A LATE BUT HEARTFELT ENTRY ABOUT TIMOTHY FORD, MY FRIEND

HAVE YOU EVER KNOWN SOMEONE WHOM YOU ADMIRED, BUT WHO BOTHERED YOU WITH THEIR PRECISE OBSERVATIONS UTTERED AT TIMES WITHOUT CONCERN FOR YOUR FEELINGS, BUT WHICH ACTUALLY MADE YOU THINK?

TO ME, THIS WAS TIM FORD.

THE OLDER DISTINGUISHED TIMOTHY

 THE YOUNGER, dramatic tim in a mischievous moment...

I'D KNOWN TIM PASSED AWAY A COUPLE YEARS AGO, BUT ONLY THE OTHER NIGHT DISCOVERED HIS MYSPACE SITE ON WHICH MANY OF HIS L.A. FRIENDS AND OLD FRIENDS, SUCH AS MICHAEL MCRAE, HAVE LEFT ENTRIES. I FOUNd there ONE ANECDOTE BY TIM HIMSELF ABOUT TIM HELPING A PARAPLEGIC FRIEND'S SON GET SOBER. I found it as entertaining to read as a Tom Robbins tale, and it ended up being part raucous adventure, part restaurant review!

ALSO I'VE HEARD MANY RUMORS, MANY PROBABLY TRUE ABOUT TIM'S, LET US SAY, WAY OF BEING.

TIM, AS ONE FRIEND AND I WERE REFLECTING yesterday, MAY HAVE, LIKE MANY Y0UNG MEN, CHOSEN TO TEST HIMSELF AS A RITE OF PASSAGE IN HIS YOUNGER YEARS, TO FIND OUT FOR HIMSELF WHAT HE WAS MADE OF. If this assessment is taken as accurate, "Timmy", as we sometimes called him, took it to a very scary limit, at times. AS A HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT WHO FINISHED ALL THE REQUIREMENTS BY THE END OF THE 11TH GRADE, HE TOOK ALL LANGUAGES IN THE SENIOR YEAR. MICHAEL MCRAE, TIM'S OLD AND DEAR MUSICIAN FRIEND, REFLECTED TO ME IN A LATE NIGHT PHONE CALL LAST NIGHT from Nashville THAT HE RECALLS TIM READING SOMETHING ALOUD AND  fluidly translating BACK AND FORTH FROM SPANISH TO OTHER LANGUAGES LIKE GERMAN, French ETC., WITHOUT BATTING AN EYE.

ONE OF MY OWN FOND MEMORIES WAS OF TIM AND I IN P.E. CLASS. AT THE END OF THE CLASS THE COACH WOULD HAVE ALL US BOYS TO ONE OR TWO 'COOL DOWN LAPS' AROUND THE TRACK. TIM AND I, EVERY DAY, WOULD PUT ON LIKE WE WERE EXHAUSTED AND TRY TO BE SLOWER THAN EACH OTHER TO PISS OFF THE COACH...AND A REASON TO BE LATE FOR OUR NEXT CLASS, I THINK.

HE WAS AN ARDENT SUPPORTER OF MY ROCK BAND, THE GENTLEMEN WILDE, AND OUR 'BROTHER' BAND, THE LOST SOULS

TIM GOT INTO DRUGS IN THE SEVENTIES, BUT NOT LIKE OTHERS. Tim did nothing 'like others did'. HE GOT INTO SELLING AND HIGH LEVEL INVOLVEMENTS WITH PROBABLY 'SHADY' INDIVIDUALS. I'M PLEASED TO READ ON HIS MYSPACE SITE THAT HE WAS VERY ACTIVE IN THE 12 STEP PROGRAM FOR AROUND TEN YEARS BEFORE HIS DEATH AND ACTIVELY HELPED MANY PEOPLE, MUCH LIKE MY OWN COUSIN ROY did after reaching the bottom.

MOST PEOPLE EITHER LOVED TIM OR HATED HIM FOR HIS SHARP OBSERVATIONS...OR, AMBIVALENTLY, BOTH. I'D SUSPECT IF AN HONEST POLL WAS TO BE TAKEN, THE LATTER, 'ambivalence', WOULD GARNISH OVER IT'S FAIR THIRD BY FAR.

BEFORE HIS DEATH HE WROTE FOR AN L.A. MAGAZINE CALLED 'FLAUNT' (CLICK HERE FOR ONE I'VE ALREADY READ, A LONG TERRIFIC INTERVIEW WITH ALEC BALDWIN). THERE ARE MORE TIM FORD ARTICLES HERE I'M SURE I WANT TO READ.

BUT BEFORE THAT HE WROTE FOR ONE OF BOB GUCCIONE'S SON'S MAGAZINE'S CALLED "GEAR", NOW OUT OF PRINT.

ONE ARTICLE IN PARTICULAR TIM TOOK GREAT PASSION IN WRITING, I BELIEVE, IS THE ONE ENTITLED, " The Yankee Bandit: The Life and Times of Eddie Dodson, World's Great Bank Robber" A movie, THE ELECTRIC SLIDE is slated to be released in 2011 based on Tim's article. Based on one entry on Tim's Myspace site, Tim was working on the screenplay the day he died. Credits for Tim are to be for the article he wrote from which came the movie idea.

More about Eddie

I KNOW THAT SO MANY MORE PEOPLE HAVE MORE MEMORIES OF TIM THAN I HAD THE LUCK TO. HOWEVER YOU ADD IT UP, DESPITE THE FACT THAT I WAS NOT DESTINED TO SEE HIM AGAIN, I'LL MISS KNOWING HE'S AROUND, MAKING GOOD, OR MAKING TROUBLE, EITHER WAY. DON'T ASK ME WHY? I'M NOT SMART ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND WHY.

...even back to high school remember the parties? ... thanks for the memories, Tim!

SO LONG, TIMSTER

Experiental Medley: BOULDER,Kansas,DENTON

Impressions of sleeping in back of the Free Church in Boulder. I'm blanking on how I started out of the northwest, but I may have left from Portland, Oregon that time. Going to sleep after wandering the streets of other hippies, College students, etc. I remember an incredible guitarist who lulled me to sleep. He'd been or was going to go to a place near town called Strawberry Fields. I regret not going as it had sounded cool. His music was highly creative, as I imagine it could have been recorded by a label like Windam Hill Records. He played on a hollow electric, but it was loud enough as his bedroll was near mine.
I made a friend who I want to call richard because he reminded me of my later Denver friend, Richard, who I hitched with to the First Rainbow Family Gathering, where I re-joined my old NW friends, Love Family in and outers.
This fellow, I'll call him Boulder Richard, had come to Boulder after leaving Cincinnati with a bunch of his friends in a big schoolbus. The bus broke somewhere in the middle of Kansas, I forgot the name of the town. As I was doing nothing obligatorily in those days, richard either, he had this idea to donate some stuff to the free church where we'd been crashing. the 'stuff' he had was in Kansas, however, so off we went, thumbing.
I marginally recall us getting to Denver heading east on Colfax prior to my living in Denver...Colfax which is or turns into 70 going east, east east..
Flash forward to an old probably 1958 ford, and if i'm wrong it'll serve the purpose of this ture story for you to imagine it a 1958 ford, me sitting in the back seat. Going straight. Very M-F-ing straight...as highways tend to go straight in states that can't brag about mountains or even hills.
Time passed and we were still going striaght. I heard it said that people from these plat states are afraid of mountains, or what might lurk behind them. The same or the opposite is true of a mountain-stater like myself.
Boulder Richard and I got to the township where his bus broke down, which was a story unto itself.
His band of Cincinnati-ite explorers found themselves alone, hippies in Redneck-ville. They were laughed at and dark ideas were brewing in the minds of the local Outwardly Christian-inwardly evil whose primary 'commandment' was "Do not get caught". (Where is Billy-Jack when you really need him?!) This was evidenced, as Boulder Richard's description of this story goes, by them having been fortunate enough to meet a real nice person, a farmer who immediately wanted to help them. He agreed to tow their bus to his farm, on which a number of other broken existed already, probably dating back to the forties. They were appropriately thankful and stayed with the farmer for a number of days, til it was determined that nothing could be done about the bus. But I digressed. Let me catch up. As the good farmer went about the work of rigging up the bus to be towed to his place, neighbors of his, red-necks, a pickup truck full, actually threw stuff at him! I seem to recall Richard saying "beer cans", and other things, berating this good man for helping hippies.
OK. That was that story. Back to my story. The same man greeted us and agreed to let us stay a few days in exchange for building him a new silo. It was all new to me, I was not a carpenter or anything, but these silos are pretty easy to erect, as it turns out, just screws and bolts and curved galvanized/corrugated metal. The Good Farmer and his family lived in a long trailer that was a nice home, next to his dad who still lived in the real farm house next door. One whole side of the trailer, however, was pockmarked with little indentations and the smallish windows of plexiglass were even cracked, although still intact as barriers. These peppered marks were caused by a hail storm. I'm sure I thought, "Wow".
Richards idea for us was to hitchhike all the way back to Boulder in three days with a few bags of brown rice, maybe some other staples, pots and pans, probably some silverware and whatever else we could bring, including our own stuff.
This is a fond memory really, being anonymous in a state I'd never been in before with really, really nice folks. Mrs. Good Farmer made us great meals after our very hard days work.
Did I mention that this was a Hog Farm? It was. And every time I smell Pig Shit it takes me back here.
But one night of the three there came a storm. Richard and I slept inside the bus, I almost forgot to say. Our own place. In Kansas once the storm surrounds you you can't tell where the worst is except for the lightning and volume of the thunder, I learned that night. So there we were, reading by candle light. As the storm rode over us we got a little hungry for a snack. Among the foodstuff in the bus was some popcorn. We put some in a pan with a bit of oil I think, and actually popped it over a candle..it worked! Man, that rain poured that night.
I'm sure I had some weird dreams, but the next morning all was bright and clean-smelling, but there was bad news, sad news mixed with the good. A big Sow gave birth, but had died during the process, perhaps from fear of the storm? I don't know.
I'll always remember how the big pigs lay deep into the mud, half their bodies, so much that you could not tell if it was a hog or not unless they opened an eye to check you out. And it seems they may have had ankle high little light electric fences to keep them in.
Building the Silo was a rewarding experience for me. I'd never done anything like that: something  you look at afterwards, something appealing, something very functional, and say, "I built that!".
Time to say goodbye to the Good Farmer of Kansas, and head back on the long straight road and eventually to Boulder. Richard and I had to have looked somewhat silly, hitchhiking with bag after bag of all this stuff. I think we even split up once and got back together, taking different rides and meeting up ahead. It's one thing to pick up a single hitchhiker or two with their bags, but, "Oh, by the way, do you think you could fit my kitchen in the car, too, dude?". Fortunately, there were alot of stoned people on the roads in those days. Maybe it was the subconscious connotation of 'food' that made them so generous. Somehow, Boulder Richard and myself made it back with our generous donation. As I write this, I think my appreciation of that experience has been undervalued by myself all these years.
That's what I like about my memories of travelling alone by thumb. These situations, as a biped on this planet, that you can get into in no other way than by putting yourself the mercy of whatever comes your way. No rule book saying you cannot do that.

OK-OK-k-k-k-...What else about Boulder before we leave. I wandered around alot by myself. I remember a guy near the main drag that crossed Boulder Creek where many folks hung out during the day. This guy was wearing an actual loin cloth, with something attached to himself dangling underneath, if anyone cared to glimpse it. No one complained.
I remember some cool clothing shops that had very nice, hip clothes.
Definitely I remember one great breakfast place, other than IHOP where another anecdote began. This place was called MAGNOLIA THUNDERPUSSY, a small restaurant on the main North South drag in Boulder. For a mere 50 Cents one could get probably the biggest pancake you'd ever have! Thus, after a hard morning of panhandling after marching up to the main drag from the Free Church, the reward of this pancake was what kept one going.
I do recall a nice ice cream shop where the main drag Tee'd with another road on the south, I think, end of the main drag..the tee'd street I think led to the freeway and/or the university.

I may have some more to add about Boulder, not much but some.

Vietnam and the Draft

The year was probably 1971. I think I'd been hitchhiking around during 1970 and ended up having travelled to Boulder, with side trips to Kansas and Steamboat Springs, then a spontaneous adventure that lasted a month in denton,texas, after which i shot down through San Antonio and west through El Paso where I got a hitchhiking ticket which mom and dad paid later. West from there across a desert after a cold night in phoenix, and another crazy adventure with two nutty texan woman in a cadillac that i'll relate later, and ended up in san francisco. I moved north from there. towards 'home', the northwest. I spent perhaps a few weeks in ashland in early november, staying with a great alaskan fellow named john, and saw from time to time my friend morley hughes who owned a head shop.
winter was closing in. morley and i had showed up in medford  for roles in the movie "the northfield minnesota raid". I remember a someone rushing in from another room and saying that if any five of us would shave their heads there was a role for twice the going rate which was about $25 a day, thus $50..for a chain gang scene. I don't think they used the scene if it was filmed, but maybe i'm wrong.  Thanksgiving and the desire for familiar faces made me leave before we ever heard back from the movie people. When i saw the movie I saw the baseball scene in which  I recognized a guy I'd hitched very briefly with one afternoon up I-5 below Ashland, I think it was, from California. We'd both gotten into the same van heading north, credence blaring. This guy had a little shaving bag in which he had what appeared to be a 'disc' of gouda cheese, but it wasn't. it was hash. and at the going rate worth a small fortune. he broke some out for everyone, but i never needed much.

Soon after I hit the road for portland stopping by eugene, with friends of morley's. Then to seattle, and arlene's place, my surrogate mom, who's two sons were friends of mine from yakima.

In texas my dad had told me on the phone that the FBI was looking for me because i had not replied to draft notices. dad was upset. i was mostly blase. the idea of going to fight in a war was not a reality for me. at arlene's, I believe they had gone there too, so i called them up, saying, "I hear you guys are looking for me". I was cuffed and put into a cell for a couple hours after talking with mutt and jeff. good cop bad cop. one asshole one guy not so bad.
next thing i knew i was in the courtroom, the two FBI behind me. ok. my case came up, charges read "not informing the selective service bureau of my whereabouts", rather than "evasion".
the judge quickly asked me if I have anything to say for myself. I told him I did. He said, "go ahead..".
Me: "Your honor. I believe...(I paused alot for effect)..the the selective service bureau.."
Judge: "mm Hmm?..."
Me: "...are just...a bunch of guys.... like me..."
Judge: " Yes..."
Me: "....who believe....(judge nodding)...that they know what I should be doing with my life... I am me. I simply disagree."
Judge: .....long pause, "I see...Ok."
and that was it..for that day, anyway. I was released on my own recognizance, to obtain legal counsel in yakima, and take care of it there.

meeting with my attorney, he made a phonecall after which he informed me that i had probably just been an unknowing part of the first court case even held over the phone. The charges were dropped on stipulation that I volunteer. i was to appear at the induction center on Elliott Bay avenue in seattle on a set date, and volunteer to join the army.

i saw a family doctor who had been getting more active in psychiatric cases. i knew him and his sons, one of whom was my age. his oldest son had been in time magazine with his reed college buddies, having chained themselves across a selective service bureau entrance. the other two sons were also consciencious objectors. during a conversation with my attorney he'd asked me how I myself thought i might get out. I thought that the ss would probably think i was crazy, thus the assessment by my doctor. the attorney himself had gotten at least one client out of going to vietnam, and explained to me that if all else failed, to go awol repeatedly, and they would get tired of dealing with me.

so there i was, a letter from doc in my hand, and an appointment set.
flash forward to the seattle induction center. I saw an old friend there from school in yakima, who was feeling 'gung-ho', or at least felt obliged to go, but i could tell he was uneasy. I intimated to him that if he changed his mind he could try what my lawyer had recommended. I heard years later that he did change his mind and I think got out in some manner like I had told him.
But staying with the story here, at the induction center that day, we got our physicals, hearing tests, vision, etc,etc..then listened to all they had to say. Must have been 40 guys there.
An asian officer was explaining to us what we would be doing for the next 8 or so weeks of our lives..boot camp, etc. On and on. Then he abruptly stopped.
there was a brief pause, then he spoke. this is what he said, I swear to God:
" now, gentlemen. I have explained to you everything the army wants me to tell you." now a very poignant pause, as his entire tone had changed.
" gentlemen. I am now going to tell you the truth! If there is any way, ANY way!!,... that you can think of to get out of going into the Army, then DO it! Because it is NOT what you think it is! And if I wasn't being discharged in eight weeks, I would not be here telling you this." He paused and just gazed at all of us, seated there, many following like lemmings what they've been told is the right and good thing to do. I felt more justfied somehow. I'll never forget that man.
After this meeting I was pulled aside and told to fill out the same information  I'd filled out before because they had 'lost' the first set. Only me? yep. So I sat there filling it all out again..everyone else had moved on somewhere or left the building, I didn't know. I was cut off from the group now. half way through the second set of stuff, a doctor exited an adjacent office room, and said to the medic in charge, " Is it alright if I disqualify him now? I'm late for lunch." "Yes, Sir!"
I went into the room with this wry physician. He made a joke about his name and read through what I recognized as Dr. C's letter describing my 'condition'. I worked, years later, in psychiatry and I don't believe I've ever seen some of the words he used in that letter. The army doc made me 1-Y, which later turned into 4F. However you may feel about that war, I'm glad I didn't go.

A humorous note is that my attorney, a well respected local lawyer, was appointed to be on the selective service board shortly after my successful experience.


As an aside (which I am full of) an old musician friend a few years before had been summoned. Mike was living in Los Angeles, working for Electra, I think. He showed up at a house I lived at with some friends, real screwy like he hadn't slept, or couldn't sleep. He had just arrived from L.A. and explained to me he'd used what was referred to as a recipe to get out of being drafted. It involved some combination, starting 3 to 5 days before your induction physical, of dropping a big hit of acid, then so many hours later taking speed..and a few other things, perhaps. I didn't memorize it, but the idea was to just F*** you up!  but he told me what had happened, as he'd just come back from his seattle induction physical.

They passed out paperwork to everyone to fill out before the meetings and physical. everyone else having finished, mike was still working on it. let's make a note that michael is a fantastic guitar player, and a highly intelligent individual. That being said, his this drug induced exhausted state caught the eye of some sergeant or whatever. The officer approached mike, who looked like very stressed out, sweating, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, and the effects of the drugs.
"Can I help you, son?"
Mike didn't answer so much as look even more stressed.
"Ok. Let me help you. What question are you on? Let's see." It was the line that said, simply,"Name".
"What's your name, son?".....
"......Michael?....."
"OKAY Michael, just write that in.."
His state of mind convinced the fellow eventually that Michael was more trouble than the Army wanted to deal with. He was given a way out.

Bob Dylan - 3rd party anecdote HE was hitchin'

Dateline Ashland, Oregon, 1970 ( unless my memory polices my precision post-post):

I'd been staying on High Street with Lydia and her friends. I think around that time my buddy Morley Hughes, whom I'd met when he'd been visiting Yakima a year or so before, was also living in Ashland. We hitched together alot--more to come about Morley. We all had an acquaintance, another long-hair, who lived in town, a tall fellow and I don't recall his name. He was employed though, which set him apart from us. But it was a cool job as late night/all night janitor at the Angus Bowmer Shakespearean Theater. 
I think we'd run into him in the afternoons sometimes in the local restaurant where sometimes the actors would have lunch.

I recall a burly actor in casual clothes who was playing Macbeth at the time loudly proclaim,

" WENCH! ANOTHER FLAGON OF COFFEE!" in his stage voice. Damn, he needed no amplification. Big Lungs, we'd call him if he was to become a character in this anecdote, but he's not.

Our janitor friend would generally get off work, then walk home through Lithia Park, named after the famous Lithia water, which perked from underground springs, and has a variety of minerals and chemicals, including lithium. I could struggle to make a connection here to Hollywood being a town of manics and how actors maybe could benefit from learning their craft in a town that provided such a liquid for free in their water fountains around town,......but I won't. The other 'aside' about the Park is that is that it was indeed designed by John McLaren, who also designed the Golden Gate park in San Francisco...and, whether they still survive there or not, there were Black Swans in the park when I was there, for the tourists among you, the hunters not so much.

Our janitor pal's place must have been on the little road that borders the park, probably near where I lived with Alaska John in my then future temporary home (another 'incarnation' in Ashland).

One day, after he awoke from his day sleep (night-shifters understand this), he trudged to the coffee shop/restaurant, and, in a very low keyed manner, very cool, like not-trying-to-impress us, he told us a tale of an encounter he'd made at dawn.

6 AM. Same day, earlier. He was tired. Probably mentioned lighting a joint for his short walk home, a small studio, I believe near the park. You walk through the park from the Angus Bowmer Theater then get to a place up-park where there used to be a home. The cement foundation is barely seen, but the steps leading up to where it had been are still used. The home had been on the park side of that little road I mentioned earlier. No other homes were on that side, I believe. The park folks probably tore it down or something when the park went in, but these cement steps remained and were used to climb to the road above. They were known as "The Wishing Steps", for the mythical purposes we all needed at the time . A good place to sit and enjoy a toke. Sun was still trying to get it's head over the 'sill' of the horizon.

So. As he lit a number, our bud saw a stranger parked on the top step, with a backpack. His recounting to us right then, in the same tone as he'd begun, included this at that point,"...it was Bob Dylan". No exclamation point. Very cool.

"I just greeted him, and asked where he was headed. He said he had a farmer friend in Yreka, NOT Eureka, and was hitchhiking to go see his friend. He stopped in Ashland to rest a bit and perhaps because his friend wasn't going to be home til afternoon.

"I said, 'I'm on my way home...you want some lumpy mush?' Dylan said, "Sure. Thanks." and we walked to my little place.

"As I reheated my lumpy mush on my little burner, I had the hi-fi playing Dylan tunes. I never asked his name, or mentioned his name. But it was Bob. No doubt.

"We enjoyed the mush, he said, "Thanks, man", and then hit the road."

I know what you're thinking. But I believed him. Never had a reason to doubt him.

My friend Evelyn and I saw Dylan with Waylon a few years ago in Portland. That was the second time for me. I'd seen him with The Band at the old Seattle Center Collisseum, in 1976, I think. My girlfriend, Laura is deaf, so she enjoyed my Mariott suite while Ev and I enjoyed the show. I enjoyed the element of lots of folks about my age who lived through the same things almost as much as Dylan himself. I play guitar. I think it's still true that I've forgotten more Dylan tunes than all the other tunes I do remember. But I kinda decided my favorite, if there is one, is Boots of Spanish Leather. It can make me cry. After the Portland show, I got back to Seattle and 'lifted' many different versions of that off the internet by various artists.

I then read his book, bought with his complete poetry, which I still am working through,saw the interview with Ed Bradley on TV, and am even more of a Dylanophile now.

This Ashland tale brings back warm and free and footloose memories for me. Perhaps to anyone else it isn't much, but I hope it is. If anyone knows this Morely Hughes, or someone named Lydia who may have been there in the early seventies, please relate this to them. Thanks.

..we're still on the A's..if it's alphabetical..I know! ALLEN GINSBERG!!

During my almost a year living in Denver Colorado from November 1972 to July of the next year when the First Rainbow Family Gathering in the Rocky Mountains drew me back towards my former reality as a Northwesterner, I developed an ambivalent memory set towards meeting Allen Ginsberg..ambivalence because I met him, but probably could have gotten to know him better.

I thought I was living in the old Antlers Hotel, a place of such rampant character that I was recently frankly amazed that I could Google not one story about it. Maybe one minor one, but it was so brief it was hard to tell. Other 'Antler Hotel's' arose form other eras, but not mine. Now I'm pretty sure I was instead living across from the Cathedral on Colfax over the pharmacy with the evil landlord pharmacist.

Daily labor was the name of the game. The hardest work I have ever done..and that includes harder than working cutting bottom vines in Yakima Valley hop fields, running ahead of the tractor and chopping through the bottom of the vines so that the guys in the crow's nests on the trucks following me could cut the tops so that the vines would fall nicely into the back of the truck. But at least in the case of these Denver days it was a different job every day. One day it would be jack hammering some guys basement; musta been six of us with jackhammers down there. Or else at a country club by the pool...not what you might think...sledge hammering through the cement to get to a broken pump by the pool.

Whatever it was on this particular day in 1973, I at least was working with a new friend, Richard, I had the fortune to meet up with. We had enough of a connection in this big 'melting pot' of a city to enjoy each other's company. We'd worked our asses off at some hard job, in fact I believe it WAS that pool job. Oh ! I forgot to say hardest work I've ever done AND the absolute worst pay, even for the times. The entire eight hour day netted us a check for just shy of a ten spot each.

So there we were. The company had given us a free ride back to the 'office' and our daily check. Ironically, we decided to celebrate and spend it all that afternoon in a nice little restaurant a few blocks north of Colfax, an Italian place that had a great spaghetti and Italian Sausage. So I think we both had that and a bottle of beer, wiping out our funds. We bonded over some spiritual stuff, got to know each other a little better. Then we paid our bill, after we were refreshed and full, and started to leave the cafe.

Immediately. There he was. Standing on the sidewalk with a woman who turned out to be either Italian or French, I forget. Allen Ginsberg. As if he'd been waiting for us. I was carrying my book, Gurdjieff's All and Everything, or Beelzebub's Tales to his Grandson. Straightaway, Ginsberg mentioned it, recognizing the binding and the thickness of my book. He the explained that he and his female companion had I think gotten off the bus and were lost. He spoke of the Revolution, and that he was going there to greet the people who were camped out on the Capitol steps then. It was the time when Nixon had put mines in Hanoi Harbor. People were in protest over that.

I thought Ginsberg would know Denver, but the truth is the downtown area is like a big disk that has been turned so many degrees. Some of the street corners have little static compass sculpture things embedded in the sidewalks to help folks know where North is. They were trying to find the Capitol Building. Richard and I pointed them the way. So I guess we helped Allen Ginsberg through life, so to speak. I'll put that on my resume.

We said a friendly adieu and went our respective ways. Richard and I chatted more as we walked, he relating to me that this wasn't the first time he'd met Allen. Once in Washington Square Park in NYC, Richard witnessed Allen reading some poetry from a podium. Beside him he had a paper sack. As he read, he'd chosen to use a different technique to indicate to his rapt audience exactly where the exclamation points were. He would reach into the bag, clasping a handful of what apparently was human shit, and (EXCLAMATION POINT!!) SLAP it onto the pavement beside him!

Richard later introduced me to a band of spiritual brothers who were bonded by a similar bond I had been missing from my own 'brothers' from the North West whom I'd decided to take a hiatus from. I may write more about the Denver band of brothers later. Denver Tom. Clarke ( dangerously aware vs. sociopath--you'd have to meet him then decide for yourself, he defies description..i vow to try another time). The skinny guy sharply aware, and penetrating eyes. The cabby who apparently liked little boys, but nevertheless turned me on to Idries Shah's Sufi writings, which enjoyed very much over the years.

Throughout the week following meeting Ginsberg I saw him twice more. These other times are the times I kick myself about as both times I sensed he would have welcomed a conversation, but I think I was intimidated, undervaluing my own experiences..shucks.

One time I was walking by the Greyhound Station I think on the same street where we'd met. Inside, in the bus station coffee shop, Allen sat at a little table with a middle aged man, possibly a gay friend of his, but he glanced out the window and remembered me. He waved and smiled, and so did I. This icon. Made my day again. Ah, well.

The other time was across the steet from my little studio on Colfax, across from the Cathedral, just up Colfax from the Gold Domed Denver Capitol building, in a little coffee shop where I spent much time reading. I'd been there downing cup after cup from an hour or two around dinnertime when in walk three or four 13 or 14 year old boys with an older man who I did not ID right away as Allen. Then it hit me. He didn't see me this time. Perhaps because he looked preoccupied. I have no idea what was going on, but the boys did not seem to be particularly and/or sufficiently impressed with this American literary icon who accompanied them. Was he babysitting? Was he interested in something else?... I sure don't know. But his demeanor was, to my completely uninformed eye, depressed. Hunched over. Trying to hide, or uninterested in what the boys were actively talking about...wishing he weren't there. It seemed, if I was challenged to write about what I saw..as I am now challenging myself to do...that Allen was perhaps one of them, and not a very popular one.. like following them around. One can't know all about what one observes, but we always try to make sense of things. I guess I'd lay my money on babysitting a friend's kid and his buddies. Very surreal, but who knows! OK. No drama here. Not fur you, maybe. But it was a highlight in my life back then.

AS LONG AS WE'RE ON THE DOORS....

CIRCA JULY 25TH TO JULY 28TH 1969:

Organized by Boyd Grafmyre, held at Gold Creek Park in Woodinville.

I had a couple friends who got on as security for Boyd. Other entries regarding this event I may remember later, but for now it's the Doors that come to mind.
It was night time, or at least dusk, I seem to remember.
As it wasn't for an album, but an outdoor venue, the DOORS began an unobtrusive intro, which probably ended up being fifteen minutes or so. I think there was significant time space between acts so people were busy getting high or walking around. As each band's sound permeated the park people regrouped. It was no different with the DOORS except for this steady build up...very slow build up..like their songs have anyway, much of the time. bom-bom bu-bom-bom... on and on..before Morrison decided to start...
It was still building..minutes..minutes.. Jim stood there, holding the microphone on it's stand,moving it back and forth, nodding to the musical buildup. There was a small crowd right in front of the stage. As the music got a little louder... you just couldn't wait to hear Jim's first words. They had it down. But some folks in the very very front had stood up, in anticipation of Jim's first vocalization in the song. I forgot which one, but perhaps something like Riders on the Storm.
OK..Some other folks sitting ont he ground behind those very very front folks, had begun to kind of shout, "Sit down!! Down in front!!"
OK....by the way this made the papers the next day.
Jim Morrison, slowly.....slowly..with the building beat and music behind him...slowly cupped the microphone. He brought it to his mouth, all in 'synch' with the music...not losing the mood..but instead of singing, Morrison spoke. Slowly. Here is what he said:

"Hey!............All....YOU....People... Sitting Down......In BACK of.....the People.....Standing up......." Then he held up the significant middle finger, and finished the thought with, "..........FUCK.........YOUUU!!!".. Moments later, he started the lyrics.

The DOORS and Dr. Ben Casey in LA

Standing on a corner on Sunset Boulevard, perhaps the first time I was ever in LA, I'm guessing the same day I arrived by thumb. Waiting, waiting...--years later on another LA 'layover' on my way back from Mexico I was walking, walking walking up Sunset or down La Cienega, and some A-hole in a convertible yells out to me, laughing, "Get a car!!!!, Buddy! You're in LA now!". Guess he was right.--ok, back to waiting, waiting...still seeing the WAIT sign. A tall skinny fellow not carrying a backpack ( as I was carrying one) sidled up to the pedestrian crossing next to me and starting chatting...

I think we had some coffee at the Denny's on Sunset, or maybe IHOP. Then the subject got around to work.
"Hey, man...if you're looking for some work, I know a guy.." This guy he knew had been a manager for the DOORS, and the guy telling me this apparently had worked for this 'manager of the DOORS' fellow in the past, as a 'roadie', moving amplifiers, etc.
He knew where the guy's condo was a block or so off Sunset. After coffee, as the evening crept up on us, some other guy joined us, I think, and we found the condo, or apartment of the "DOORS manager" dude. But he wasn't home.
My acquaintance knew enough about this guy to convince his roommate that we were authentic, so he said, " Sure, come on in! He's working his own band now, but he'll be off around 4 AM or 5 AM maybe back here about 6, but you guys can crash in the living room chairs if you want." As I glanced around the room, the amplifier cases, black suitcase like things, had white paint stencils on them which indeed spelled "DOORS". So I give him the benefit of the doubt.
We chatted some, perhaps, and fell off to nap as the hours ticked by. Until about 6 AM, when the real person of the 'DOORS' manager guy got home.
My acquaintance awoke with his spiel ready, "Hey man! Remember me?! I worked for you a year or so ago! You're roommate said we could crash and wait. We're wondering if you have any work?"
The 'DOORS' guy didn't miss a beat.
"YOU!!", he shouted. "Yeah..(sarcastically)..I remember you, alright!...What the hell are you doing in my home!!??" then he went on about how he had not been happy with this fellow I was with as an employee.

At least I'd found a warm cozy place to catch a few winks, but once kicked back onto the street, I made light of it and we parted ways, I finding my way back to the IHOP or Denny's on Sunset. It may have been that same morning, as I hitchhiked down Sunset that a middle aged fellow named Sky with long hair, driving a Mustang ( convertible I think) gave me a lift and even bought me breakfast at Denny's. This SKY--another brush with fame-- told me as we drove down Sunset that Vince Edwards had slept on his floor before he got the role of Ben Casey. Sky, himself, was friendly and not looking for anything else, it seemed from a young man hitchhiking...but seemed to be looking for some attention he'd not succeeded in getting somewhere else. A lonely LA character. Gullible or not, I find no harm in giving these types the benefit of the doubt.