Author Archives: Brick Wahl

George Davison, again

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Ya know, I spent so much time reminiscing about George Davison in ye olde daze that I completely forgot to mention something I had only discovered about him via Facebook. George was a talented writer. I’m not talking music here, I already talked about that, but language. You can see that almost immediately in someone on Facebook (or in emails or tweets even) because they can spin little stories even if they’re ony a couple sentences long. When he was on the farm you could see the farm, when he was in Santa Barbara could see the streets, and the trees, and feel the sun. You don’t even have to describe it, a reader fills all the background in if you say the right words. Which he did. Towards the end his stuff got very, very dark…he told us some awful things and warned us he was going to tell more. I was glad he didn’t. Maybe he had second thoughts, maybe the drugs kicked in, I dunno, but it spared us an evil side–we all have those, I certainly do–but I don’t recall ever seeing his on display before. Not even in his most punk rock moments in the early days. Those dark stories he forewarned of us were stories that didn’t really need telling, I guess. Cancer was a world we all might face sometime, but no use letting us in on it now. If it happens–and it will, to some of us–it happens. Worry about that when it comes.

I remember how much I admired his skill with language, his flare for words, and I told him so. He was surprised, I think, most natural writers never even think of themselves as such. They just write naturally. I figured as he recovered we would see endless threads of George stories. It would be part of the recovery process. When I heard he’d finally slipped away I felt cheated that he never had the chance to spill like that, to pour it out in that breezy style of his. I didn’t say anything because, well, it was a selfish reaction and would have been just one more thing for you all to be sad about. But it’s been bugging me. So I said it here.

I don’t think there are that many natural writers. It’s a rare thing still. Writing is new, only a couple thousand years old, and it comes far less easy to people than music which is probably a hundred times as old at least. And when I spy someone with talent there’s a bond, like we’re in on a secret most people don’t know anything about. And I always hate to see them go, because when somebody goes they take a zillion stories with them, and we’ll never know what they would have been. And crazy George, like all the rest of us crazies, would have had some stories to tell.

Sigh……

 
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Zodiac

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I haven’t seen this much astrology since the hippies all died. But it sat there, latent, awaiting Facebook.  Now the moon looks big and people freak. Scorpio is doing something with Capricorn and Capricorn is on the cusp of Gemini. Which explains why we do what we do, did what we did. It’s so obvious the gorgeous lady says.  But I don’t believe that shit I say (but nicely). It’s ludicrous. That’s because you’re an Aries the lady says. She smiles. I don’t believe in astrology because of astrology? Yup. And the big moon? Yes, that too. That too what? Like I said, an Aires, you’re all alike. What the hell does that mean? I thought about going into the science, and how stars and planets don’t move that way and how Copernicus has been out since they burned Galileo at the stake. But she gives me a look like don’t even bother. So I don’t. She smiles. I lose.

Sixth century Zodiac. Civilizations come and go, but the Zodiac remains.

Sixth century Zodiac. Civilizations come and go, but the Zodiac remains.

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George Davison

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George Davison has left the building. We went back a long ways. He knew Fyl and I before we knew each other, ancient history. One of those guys who never saw the point in being regular…a boho freak to the core, and sweet as hell. Stoned, …too. Some very fond memories. Became a fine guitar player. When I first met him he knew two chords, sometimes three. What a night that was. The girls rushed the stage and shredded his tee shirt. It hung off in tatters, his glasses were askew, and they did I fought the law three times because they barely knew any songs. That was 1979, I think. Wild wild times, wonderful times. The future was forever and no one ever died.

I once wrote about the time i ran into George at a party and he told me 315 was dead. Cancer, he said. Now George is dead. Cancer again. What goes around, I guess.

George Davison rocking out.

George Davison rocking out.  (Photo by Peter Aiello.)

Time

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I’ve become fascinated with Facebook’s sense of time…it’s free of real time chronology….I keep seeing obituaries for people dead years ago, and news stories from the past get people outraged anew. You can will time, or more likely, Facebook wills you to accept whatever is posted as of the now, even if it isn’t. Time shifts suddenly, or it stops, or goes backwards, goes forward. Time hovers. Sometimes time disappears completely, and you’re looking into another universe where what was never was, string theory come to life. Done correctly, you can never die, or you can have died already, and we can all have your stuff. Combine this with all the fake news, and it’s all completely surreal. Take this post, for example, I wrote this three days ago next week, except I never wrote it, and it’s completely untrue. So there.

Bing

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Somebody just told me Bing Crosby was jailed for drunk driving in 1929. Right here in Hollywood even. I had no idea. 1929 was the middle of Prohibition. And Hollywood had been a dry town to begin with, before the movies came. So they hauled him in. They wouldn’t have dared a decade later, but this was 1929, and Bing was still a jazz singer then, and cops didn’t particularly like jazz singers. Or jazz trumpeters…the LAPD busted Louis Armstrong for marijuana possession a couple years later, in 1931. Vice cops were busy saving the city back then. They knew about Bing’s drinking back then. Who didn’t? But did they know that Bing and Louis would hang out smoking reefer in Chicago just a bit before? Probably not. That was a secret.

We didn’t know it, not in our family. Along with Jack Kennedy (or simply Jack), Bing Crosby (simply Bing) were icons in our house. Jesus and Jack on the wall, Bing on the Hi Fi. We didn’t know about the jailed for drunk driving, and we certainly know that he’d been a viper, getting high and cracking wise and singing with Satchmo…but we knew generally that he was quite the heller in his young days. That was a good thing, being quite the heller in your young days. It was expected. A drunk driving bust would have been perfectly understandable. Besides, the cops probably set him up anyway. That’s what we would have said. I don’t believe he was set up. I just think he was drunk. Bad luck. Somebody smacked into his car. Rear ended him. What can ya do? Looked it up–he was busted on Hollywood Blvd right there in front of the Roosevelt Hotel. No doubt I’ll think of that now every time I pass .Every time.

My mother called me the day he died. Bing died she said. It was like losing a grandfather’s brother, a relation you never saw in person, but knew all about. When my grandmother told my grandfather that Bing had died, my grandfather went pale. You aren’t gonna die on me too now, she asked. He recovered. No, No,  I’m not going anywhere. But he did not long after.

There’s never been Irish Americans as important to American Irishmen since Jack and Bing. Jack’s story is too sad for words (and Bobby’s even sadder), but Bing’s ended just right. That was a great game, fellas.  And it was.

Bing on the phone.

Bing on the phone.

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Merry Christmas

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I’m up early, staring at the tree. It looks good even in daylight which is good for a Christmas tree, sometimes they look strange then, things off, lights blinking ridiculously. But not this one. It’s pretty perfect. Our drunk friends did a nice job, though I still see a few Cheetos. No presents under it yet, we haven’t even started shopping, that’ll be today. We always do the last minute thing. Know where to go (which isn’t the Galleria) and be back in time for eggnog and A Christmas Carol. The one with Alistair Sim, the spooky one. Or maybe A Charlie Brown Christmas, which I’ve probably watched at least once every year since it came out in 1965. That was in Maine, there was snow on the ground, it snowed like crazy that year in Maine. Snowed even on the following Mother’s Day, a regular blizzard. Out here they were surfing and tanning and making stupid beach movies, in Maine they were shovelling and cursing the slush. The next year, 1966, How the Grinch Stole Christmas came out for the very first time, and I’ve probably seen it every year since. That was in Maine, too, and there was snow on the ground. Those two Christmases were rather remarkable for me, I remember, since we lived in the same house for both. I can’t remember us ever having two of any holiday in one house during my childhood except 1965 and ’66. Maybe that’s why I have such fond memories of Maine. Brunswick, the little town we lived in, was all dolled up in Yuletide everything, but in an old fashioned way. It was cold and snowy but just like a movie. We had a huge tree and decorating it was a blast. Mom had her own tree, too, in the den. It was aluminum, white, and decked with blue balls, with a blue spinning lamp that reflected on it, and it sparkled, and we weren’t allowed to touch it. That was very early sixties, that tree, very Jackie Onassis. I don’t know if they still even have trees like that. The real tree, though, was big–huge to an eight or nine year old–and had a zillion ornaments, some brought all the way from Austria-Hungary by my grandparents. We had to be extra careful with those, especially the perfect little bird’s nests with the tiny eggs. I wonder if you can still buy those? Or do you have to import them from Austria-Hungary, which hasn’t even existed for a hundred years. A Never-Never Land, like a fairy tale, or a drug induced hallucination, whatever. Leave it to me to have half my relatives from a place that doesn’t exist. The other half came from Ireland, and the tradition was to drape the tree with strings of popcorn and oranges if they could afford them and light it with candles. Whiskey and candles were a bad mix, the one leaving you to forget the latter, and houses would burn down in Irish neighborhoods every year, one or two. Or so my dear mother told me. We had electric lights. Everyone did by the time I was born.  We had a train too going around the tree. We still do.  Maybe you’ve seen it.

I loved Christmas as a kid, and I love Christmas now. I can’t help it. I’m just a sucker for the tree and shopping and wrapping presents and eggnog (lots of eggnog). I think I even like hating the same stupid carols they play over and over and over. Feliz Navidad, oh lord. In Maine groups of kids went door to door a-caroling, I remember that vividly. Out here no children have ever come a-caroling to our door–any of our doors, and there’s been four of them since 1980. Though one Christmas Eve we were at a friend’s place in Hollywood and gay carolers came to his door. Gay as in gay, though they seemed gay as in happy too. You’ve never seen carolers until you’ve seen gay carolers. They were dressed in Christmas to the nines. I’d never seen Christmas handcuffs before. Later I knew a lady who showed me her’s. L.A. is different from Maine, and Silver Lake was different from anywhere.

It’s still traditional in our household, though. Well, I did just notice that the gingerbread couple in the snow globe are anatomically correct. I’d never noticed that before. It was a gift, years ago. That’s a lot of snickering behind Brick’s back. And there are Cheetos hung on the Christmas tree with care. But otherwise it’s a traditional Christmas here, as always, and so I’ll deliver my traditional Merry Christmas to all of you who’ve read this far. And a Happy New Year. I hope your holidays are the best.

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Claude Van Damme

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I wore one of Claude Van Damme’s jackets for years. A team jacket, a heavy thing, all lined and hip and cool and big shouldered. A friend swiped it from his dressing room. It was an extra, he never missed it (or so she told me.) That was my pre-blazer look. A Claude Van Damme jacket, Italian army boots and, at the time, strong as an ox. Stupid as an ox, too, but we’re talking looks here, not brains. Anyway, there’s a photo of me wading into a brawl, breaking it up. Probably about 1987. Some asshole punks had hauled the longhair soundman down to the floor by his ponytail and were kicking the shit out of him. It was ugly, vicious, cowardly. I started pulling them off of him. It was like tossing dolls across a room. One of them took a swing at me. I went to hit him, realized I could kill him just like that, so I bitch slapped him. Whack, whack. He crumpled, the room went silent, nobody moved.  I went back to the bar, the band started up and it was like nothing had happened.

Violence is a weird thing, man, a weird thing.

The sleeve to the Brother Brick Says single by nmy brother Jon's band, Claw Hammer.

The sleeve to the Brother Brick Says single by my brother Jon’s band, Claw Hammer.  The long haired cat on the left is the prick who started it…he lit out quick and avoided the pounding he deserved. Used to see him slinking around, followed by a bunch of kids who for some reason idolized the guy. He gave off that weird Manson vibe…if you hang around the underground scene long enough you run into types like him. I figure he’s either in prison or a lawyer by now. Maybe a preacher. Maybe dead.

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Breath

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A friend’s wife died. Sad. More than sad. I hear about those things now and feel a momentary chill.

I lost my wife for a few minutes some years ago, they brought her back, but I’ll never forget those few minutes. Sometimes I hear her breathing next to me in the middle of the night and suddenly I remember her beautiful blue lips and knowing I was on the very cusp of being a widower. So many thoughts go through your head in those few minutes, you can’t believe how many thoughts. The doctors were so good, though…man, they were good. I got her back. After a couple weeks she walked out of the hospital. I thought the nurses were going to cheer. It’s such a rare thing, one told me, to see someone walk out like that after what happened. But she walked out, smiling. Amnesia, but smiling.

Eventually life returned to normal. But that precipice is something to peer over, and I don’t think anything’s been the same since. A lot seems pretty insignificant–I quit my writing gig, it suddenly seemed a waste of precious time–and much of the insignificant has vast importance. Like hearing her breathing in the middle of the night. Something I never even noticed before. Not in the same way. Knowing that once, for a few minutes there, she wasn’t breathing at all.

That was over five years ago, and this is the first time I’ve ever written about it. I just realized that. You think you can write about anything, but you can’t.

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Innocence

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Just reading I piece I wrote about the day Elvis died and how all the ladies at work we’re crying their eyes out. Got me remembering those ladies. Tough dames, all those girls, working class and divorced once or twice and life hadn’t always been easy and now they were doing the working wife thing, which was new in the 1970’s, very new. They were sweet, but get them all together and they were a pack, foul mouthed, chain smoking, been around the track already broads and all totally horny. That I knew because they would talk about being horny. All the time. They had the itch. I got the itch, they’d say. I’m so horny I could fuck a telephone pole. I was a dumb kid then, not yet twenty years old, and would buy my burrito off the lunch truck and join them. At first they protected my innocence, but not for long. Time to grow up boy, they’d say. Soon enough they’re banging their drunk boyfriends on a Saturday night or wondering if the old man could still get it up. They doubted it. The old man never seemed to have the itch like they had the itch. I would listen and pretend not to. The concept of horny middle-aged ladies was new to me, alien almost, I didn’t quite comprehend the itch. That is till the pack turned on me. The loudest one–from Cleveland, I remember, she with that Great Lakes plain-spoken abrasiveness–started complaining about how horny she was. How she wasn’t getting any at home. The others agreed. No one seemed to be getting any. That surprised me, I’d thought that married people (excepting one’s parents, of course) got it on all the time, else why marry? They groused a bit more. Then I noticed them all eyeing me. Cleveland blurts out maybe we should all jump the kid here. I froze. They all stared and smiled. Cleveland says yeah,  just pin him down and take turns. They laughed. I blushed. Then she gave me a look I’d never seen before. We’d have you flopping like a fish. Her tone was almost menacing. I must have looked stunned and she cackled  The others laughed too, evil laughs, cackling, evil, lascivious laughs.  They were all just staring at me, cackling. Grown up lust. I’d never seen it before. Never even knew it existed. It was a distant world of forty and fifty somethings and I wasn’t even a twenty something yet. I was a freshman at a community college, still living at home. Mine was still a world of crushes and instant adolescent erections and the endless distraction of teenage females. This was the mid-70’s and the sexual revolution of Hugh Hefner and a zillion hippies had finally reached the high schools in a big way. The girls wore micro mini’s and tee shirts barely concealing breasts held aloft as if by magic. We’d stare open-mouthed.  Heat waves were torments. The school’s air conditioning barely worked and we’d sweat in our jeans and corduroys in class while the girls flounced about lazily in Daisy Mae cutoffs and halter tops.  Screwing seemed to be frantic and incessant. Playboy was full of real live women, we thought, perfect and sweet and naked and we’d save the centerfolds for further study. But this, these middle-aged women and their itch and their telephones poles, this was sex, raw and sweaty and urgent and not always pretty. Reality. I didn’t even know it existed, not like that. Not even the letters in the Penthouse Forum we read at a friend’s place because his parents were psychologists and thought it healthy that their son read Playboy and Penthouse and Oui (Hustler wasn’t out yet, thankfully) mentioned telephone poles.

I’d never felt so uncomfortable in my young life. One of the ladies noticed. Oh come on, she said, leave him alone, he’s just a kid. He’s awfully big for a kid, another said. He’s still a kid. Never seen kid with a package like that. Yeah, but he’s just out of high school. The debate went back and forth, but at last their maternal instinct won out. It was uncomfortably quiet for a moment. Cleveland stopped her cackling and looked at me. It’s OK boy she said. You’ll learn soon enough. And I did, soon enough.

It’s a funny thing, but at some point in your life you begin to identify with the old people in your memories. The young you becomes so fresh and unjaded as to be unfathomable. Somewhere back there you stopped being the protagonist in your own life story. You become  one of the secondary characters. You’re the dude on the far end of middle age looking at the young stud in the making and thinking man, you got some story ahead of you. You look at him and smile. The kid smiles back, clueless, nothing but innocence.

A duck walks into a bar…

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My brother used to annoy the hell out of me with this joke: A duck walks into a bar. Bartender says what do you want, duck? Duck says you got any grapes? Bartender says no, I don’t have any grapes. I got whiskey, gin, vodka, run, beer, you name it, but no grapes. And besides, I hate ducks. You show up here again I’ll nail your web feet to the floor. The duck leaves. Next day the duck walks into the same bar. Bartender stares at him. Duck says you got any nails? Bartender says no, I don’t have any nails! Duck says you got any grapes?

My brother told that joke a hundred times. I began to hate that joke.

A couple nights ago there was a delay in the set as Charlie Haden’s orchestra was getting together the right charts. Someone said tell a joke. Haden looks up. A joke? OK. I know this great joke. He hobbles up to the microphone. Let me get it straight in my head first so I don’t screw it up, and thinks a minute. OK. Here it is: A duck walks into a bar…..

OK…when your brother deliberately torments you a zillion times with a stupid duck walks into a bar joke it’s one thing. I mean you wind up hating the joke. But when Charlie Haden tells the same joke, do you seethe or do you laugh? I laughed. I had to. Everybody else was.

Besides, it was funny.

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