Recorded Books Inc. - Broken Summers

Table of Contents

12-23-01 LA CA: My next door neighbor died. Ninety-seven years old. Concentration camp ID number tattooed on her arm. I never met her. I knew she was in there but I never saw her. Two men loaded the body into a gray van a couple of days ago.

Last night, my doorbell rings. The dead womans granddaughter. She was emptying the place out and came by to ask if I had a Valium to spare. How Eagles Greatest Hits is that? For some reason, she told me she was four days clean of kicking a twenty dollar a day heroin habit, and then goes into a condensed version of the story of her life. I guess she needed someone to talk to. Its dark, theres a barred iron gate between us and Im listening but I want this to be over. She tells me that she got into dope from hanging out with a bunch of musicians and I look at the ground and pull back into the shadows. Too late. She recognizes me and that turns into another monologue. Finally she leaves after asking me if I remember her name and I confess that I dont. She reminds me and tells me next time she comes by, Im going to invite her in.

Last night I stood out front and looked at the house. All those years that woman lived in there invisibly. Start your life in a concentration camp and finish it out in LA. A van takes your body away, the family comes to haul out your stuff and make arrangements for you and your possessions, the granddaughter hits up the next door neighbor for tranquilizers, the house goes up for sale and its a wrap. I wondered what I was doing in my place when she died. She died small and alone with no one around. I hope she died in her sleep.

Cant wait to leave. LA is a strange place to call home. I cant do it. I drive the streets and see places Ive been in the past and theres no feeling of nostalgia. It all feels rented here. It feels like a mouthful of dirt. I have no feeling of familiarity with any landmark here. I do get a slight twinge when I drive by the Fat Burger at Gardner and Santa Monica because it used to be a place called Oki Dogs, an outdoor diner. It was quite the hang out many years ago. When we were living up the street from there in 1981, Black Flag roadie Mugger and I would sometimes go there in the evening and try to scam free food. Nice girls from the Valley or girls from Orange County were always a soft touch.

Okis is the place where I watched Big John Macias back down a cop. John was the singer of a punk band called Circle One. John was one big man, hence the name. He was really cool and his band was good. He was not, however, a man to mess with as some unlucky people found out. Legend had it that one night he bit a guys ear off at Okis. I dont know if its true or not but I wouldnt put it past him.

One night John and I were at Okis eating a plate of french-fries. It was the first food I had eaten that day so I was into it. A cop came over to the table and told us to leave. I got up to leave immediately. There was no way I was going to argue with a cop. I was standing there waiting for John to get up but he didnt. He just sat there and kept eating. John looked at me and said, Sit down. I didnt know what to do. The cop said, I thought I told you faggots to leave. John got up and as he rose, I watched the cop size John up. John is now standing only an inch from the cops face, grinning. John is taller and has the same build. John tells him that hes not a faggot and he paid for his food and hes going to eat it. No one at any of the other tables are even breathing at this point. It was all of a sudden very small and quiet. I watched the cop try and glance to the street to see if he had any back up and he didnt. Then I watched the cops face work as he weighed his options. It was obvious he didnt want to get into it with John. He pulled back and told us to hurry up and then he walked away. Everyone started laughing as the cop passed and he pretended not to hear it but we all knew that John had made him back down. That was a great moment.

John was shot and killed by a policeman in Santa Monica, CA about ten years later. Joe Cole cut out the obituary and saved it for me so I could read it when I got back from tour. Joe was dead a few months later.

Recently, I drove by a building that many years ago used to be a club called the Cathay De Grande. Its where I met Jeffrey Lee Pierce of the Gun Club. It wasnt much, a dingy, poorly lit place for bands to play. Had some real good times there though. Played there a lot. Saw the two guitar line up of Minor Threat in there and they were amazing.

Sometimes I get a twinge when I drive by the Whiskey and remember when I used to hang out in front not having the money to go in. Sometimes near the end of the night, if the place wasnt crowded, the security guys would let the people hanging out on the street in to see what was left of the show. Its how I saw Social Distortion, Agent Orange and China White. Past that, this town has been a twenty year location to store my stuff in between tours. I am ready to go. Im always ready to go. Theres nothing here for me.

12-30-01 LA CA: 11:23 p.m. Listening to King Crimson live 05-04- 74 McMasters University, Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. I like bootlegs. They allow me to put my ear up to the past and listen through a hole in time. I like the idea that through all the events in the world, through all the noise, confusion and time wasting, torturous, irrelevant distraction, the signal can still be heard. You can search out the past via these recordings. Its as if the speakers of the stereo are directly plugged into the past and youre sneaking through some breach in time and amazingly you are there. All too often, contemporary music doesnt give me what I need, so I go into the past looking for the good stuff.

I read an article on U2 recently in the LA Times. Robert Hilburn interviewed Bono. In the beginning of the article, Hilburn says that the most recent U2 record has sold over ten million copies worldwide. He praised it as the epitome of rock or some other paid-by-the-word crap. Recently, I sat and listened to that record two times and all I heard was a well produced, tired ass band bleating away, no talent playing and corny lyrics intact. Rock? At what point does that turgid disc rock? But then again, look at what the masses are into. They line up to eat at McDonalds. They read corny drugstore books and watch Julia Roberts films. Their tastes cant be taken seriously. I fear them for sure. I fear being trapped by their mediocrity and low-level ignorance. I fear their desperation and greed but I know what to look out for and how to avoid the consequences more often than not.

Tonight is the first night where I can start focusing my thoughts on the upcoming tour. I just spent three long days working on a movie. So far, it has no title. The film is about a man searching for meaning in life, to see if there is a connection between people or if all human acts are just a bunch of random events. He becomes disgusted with psychics who prey upon the weak and take their money. He goes into psychic shops, sits down with the psychic and asks them to tell him whats on his mind. If theyre psychic, theyll know, right? Basically, whats on his mind is, Im going to kill you, you fucking psychic piece of shit. Of course, the psychic doesnt know this and he ends up killing them. He kills a few people who have it coming. Of course, I got to be the killer. I liked the writing and the director wanted me for the part so I went for it. Work keeps me out of trouble.