertinent. My exploits might seem slightly archaic and largely inconsequential. It was a different era but an extremely colorful one.

Now I'm starting to depress myself. 

I suppose I can safely express my observations about people I've met without any major repercussions. 
John Wayne was a rude drunk. Groucho Marx was extremely fragile and nearly senile. Liza Minnelli is a sweetheart but slightly discombobulated (there's that word again). Joan Rivers was intelligent and surprisingly sensitive. Burt Reynolds is more gay than bi.

Hey, I'm certainly no expert on Hollywood. I don't profess to be an historian. And I'm not about to write a celebrity "tell-all" because I don't know all.

I can only offer what I've experienced and observed.  Hollywood is tawdry and fickle, illusional and delusional, very often ruthless and brutal, one gigantic elaborate sham. A lot of tarnish beneath the glitz. The truth that I knew is deliciously stranger than fiction.


Change of subject (and not a moment too soon)

Rain, rain, and everything is green and lovely.

What about those mysterious "ghost" lights that I've seen in the forest? 
The nights have been cold here lately. The lights have been sparse but I did see some a few nights ago. I'm still puzzled because there is no logical pattern as to when they appear. My guess is still fireflies - yet, I've never before seen fireflies on such cold nights. 

 This is the forest by my property where the "ghost" lights reside