tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60261719044134753462024-03-17T20:03:41.232-07:00Bobby JamesonA written history of Bobby Jameson and his search through the past.
Working my way back through the jungle of drug addiction and booze. My family life as a kid was the breeding ground for addicts. No self worth, no help, and one chance to get out alive. Music was the horse I rode out on...and the music business was the horse I rode into hell. Pronounced dead twice from drug over doses, I lived to tell how the pursuit of fame is as deadly as any narcotic I have ever used.Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.comBlogger332125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-22251514321088786672015-05-04T23:14:00.001-07:002015-05-04T23:19:06.050-07:00(part 305) As Time Goes By.......<br />
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People piss on you and argue a point, which is in their best interest only, then decide that you have no reason to quit speaking to them when you finally get fed up. Friendship to them is being able to say, and do, whatever they want and demand you accept it. I find this to be the height of arrogance and a damn good reason to cut the ties, whatever they were. In 1985 I did this with and entire city, Los Angeles, because I could not come up with one good reason to stay, but a lot of reasons to leave. There wasn't one person in that whole town that I told where I was going before I left, not one person I valued enough to say goodbye to. I had had a belly full of friendships that meant little or nothing when the shit came down, and in my life the shit always came down. I was honest about being endless trouble. Honest about conveying the reality to those I knew and/or those who I met along the way about myself. My take on being me is that everybody gets tired of a person who is always going through hard times, and I had been going through hard times since I began to crawl, to use and old Albert King line. The blues, and the kind of living that gave rise to them, was a lot of what I'd experienced from an early age. Like working in Arizona in the alfalfa fields around Phoenix at the age of fifteen, or unloading boxcars for two bucks at night, because it was too hot in the daytime. In 1956 and 57, in Tucson, AZ., I was put into a juvenile detention center called, Mother Higgins, a despicable place, located at the edge of downtown Tucson. I still can't remember why I was in there, multiple times, other than the word incorrigible is firmly stuck in my mind. That pretty much means I questioned some authority, and according to the dictionary, could not be corrected. So, as you can see, I have had this problem for a very long time, being hard to correct. Many of the people who I once knew, in person, have attempted to correct me with no success. In fact all they managed to do was piss me off and cause me to further separate myself from them. At this point I am pretty well separated from just about everybody. But that is not new. That is exactly the way it was back in 1985 when I just up and left L.A. It took a lot of years to connect with my brother and mother, once I got here to San Luis Obispo, Ca. A lot of work, on all our parts, to become friends and learn to trust each other, and depend upon each other. I had to overcome decades of old ideas, and hurts, before I could open up to them, and they as well, had the same job dealing with me. Friendship is about trust, about acceptance, and about love. It is about reliability and making your word mean something other than just the words being uttered for convenience. This is something my mother, brother, and I, learned to do with each other. We learned we could count on each other no matter what. I attempted this with others, but found it impossible to accomplish. It seems there needs to be something deeper than the average connection with people. There needs to be a deeper yearning to connect in a way that is less prevalent amongst most. There were times, many, that I wanted to pick up and leave here as well, but opted to stay and work through every goddamn difficulty that arose. It was the first time in my life I chose that road and it was a hard way to go, but the most rewarding and valuable in the end. It was like a marriage in many ways, through good and through bad. It was a commitment to someone else instead of just to myself. It made me a better person and it taught me to understand the needs of others rather than demand that they understand my needs. To put back together a broken family, and it's members, is, and was, a daunting task. It takes everything you have to make it work, never stops to ask you if it's convenient, or fun. It is an affair of the heart and mind, and stretches you out like a rope tightened to it's breaking point. But if you persist, and I did, it will reward you in ways you cannot know other than by the doing of it. I am still incorrigible, still pissing people off, and most of all still willing to give it all I got. My mother and brother did not fix me, nor I them. What we learned was to accept each other the way we were, instead of expecting each other to be the way we wanted. Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-28491094136540460532015-04-25T22:51:00.002-07:002015-05-01T16:58:07.658-07:00(part 304) The Scttering Of Ashes At Sea<br />
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I received this in the mail yesterday. It is the certificate of the scattering of my mother's ashes at sea, by the Neptune Society. It was her choice and was made long ago. I waited three months to get this as a form of recognition that her desire was carried out the way she wanted. It is a form of finality and transition from the chaotic months now behind us, and hopefully signals a sense of peace and calm after the storm.<br />
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A map of the location where the ashes were scattered. Made by my brother Quentin<br /><br />
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My mother was always busy doing something. She was a talented and beautiful person who loved life, and was always planning her next project, her next painting, or poem. She was the only person I ever knew who never threw me away.<br />
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I love you mom..........Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-59175833930560381922015-04-20T18:10:00.000-07:002015-04-20T18:10:32.474-07:00(part 303) April 20, 2015....70 Years Old Today<br />
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I am 70 years old today and have spent most of it crying. My head hurts so much I cannot push it out of the picture. I am sick and alone, and that's the way it is here today. If I felt up to it I would do something different than what I am doing, which is staring at the emptiness around me. I wish I had someone here with me to talk to, but I don't. I wish my head didn't hurt so much, but it does. My reality is not your reality, so I don't expect you to understand, yet possibly some of you do. I am not the only person who has had to go through difficult times, but know, that for me, these are the most difficult of times. I always look forward in hopes that things will improve, but in the last few years they have only gotten worse. I have not given up, or found it necessary to hide myself in a bottle, or a handful of pills. I have fought many battles in my life and won a few here and there. It is something I just do and will keep doing. I write this today as a reminder to me of how it really is, as opposed to how I wished it were...or how others may believe it is...<br />
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Bob Jameson April 20, 2015<br />
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<br />Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-66963855046366005302015-04-17T22:50:00.002-07:002015-04-18T14:36:02.183-07:00(part 302) The Young Blond Girl<br />
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By Miruna Uzdris<br />
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In 1967 you just disappeared one day. <br />
Never said anything. <br />
I never heard from you again, <br />
until forty years later. <br />
And like you left, you reappeared <br />
without warning. <br />
It was four decades later, and at first <br />
I didn't remember you, and you acted hurt. <br />
But forty years is a long time between <br />
no goodbye and a second hello. <br />
When you walk out on a person, <br />
without a word, <br />
they tend to push you out of their <br />
mind and forget you. <br />
That's what I did, I forgot, <br />
and it took me awhile to start remembering <br />
the young blond girl from the restaurant on <br />
Sunset Blvd. in 1966. <br />
But then I did remember. <br />
I recalled the rides to the beach, <br />
and along the strip in Carol's Jaguar, <br />
the nights I played the piano and you listened.<br />
It was all there, locked in my memory <br />
like an old photograph from a distant time, <br />
from another world, another life. <br />
I grew close to you and was glad you found me again, <br />
glad you wanted to, glad you remembered me.<br />
And when I gave you my heart, and made you<br />
my queen, you began being less interested, <br />
less available.<br />
Like an old message on a new day,<br />
you began to look elsewhere, <br />
and then without a word<br />
just disappeared as you had before<br />
so many years ago.<br />
So now, as then, I am trying to forget you,<br />
trying to see my world without you,<br />
trying to push you out of my mind…Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-56959635987617119172015-04-13T17:28:00.001-07:002015-04-16T13:12:26.725-07:00(part 301) A Man Of Means By No MeansEven though there are some who have strongly suggested that I quit writing and thinking about the music business, this post will pursue that subject once again. I will be 70 years old in a week. I find myself in difficult financial times since my mother's death, because we shared all the bills which made it possible for both of us to be basically covered. But now all of it falls on my back alone. So the subject of this post is about money, not money from record sales or publishing, of which there is none, but money for making records in the past, of which there were many.<br />
(list of <a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2011/06/released-records-by-bobby-jameson.html">records I made)</a><br />
I was a member of both Local 47, the Musicians Union, and AFTRA. That means I had the right to be paid when I played on a session, or sang on a session, which for the most part I was not. The reason this is important now, is because by not being paid for work I did on sessions in the past means the necessary monies that were to be paid into the fund, which becomes your Social Security in later life, where I am now, was not paid. this means I do not get Social Security. I get something different called SSI (supplemental security income), which I am grateful for, but which is considerably less than I would be getting if I got Social Security. At 70 years old I find myself with more bills than income, and I live in the least costly way I can, with no frills at all. It is my past in the music business, and the failure of those who did not pay me, for session work only, that rears it's ugly head a half a century later in my current life. Once again, I am not talking, at all, about record royalties, or publishing royalties. I am speaking specifically about union money that I earned for work I did, but was not paid for. Money that would have meant I got Social Security decades later, which is now. It is hard, if not impossible, to disassociate myself from old facts that are currently making my life extremely difficult to live now. As much as I would like to put the past away, I find myself forced to deal with the problems I have today, which were caused by events long ago. When I was young I wanted to make records. So, what I should have demanded, from those who did not pay me, was left up to trusting them, and accepting their explanations for why I wasn't being paid for my work as a musician and singer. I didn't know enough back then to see fifty years into the future and realize how I would be affected. But I'm here now, and it's as clear as a bell how it happened. I do not want, or like, to complain about these things, but find myself forced to face the day to day hardships I encounter whether I want to or not. SSI does not permit me to get any outside help, or to work, unless I report it to them. If I report it to them they turn around and take any money I obtain, from any source, and deduct it from what they give me that month. So if I went and cut someone's hedge, and made $75.00, SSI would allow me to keep $60.00, but would deduct anything over $60.00 a month, whatever it was. If I don't report it to them, or lie about it, I am guilty of a crime under Federal Law. It is not like Social Security at all. Social Security is your own money and you have the right to it, and can work, or get other money, without it affecting your Social Security in any way. SSI is considered not to be your money, but the government's, and with it they force their rules and regulations down your throat for getting it. This is why, and how, the music business keeps being a part of my daily life now, even though I have not been part of it for over three decades. For those of you who seem to relish each opportunity to find fault with me, and to school me in how to live, think, and feel, I post this, as my latest invitation for you to once again issue forth your superior intellectual comments about my endless shortcomings.....<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-53728570367435100582015-04-08T13:12:00.001-07:002015-04-13T23:42:10.185-07:00(part 300) The Eagle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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THE EAGLE<br />
(To my son, Bob)<br />
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How proud and angry<br />
The eagle in his flight<br />
Wings outstretched<br />
High, high, higher than the peaks<br />
Higher than the mundane world below<br />
Higher than all the sparrows<br />
He glistens in the sun<br />
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Yet I have seen him bound to earth<br />
Full of sorrow<br />
I have seen him with his wings folded<br />
Struggling for breath<br />
Struggling for meanings<br />
Struggling for truth<br />
Yes, I have seen the eagle cry<br />
And his tears fell into my heart<br />
Each one leaving a wound<br />
That will not heal<br />
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Oh, eagle<br />
Lift your wings<br />
Fly in the sun again<br />
Be not only proud, but wise<br />
One can see much up there above the peaks<br />
Close to the sun<br />
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Written by Troy Parker Farr<br />
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This particular piece was written by my mother, 2010, about me. It is her
recollection of watching my struggle back to life from a coma after a
drug overdose an attempted suicide in 1972. Her words, "struggling for
breath" refer to that day in the intensive care unit of UCLA Hospital in
Westwood, CA. I cannot change the circumstances of why she wrote this. I
can only share what she wrote and why she wrote it. Fortunately she was able to see me get clean and sober in 1976, and stay that way for the rest of her life.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 0F BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-14274104788073175602015-04-06T15:07:00.000-07:002015-04-13T23:42:49.752-07:00(part 299) Willy-NillyIt is the dream thing. The thinking of it before it is, the hearing and seeing of something not yet, becoming something in the now. The artistic, co-creationistic universe at work in the human mind, and emotions, that gives life to art in many forms. It is something I have played with since I was a child. It is not something I thought to do, but something I noticed I did, and still do. It just happens, whether I like it or not, or notice it or not. I cannot stop it from happening, and would not even try. I sat down at nine years old, and wrote my first song on paper, while at my mother's piano in Tucson, Arizona in the fifties, and have been writing ever since. People who do not know about this, because they have never paid attention to it, specifically, still do it whether they know it or not. Maybe they do it when they're cooking, or thinking of a flower arrangement, or something, but they do it nonetheless. It is an activity that goes on willy-nilly during everyone's life. It could be a person thinking about flying an airplane or dancing on a stage. It does not matter what it is, only that it is. We all create within ourselves what we pay attention to. We can create almost anything without exception. "As a man thinketh, so is he," is a saying that attempts to convey this message to whomever. There are many such messages on this planet that have existed since time began, but they are only adhered to by some.<br />
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If one becomes caught, as I have been in my life, in the rut of too many negative experiences, then they tend to expect, as I do, more of the same, simply based on past experience. The trick is, to consciously attempt to rework that thinking into new thinking that proposes better circumstances now, and in the future. As simple, and true, as this is, it is not at all easy to do. I spend a lot of time in trying to recreate my own expectations for something better. I have found myself besieged in the last few years with one catastrophe after another, which is something countless persons experience. So it becomes even more difficult to look past these occurrences to brighter days, yet that is exactly the point. Whether it is Ernest Holmes, Buddha, Jesus Christ, or some other version, the point is always the same. See what you want to see, not what you don't want to see, even if you are currently engulfed in it. If not, you will continue creating for yourself exactly what you don't want, but have had.<br />
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When one is ill, like I have been for years, it is of paramount importance to try and bend one's own vision of him/herself into the belief of wellness, even in the face of dis-ease, or disease. If I tend to continue to see myself as "sick" then my message to myself is sickness. So I have to fight to recreate this picture, and belief, into a better picture and better belief. It is like a piece of art, perhaps a painting. You get to decide what it is you are going to paint, and if you make a mistake, you can fix it, or change it and make it right. The same is true with writing. If you write something poorly, you can always go back and change it, or fix it, and make it the way you intended it to be. The biggest problem is not knowing, or believing, that you can do this, or giving up on it, simply because you don't get the results you want immediately. Stick with it, it works! Stay the course and you will be intrigued by what you can accomplish. Everyday I believe I can do better at everything, even though a times it seems futile. The only true mistake I will ever make, is giving up on what I am trying to correct.....<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-18382613612009387762015-04-01T15:49:00.001-07:002015-04-13T23:43:30.797-07:00(part 298) FUCK YOU!!!<br />
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This comment was posted by an anonymous commenter on my post "This Time Will Be Different" a couple of days ago. I will attempt to decipher the actual meaning and intent of this comment, which congratulates me on my success at staying clean and sober, but quickly switches to a quote of mine to set up the needed groundwork for what is to come.<br />
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"But I still need to learn that me and the music business are done"<br />
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Following this quote, the commenter launches into the real point of their comment, which is to belittle me, while pretending to offer helpful advice. It fails completely at understanding the difference between being in the music business, and writing about the music business, while not actually being in it anymore. <br />
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The commenter goes on to trash the music business with a number of hyperbolic words, that I wonder if the commenter really understands from their own experience, or has just chosen to make a point. I am congratulated for some of my work, while at the same time, dismissed, for the rest of my work. Each bit of praise is followed by a dismissal of the praise just given. In other words, no matter what you did, or do, right, you are still not right enough, in the commenter's opinion. I suffer from bad luck, according to the commenter, but on the other hand am lucky I didn't make it, because if I had, it would have killed me.<br />
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i love this part of the commenter's comment,<br />
<br />
"I took the time to post this on your blog with good
intentions, and if it comes across as unwarranted criticism, lecturing,
or some inept or sanctimonious attempt at "tough love" it is intended
to be none of those."<br />
<br />
"Really? That's exactly what it is you fucking moron. It is you coming here, and taking a lot of time, and effort, to post your sanctimonious, unsolicited advice, and criticism of me, on my blog. You set yourself up as being, not only critical, and condescending, but excuse yourself from any intention to be that way, while being it."<br />
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The commenter goes on to say I did a good job of telling my side of the story, but again reverses course to demean me for continuing to post my thoughts and music here. At the same time, the commenter belittles anyone, and everyone, who likes what I do, as unknowing weaklings for liking it.<br />
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In finishing up. the commenter tells me I will never find true peace until I submit myself to promising never to utter another word about the music business, or post another repetitive story, or song, involving my past. And then re-clarifies the fact that I am sober, but restates that peace will elude me until what the commenter suggests, as a remedy, is done.<br />
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I don't think you are in a position, anonymous, to talk about peace to anyone. I think you are a person who builds yourself up, in your own mind, by belittling others under the guise of help, much like a narow minded pastor in some god awful little cult like church in never land.....FUCK YOU!!!!<br />
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<div class="comment-header" id="bc_0_6M" kind="m">
<cite class="user">Anonymous</cite><span class="icon user"></span><span class="datetime secondary-text"><a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2015/03/part-295-this-time-will-be-different.html?showComment=1427775533299#c5800939278078438222" rel="nofollow">March 30, 2015 at 9:18 PM</a></span></div>
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<div class="comment-content" id="bc_0_6MC">
Nearly
forty years of sobriety is definitely nothing to be sneezed at, and
certainly seems to be, in your case anyway, a really good thing. You
deserve congratulations.<br />
<br />
"But I still need to learn that me and the music business are done ..." <br />
<br />
True that. But how can you ever be "done" with the music business
when you keep bringing it up all the time and constantly keep posting
your same songs & recordings over and over again?<br />
<br />
I think
it's great and admirable that you have managed to purge alcohol and
drugs from your brain & bloodstream, but I doubt you will ever find
peace until you someday manage to do the same with your musical past. <br />
<br />
I also, like you seem to have implied, think you should put the music
business behind you. All of it. It wasn't in the cards for you for
whatever reasons. <br />
<br />
The music business is, or at least at
that time - as you know - for the most part was more often than not an
evil dirty lowlife business, controlled by and teeming with greedy,
uneducated lazy predators,nutcases, conscienceless "merchants" and
organized crime scum. <br />
And had you achieved "success" fame and
money in such a business, especially based on your then predilection for
alcohol and drugs, it more than likely would have destroyed you, as it
did so many that we all miss today.<br />
Granted, some of your music is
just as good, and to be fair, some of it just as shitty as all the
stuff that was on the radio at that time, but you should know as well if
not better than most that getting that first big "hit" is as much about
luck, "right place / right time" etc. than it is about talent<br />
(though maintaining that success in my opinion is a somewhat different story). <br />
You were, based on what I have read, unlucky, and even a bit self-destructive career-wise as well.<br />
<br />
It's a free country, and you have every right to say and do and post
anything you damn well please, and I would vigorously defend your right
to do so.<br />
I took the time to post this on your blog with good
intentions, and if it comes across as unwarranted criticism, lecturing,
or some inept or sanctimonious attempt at "tough love" it is intended
to be none of those.<br />
<br />
You have told your whole side of the story, and told it well.<br />
But I think that as long as you keep dredging up the music business, posting the same stories and music over and over, etc. <br />
- and while certainly there will always be plenty of online
yes-men/women, toadies, inexperienced clueless "civilians" who are
starstruck about the music business, <br />
and even genuinely decent well
meaning people who, in search of "friendship" or simply in what they
think is well-meaning support, will encourage you to keep doing so<br />
- they just might unknowingly be doing you more harm than good.<br />
<br />
In the end I doubt you will ever find any true peace until you close
and LOCK the door on that whole sad ugly pathetic chapter of your life,
as well as put to rest any remaining desires or temptation for
"recognition," strokes or even justice <br />
... and just let it go. <br />
Feel free to throw rocks.<br />
<br />
Again congratulations on your sobriety, and here's hoping one way or another you eventually find some true peace in this life.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a> </div>
Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-42846842155294807342015-03-30T16:24:00.003-07:002015-04-13T23:44:12.321-07:00(part 297) 39 years clean and sober<br />
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In 2 days I will have been clean and sober for 39 years. For a guy no one believed would get clean and sober in the first place, I feel vindicated to say the least. I may not be mr. happy, but I have not had to get loaded, no matter how rough things have gotten, in the last four decades. While I have fought bitterly, at times, with people in the music business on this blog, I have never lost sight of the one thing that was most important in my life, and that is maintaining the single thing that allowed me to be here at all. People have come and gone, but I am still here attempting, poorly at times, to communicate the ups and downs of a person who has experienced life, in both the fast lane, as well as the slow lane. For some, my achievement means little, while to others it is proof that no matter how crazy you are you can still get clean and stay that way... I may not always look like it, but in the background I measure all that has gone on here by the fact that I am still sober. In my life, without sobriety, I would be, and was, a madman running wild and headed for disaster at all times. My past is riddled with countless stories about nearly achieving my goals, and the reasons why I never did. My reactions to what happened and what didn't happen are the subjects I have tried to explore on this blog. I have failed, and succeeded, at doing that over the years, and continue trying to tie it altogether as I go. I have learned that my allies, over time, may turn into my detractors later on, and visa-versa to some degree. It has been a massive learning experience for me, writing this blog, and still is. What tomorrow may bring has proven to be just about anything as far as I can tell, and no one is ever qualified to predict what it will be, least of all me. I ride it through, and decipher it as I go, and then again in hindsight. It has proven to be difficult as hell to do this in public, as it is happening, but that's the way this blog has been from the beginning. For those of you who find fault with me, give it a try sometime. Put your life on display for anyone to see, and try dealing with the myriad of responses you may get while attempting to do so. I can't really complain about it, because I'm the dumbbell who decided to do it this way.<br />
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The good part of writing this blog is that I have been able to tell a story that needed to be told, if only for my own peace of mind. It was the complete lack of a cohesive beginning to the story, and the lack of any context or continuity to it, that bothered me originally. People had written things that weren't true, and had the history all wrong. For years, decades really, I felt the need to say, "Hey, wait a minute, that's not what happened," so finally I just said, "I'll do it myself," and did. it has been a labor of both love and frustration for me. An opportunity to have a voice about the facts and fiction of a crazy son-of-a-bitch who wrote and recorded a lot of songs, and who did a lot of things, with a lot of different people, in a lot of different places. It has been a way for me to make known recordings that no one ever knew about, to tell you about who they were made with, and why. To give, to some degree, insight into the inner workings of things you may, or may not, have found interesting. All in all I have attempted to take up your time, and keep you interested enough to keep coming back.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a><br />
<br />Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-2421084487295332022015-03-26T18:53:00.000-07:002015-04-13T23:44:55.794-07:00(part 296) This Time Will Be Different<br />
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My brother Bill and I used to talk about the day I got a phone call from some stranger about an old album of mine from the 60's. Up until that day, in 2003, I had pretty much quit thinking and talking about my time in the music business. I would say to Bill, "I wish I never got that call that day!" And he would say back, "Yeah I remember it well, it screwed your life up again!"<br />
"Yes it did," I'd say, "it started the same old shit all over it again!"<br />
Again! That's the right word alright. That word represents my life in general. I did it again. It happened again. I tried again, and I got fucked again. Man what a lethal word.<br />
<br />
Bill had watched me change a lot over the years we were in San Luis Obispo. He had seen me become more considerate, and reliable, when it came to doing things that helped the whole family, as opposed to just serving my own interests. Things like work. Work meaning physical labor and getting paid, which in my life had been something that mostly didn't happen. But that fucking phone call had landed smack dab in the middle of my life of responsibility, and began eating away, like termites, at the foundation of what I'd accomplished. I know I've said this before, and recently, but this event looms as the single most devastating thing that happened back then. Bill knew it, and wasn't afraid to say so. I knew it too, and so we spoke about it on numerous occasions. When you watch someone get better, like Bill had watched me, you know when that progress gets threatened, and in clear terms Bill saw the whole thing happen in one afternoon. The old obsession had been given entry into the quietness that life had become. The old uncertainty, and questions about an old record, quickly became the topic of too many of my days. In Bill's mind I had become more human, and less impressed with my past. But in the space of less than an hour he witnessed the dynamics of unwanted change stick it's ugly-ass face into his world, through me, and that telephone call. He was supportive, but feared the worst, because he knew me, knew how important all of it had once been to me. And that day he saw the old glint come back into my eyes, and heard that old mile a minute talk rumble out of my mouth. Like I said, he was supportive, but feared the future, if it was going to be filled with my past.<br />
<br />
The call led to the internet, and connecting with people in the music business, and those who were interested in it, or otherwise had some sort of connection to it, real or fancied. In other words my focus had been completely altered because of that single telephone call. Everything I did after that was different than what I would have done had the call never come. My mother, and brother Bill, were as clear as a bell on what had happened, but knew that to question me would have been useless, so they did their level best to support my choice. They listened to me scream and yell about, not one, but two different albums that got reissued as cd's. They listened to me argue on the telephone with record companies, publishers, and others, about song rights, money, and the past. They watched me turn into a crazy person all over again and stood by helpless to assist, though they tried repeatedly to do so. My favorite thing to say to them was, "You don't understand," but in truth they understood perfectly. It was me that didn't understand...<br />
<br />
Like a drunk who thinks, "This time will be different!" I traveled the same route that had led to my original downfall. I had to learn that it was a lie. A lie I wanted desperately to believe, but a lie nonetheless. Like getting clean and sober, I had to admit where and when I was wrong. It was, and is, the hardest thing I have ever had to do. To say, "No!" to myself. "Not again! We're not gonna do that again!" I wish I could have spared them, in their last few years of life, the turmoil that my choices brought them. I wish I had been unselfish enough to put them first instead of me first. I have had to sit with myself for many a long day, and look deep into what happened, and realize the damage my obsession with the music business has done, both to myself, as well as to others.<br />
<br />
I don't pick up a drink, or get loaded, and haven't for 39 years, come April 1st of this year. It is my single true success in life. But I still need to learn that me and the music business are done, and until I understand that I will always be subject to trying just one more time, thinking, "This time will be<br />
different!"<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a><br />
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<br />Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-79355832281894830232015-03-25T15:54:00.000-07:002015-04-18T16:49:57.950-07:00(part 295) Would The Real Us Please Stand UpI find myself longing for something more, something solid, something I can depend on, other than my ability to continue on in the face of ongoing disasters and hardship. It gets dreary knowing I will always have the strength for one more battle. I've had a lifetime of battles. Back in 2007, when I began this blog, I suppose there was something I expected to achieve beyond just writing it for the sake of writing. In the back of my mind, somewhere, there must have been at least a hope that something good would come of all this. But in 2015 all I see are the same old consistent, "Oh shit!" moments I've grown accustomed to. I have watched people come and go for decades, and the only difference between the virtual, and analog versions, is I used to be able to actually see them walk away. Now days all I see is the absence of things with no real explanation as to why. Like a bunch of slots that once contained color they now stand opaque and empty. Some mysterious communication that makes it's point by the absence of communication. It allows one, this brave new virtual world, to say something without having to say anything at all. I can liken it to the past, where someone who consistently showed up at your door suddenly stops, giving you little or no warning, or reason for it. But the world of virtual friends, and lovers, is entirely different from the old school versions of, "see ya later!" In the new version, those who communicate the message of, "see ya later" may have never been present in the first place. So the mind fucking reality, is, that you now feel the loss of something never possessed in the first place. Like a make believe, make believe.<br />
<br />
The problem I have, is trying to use the same medium, that didn't work, to fix the problem of it not working. Like trying to put out a fire by using more fire. If it failed, which it did, to adequately make relationships real, then it is insanity to try and now make the failure into a success by employing the same means. But this is all the virtual can offer, in and of it's self. It is strictly limited to it's own built in limitations. We have suckered ourselves into doing it for convenience. We can travel the world, virtually, from one end to the other, simply by sitting at a keyboard in our underwear, tapping out whatever the hell we want. The more we do it, the more we do it. And the more we do it the less we do of the other, like seeing people in person. We cannot be there so now we don't have to. We have online get-togethers with moving pictures and sound, but we don't have each other. We have more than nothing, but far less than what is actually available. It is a hideous way to communicate, unless it is absolutely better than nothing at all, which surely happens. But my complaint is viewed from the standpoint that virtual communication, in place of real human contact, is a form of mental, physical, and emotional, capitulation, which has, and is, numbing us to the need for real person to person relationships. Why bother? We can just go online and present anything, in any context, at anytime, to almost anyone. We can weave bullshit into whole cloth with our fingertips. We can lie and deceive in secret, because the online "us" is no more than a dancing puppet whose strings are manipulated by the "real-us" in the background.<br />
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There are those who will say, as they always do, that the virtual world allows them to make contact with things, and people, that they otherwise could never do, and I understand, and agree, with this sentiment. But again, my position is framed around the doing this instead of doing the other. Instead of going to meet someone in person the, opting out, for the keyboard instead, is a growing and loathsome reality. It appears that too many people stare at screens, of all sizes, in all sorts of different places, rather than into the eyes and hearts of real people. They send type written messages rather than have real conversations. I see people walking across the street looking at their phone, oblivious to where they are, and unaware of what they are doing. I don't do that, but I am complicit in this madness to some degree, and tell myself daily to turn the damn thing off and go do something else. "Hell, walk to the mailbox Bob, you may run into a real person and get to say hello, and who knows, maybe they'll say hello back, and give you a smile...<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-60141781710690687922015-03-23T15:03:00.001-07:002015-03-24T21:10:21.129-07:00(part 294) Come Sit With Me<br />
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Come sit with me...Tell me which of your parents committed suicide...<br />
Which brother, sister, or other, killed themselves <br />
out of sadness, disappointment, or rage...<br />
<br />
Show me your scars and I will show you mine...<br />
Tell me your dream and I will tell you mine.....<br />
<br />
Which of your family went insane...<br />
lived in that dark place where there are no doors unlocked, <br />
no windows without wire grates.....<br />
<br />
Come sit with me...and we will bleed together, cry together, laugh together...<br />
The two of us, shedding blood in the moonlight, kissing each other's tears...<br />
wiping away the stain of life...so ruthless, so cunning, so sour...<br />
<br />
Let us greet a new day, and stand together against the scoffers...<br />
Those who would love us today, but will betray us tomorrow...<br />
<br />
Come sit with me...show me your wounds suffered along the way...<br />
Show me the graves of your dead lovers and broken promises...<br />
Walk with me in the moonlight.....<br />
<br />
I come to you not as King, but as a leper...<br />
not as a prophet, but a liar...<br />
I have triumphed over peace through chaos...<br />
and bludgeoned my way here...<br />
<br />
Come sit with me...let us talk honestly and openly to one another...<br />
<br />
Bobby Jameson<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-67685041064599157992015-03-21T16:30:00.000-07:002015-03-22T16:23:34.938-07:00(part 293) Yesterdays, Today, And Tomorrow<br />
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I sit here in 2015 looking back to 1985 when I left Los Angeles and Hollywood for good. I didn't just leave a town, I mean I left, lock, stock, and barrel. I left my life there, my dreams there, my longtime plans there. I was like a dead man back then. All that I had ever wanted was connected to that town. So when I finally called it quits, it went a lot further than just changing my address. It was one of the hardest things I ever decided to do. It gutted completely my sense of purpose, and who I was, at least in my own way of thinking. I had lived and died in L.A., literally. It was more than a town, it was a lifestyle. A way of thinking and being. For better or for worse it was my home, so leaving meant I was homeless. "Home is where the heart is" they say, and in my case that was absolutely true. I could find a place to put my body, I always had, but I could not find another place to put my heart. The twenty-two year investment, 1963 to 1985, of all that had been me, was in that town, in it's pavement, strewn from one end to the other. Like leaves on windy day, parts of me still rattle their way through the streets and alley's of the place I called home. To find myself at the point, in 1985, going back to mama, represented, for me, an utter catastrophe and proof that I had failed. Whether or not others agreed with that assessment was immaterial at the time. It was my life, and I had set the sails. I had held fast to the rudder of my own ship, as it's captain, and I had landed on the rocks. So the mental and emotional state I was in, the day I drove away, was that of a beaten man, like it or not, agree or not.<br />
<br />
Years later, the past, and my part in it, had faded to the back lot of my thinking. Out of necessity I'd created a new me. A different person with a different plan, in a different place, at a different time. I had remolded, reconfigured, and rewired the old Bobby Jameson into a "worker bee" human with only the daily grind to be concerned with. I learned to care for things like my brother, and mother, and a home that needed tending to. I only occasionally, very occasionally, allowed myself to look back on who I once had been, and what I had once done. It was my survival mechanism. It kept me from regretting the past and hoping for a new chance in the future. The new opportunity, new dream, and new failure syndrome. Looking back, I am still amazed that it took only the voice of a complete stranger, in a single telephone call out of the blue, to interrupt my new way of life. With limited facts, and a single promise, he woke me from my long self-imposed sleep. As a result, I found myself once again living in the possibility universe of old dreams and magic-carpet rides. In the twinkling of an eye, in that single conversation, I was transported into another world that would prove to run contrary to all I had built in the preceding twenty-two years. I was catapulted into the mind numbing world of false promises and candy coated dreams.<br />
<br />
Who I had become, between 1985 and 2007, was completely different than who I'd been in L.A., decades earlier. Those who once knew me had no idea of who I'd become. Those who had since learned of me were limited to secondhand stories they had heard, or read about on the internet. I say 2007, because that was the year I finally bought a computer and ventured out into the world of online communication with that old familiar reality I had long ago rejected. It marked the turning point of me reclaiming my old self in public. It quickly taught me I had no idea of what I would find online until I found it. No idea of who I'd encounter until I encountered them. It disrupted my life, and the lives of my family, in a way that is hard to explain. It split me in two. My time was suddenly, dual purposed, instead of that of a single minded responsible person who had learned to do what was necessary to make life run reasonably well. The edition of old friends, and lovers, again, split my attention away from the daily tasks of getting along with my more mundane way of life. I began to get lost in the old ideas of the past, and susceptible to the desires and words of others. I went back to making my emotional well being dependent on what they did, instead of what I did. I allowed my world to be turned upside down by the same old things I had walked away from twenty-two years earlier.<br />
<br />
So now it is March of 2015, and both Bill and mom are gone. It is with that on my mind that I write these words today. The regrets that I live with for wasting time away from them while I chased after the things of yesterday. The carelessness of selfishness that leaves it's mark on life, yet is only seen in hindsight after the damage has been done. I would give up all of my yesterdays, today, and tomorrows, for a single hour with them both. An hour I would spend making them know how utterly important they were, and are, to my life. Regrettably, that is not possible.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a><br />
<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html"></a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-10337468746132256112015-03-20T14:34:00.000-07:002015-03-21T13:38:45.144-07:00(part 292) Who Had The Right?<br />
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me, mom, and bill<br />
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As I continue trying to secure legal representation for my brother, Bill, because of his unnecessary death at the hands of various doctors, medical, and care facilities, I end up feeling the same way I felt while fighting for my own rights in the music industry. A lot of, "Gee that's too bad, but I can't help you Bub!" I know what "no help" feels like and what it produces in the long run, and it is virtually nothing. The endless words, comments, and suggestions, boil down to....you're on your own.... I have been on my own for most of my life. It's the oldest and deepest complaint I have about being alive. Those who would like to help, but can't, versus those who could, but won't. Not once, since the day I was born, have I ever had the experience of another human being coming along and offering real and serious help, other than my mother. My emotional reaction and frustration in attempting to advocate for, Bill, who was terribly wronged, is pathetic. I have already heard too much, "Well don't let it get you down, or let go and move on." This kind of crap is the denial of reality. It is emotional cruelty disguised as help. It is in fact someone saying, "Oh shut up and quit complaining!" It is the process by which real complaints are dismissed, by some, as unnecessary whining by those who were actually wronged and/or harmed. Since I have nowhere else to go, and no one else to talk to, I share my frustrations about these kinds of things here on these pages. I suppose it will become another one of the deeply painful things in life that one is left alone with to sort out on their own. There have been too many already telling me how to cope with these losses, casually announcing from on high, that this is just part of life. Really? So life is where we just get fucked, over and over, and we ought to damn well get used to it, because nothing can be done about it? I find that intolerable as a suggested remedy, or pathway to peace of mind, even though it may well prove to be the case in the long run.<br />
<br />
The days and nights alone, attempting to grapple with these questions, and their possible solutions, is tiring at best, and leaves me pondering what the next step is. At times I feel like giving up on the whole thing and just walking away, saying, "Well I did the best I could!" But deep down inside I have to ask myself, "Did I? Have I?" It is an insistence that comes back, again and again, as I search my mind and soul for answers. When do I know if I have done all I can do? When will the time come that I can put down my need to do more? I have worked on this problem since early June, when my mother had her first stroke, and then through the subsequent problems of Bill spiraling downward as the resultant fear of losing his great protector, my mother, loomed before him. In Bill's mind, and rightly so, our mother, was the single force that stood between him and the idiots. And without her there to protect him, Bill knew, and again, rightly so, that he was doomed. His life, and hers, were intertwined like Ivy growing along a fence line. The two of them together had formed a mutual dependency on each other, whether by choice or accident. I spent years, decades, learning to understand, and accept, that this arrangement was both real and necessary. It is now, by looking back, that I see, full scale, how utterly important they had become to each other. It is this that drives me. This that makes me want to pursue an answer to the question of, "Who had the right to destroy their pact? Why are they both now victims of stupidity and malpractice?"<br />
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I find myself torn by the various possible outcomes to all of this. I think daily about who I believed I could rely on for needed emotional support through all of this. The answers are not there, and so I am left with the confusion and sadness that remains in place of the missing persons I was sure would be here...<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-16237452771215479282015-03-14T15:12:00.000-07:002015-03-17T23:16:17.776-07:00(part 291) Of Time And Space<br />
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my brother quentin, my mother, me, and bill <br />
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Don't get me wrong. I've met some people online I truly like, and respect, in the virtual sense of the word. But at times I find myself so alone at this computer that it makes me numb. The occasional glimpse into the reality of, where I am and why, is devastating to the point of tears and anger. If my health were better I can easily see that life, my life, would not be as constricted as it has been, and continues to be. Only a short while ago I had the daily arrival of my brother Bill, and the 24-hour companionship of my mother. We all had a great deal to share with each other, and we were all artists, so we had that in common too. Bill's drawings, and my mother's writing and painting, fit right in with my work on this blog for the last seven or eight years. The loss of both of them, one after the other, in a matter of months, completely altered my life.<br />
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The daily knowledge, that there is, or shortly will be, someone to communicate with is gone. The habit of it is not. The need of it is not gone. Like a pulse, it taps out, clickity click, it's old familiar rhythm as before. As I walk through the house I am confronted with all of their things daily. I am glad I have their things. It gives me a feeling of connection to them, a sense of continuance with them. My brother's art work, and writing, of which there is a great deal, and my mother's work as well. I look through it, read it, handle it, and feel their presence. I talk to them as if they were still here, and remember moments with them and smile. The little things. The human things. They keep me honest, and I proceed on as they would want me to, expect me to do.<br />
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So the computer, and my ability to make use of the virtual world, to capture in history, the work of this family, and their collective personalities, I see as a good thing. A thing that would not have been possible without the online connections I have at my disposal. It is that capacity that I am grateful for, and make use of constantly, or whenever the mood strikes me. No one knew of my brother Bill's artwork, outside of a handful of people, until I began posting it on facebook. <a href="http://williamjamesonart.blogspot.com/"> Bill Jameson Art</a> <br />
As well, my mother, and her varied array of interests, and talents, were not known either, until I began posting her work on facebook. Her surprise, as well as my brother Bill's, at the response to their work was heartwarming as hell to be honest. They had never had so much attention and praise as they received from that simple act of letting people see their work. <a href="http://unblockedartist-troyfarr.blogspot.com/">my mother's art</a><br />
I am glad I did it while they were here, so I could witness their childlike responses to the acceptance they received from strangers. The work they both did, all of their lives, was for the most part hidden away from the world, and both of them were timid about how it, and how they, were viewed by human beings throughout their lives. Neither of them had ever experienced any kind of real acceptance, as artists, until the work itself was available for people to see.<br />
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So for me, the world of online reality, or unreality, is a mixed blessing for sure. It allows for certain things perfectly, while at the same time, disallows, the deep satisfaction of real companionship and personal connection. No matter how hard I try to connect with people there is always that ever present void between us, of time and space. A separation that cannot be denied, or overcome, without real personal contact.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-70098214527477368292015-03-12T17:24:00.000-07:002015-03-16T00:01:51.087-07:00(part 290) A Post Everybody Can HateTrying to write about what happened, and what is happening currently, is difficult as hell. The multilayered past and present run together like a child's finger painting at times, begging the question, "Which is which?" I know the difference, but my job is to convey it in a way that the reader can know as well. That's the trick! Just because it is clear to me, doesn't mean it's clear to someone else. Not only am I up against the difficulty in writing it, I am also up against the differing opinions about the legitimacy of the facts themselves, according to who is reading what I write. There are some who question why I am writing about this at all. They, would be those who are either being written about, or have some connection to those I am writing about, no matter how flimsy that connection happens to be. The facebook connection between those who I write about, and who knows who in that configuration, dominates, by far, the scope of reactions, or non-reactions, to these most recent of posts. Like high school clicks, (clique) the friends, and friend's of friends, now enemies, sit back and ponder the rational of what I am doing, and why. Well let's just say I have a talent for pissing people off by doing what I do. Let's also say, that what is important to me may not be important to them, particularly if what I am doing can be considered sour-grapes.<br />
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In my way of thinking it is the sides, and side's of sides, standing in their little areas of supposed collective power, while saying, "don't want to rustle any feathers on faceook, because I have friends, who are friend's of friends of those people," who they themselves are no longer friends with. This convoluted mess of virtual non-friends, and friends alike, hamstrings one and all into a forced noncommittal stance, one way or the other. "I am your friend, but I don't want to get involved!" Great for you! Not so great for the one looking around to see if they have any friends who will stand by there side, come hell or high water. The answer is...a resounding no! There are too many cross references for that to occur. If you take a stand here, you will alienate someone over there, so the best policy is to stay out of it. FUCK YOU! That's my answer. Keep your mouth shut and play it safe. Never commit to anything unless it is something that a large majority of people all accept as acceptable. Short of that, which most everything in life is, stay uncommitted. There are some, very very few, who will actually say something that needs to be said, even if it puts them at odds with others. Bravo! But the rarity of this is disheartening as hell. It feels like the coke and cocktail party set, in L.A., fucking each other over for sport, in a never ending quest for popularity and position. I left L.A. a long time ago because of it, but since I've been on facebook I find myself uncomfortably reminded of what it was like, and why I left.<br />
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Facebook, and other so-called social media platforms, have degenerated into non-communication entities, where we can pretend to be talking to one another, while in reality we are not. Like a party, where we say hi to everyone, but to no one. A jack of all trades arrangement that never asks for a master of anything. It's hit and miss dabbling for the most part, without human beings being human, to humans. For those who despise real commitment, it is a paradise of opportunity, but fails utterly for those seeking anything truly real. There are some who say it is better than nothing, and perhaps I agree with that to some extent, but on the other hand the absence of real relationships is dangerous, and cannot be replaced by chatting with fb friends forever. Somehow there has got to be more than virtual make believe to remain a real person.....<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-77845859393396243872015-03-07T23:14:00.001-08:002015-03-16T00:02:28.664-07:00(part 289) Only A Pawn In Their Game<br />
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artwork by Bill Jameson 1959<br />
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Back in 1959, in St. Johns, Arizona, Bill tried to kill himself by taking an overdose of, Dilantin, an anticonvulsant drug used in the treatment of epilepsy, which he had been diagnosed with at an early age. It was days, or maybe a week after the fight he had at a high school dance when he took the overdose. But as I've said before, it was more of a beating than it was a fight, and the damage it did to him went a lot deeper than just abrasions to his face. The injury was to his psyche. To his personal sense of self-worth, something that was already damaged in him, due in part to previous negative family events, and the epilepsy. It got to him on a whole different level. Far more than that just losing a fight, which is always hard to take. This was different. It made him not want to live anymore. Whether or not what he took would have killed him is not the real point here. The fact that he felt that way, and acted on it, is. I had never seen my brother give up in my life, except once, when he had a fist-fight with our step father, Don, in the kitchen at our house in Tucson. But Don was a full grown man, so it wasn't surprising, even to Bill, that he would lose that fight. But after the beating in that piss pour little town in northern Arizona, Bill gave up on the inside. He capitulated somewhere deep down, and fell prey to his own disappointment in himself. Maybe because he caught a glimpse of the damage he feared he always was, or maybe it was just a full blown break from the so-called normal world. I never knew, but I remember my own feelings about it when it happened. My utter confusion, and anger toward it, my fear of it, because I couldn't fathom it, or understand what Bill was feeling, or the intensity and depth of it, and why it would lead him to do what he did. My own remorse that day was something, that at fourteen years old, I had no answer for.<br />
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This attempted suicide is what led to my mother's decision to commit Bill to the state hospital for the mentally ill in Phoenix. It was the single act that led to my deep distrust of my mother, and a decades long rejection of her, for doing it. It led me to break away from all that I knew, and to start planning how I would completely extricate myself from a family that seemed hopelessly broken at the core. For the next few years I made various real attempts at healing the wounds between my mother and me, but her ultimate marriage, divorce, and remarrying to a quadriplegic mormon named, Francis Farr, pretty much put an end to my working things out with her for a very long time. I really believed that she didn't know what she was doing anymore, and that most of her decisions put me and Bill in danger. It took from 1960 until 1995 to really begin, in earnest, to understand what kind of hand my mother had been dealt, and how she too, had been...only a pawn in their game. But before that could happen I had a lot of mistakes of my own to make, and a lot of hard road ahead to travel. I tell you these things for one reason, and that is this. In letting you in on some of the inner workings of my family, and the way they struggled, I in turn try to explain myself. The decisions I made in life were honed out of hard rock from my childhood and adolescence. My need for my brother Bill to be OK was enormously important to me, because I never experienced having a real father. Bill was the only male figure on earth I trusted and looked up to, so when he broke I broke with him. It shattered my world and sense of balance altogether. It made me think that I was broken too. I walked through my teenage years in a blur, hoping no one would notice who I really was, or from where I came. I was ashamed of my family, and ashamed of myself. I used every trick I could learn to hide the real me from the world. It was show business that I turned to, because there I could act like someone else, be someone else, and feel like someone else. I didn't have to be that weird kid Bobby Jameson who came from that broken family. I didn't want you to know that my brother tried to kill himself. I didn't want you to know that he went to the state mental hospital, and I didn't want you to know that my mother had four failed marriages. I didn't want you to know any of that, so I built another me, another person who pretended not to have any connection to those things.....<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-3733459456230028722015-03-06T15:57:00.000-08:002015-03-12T00:04:14.585-07:00(part 288) The Doctor And His Patient And The Death Of A Family<br />
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Somewhere down the line, with the passing of time, what I write here now will have become part of the larger context of this story. These latest posts will have become markers of one of the saddest periods in my life. A time when losing so much stood out as almost unbelievable in it's scope. The loss of my brother, Bill, who was basically sentenced to death by a healthcare system that treats the mentally-ill like disposable trash, and the loss of my mother, soon after, who for all intents and purposes died from a second stroke brought on by her overwhelming sense of remorse over Bill's preventable death.<br />
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After reading some of the medical reports about what was done to, Bill, by various doctors, my mother could not rectify in her own mind the inexcusable actions of those whose care he had been in. She felt, that if she had not been sick herself, and had been able to, that she could have saved him as she had done so many times before, during the previous half century of both of their lives. Preventing idiots from doing Bill harm, decade after decade, had become part of my mother's life work, even though it had never been planned that way.<br />
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Living with a schizophrenic teaches you something about the system and the disease itself. The hardship on both the schizophrenic, and the family, is something only those who have done it can understand. So in my mother's mind, at the end, it was her belief that Bill's death was strictly brought about by the fact that he had been left alone in the hands of people who had no idea, experience, or qualifications, in how to treat him successfully. She could not get the image of Bill's unnecessary suffering out of her mind, and it killed her. We spoke at length about this prior her second stroke, so this is not speculation on my part, it was the way she felt and what she believed.<br />
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The things I write here today are driven by the facts. My feelings about what happened, and my anger at those who I thought I could rely on in a time of extreme vulnerability, left me to question who my friends really are. In the same way Bill was left on his own in his time of need, I too, was hung out to dry by the very people I looked to for solace. Time after time I sought their support, and time after time was disappointed by them. Their unavailability and justifications for it, their dismissiveness, and callous remarks, left me in turmoil during those many days. I was like a bewildered child reaching out to the only persons I had to reach out to. I found myself emotionally spent and completely isolated. It led me to conclude that my trust in them had been sorely misplaced...a mistake I have regrettably made too many times in my life.<br />
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The drawing above, done some years ago by my brother Bill, captures the essence of what my mother spent fifty years protecting him from. "The Doctor...And His Patient" In the end it is almost prophetic. Bill's own fear of being schizophrenic, in a world where those expected to help may be the greatest threat of all...<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-51406737926972832302015-03-03T15:50:00.000-08:002015-03-12T00:06:37.835-07:00(part 287) Each Time I Questioned <br />
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As I look back through the posts from 2010, I noticed how few there were in comparison to the preceding years. I surmised that it may have been because my mind was busy trying to sort through other things rather than the business of continuing to tell this story. Obviously, or maybe not so obviously, I had become consumed, to some degree, with the distraction of Paula and Sharon instead of dedicating myself, and my time, to writing as much. I suppose, trying to keep the peace on fb with Paula, had become so important that it tended to make all else less important. My need for emotional balance, and the belief that I now had something worth protecting, with regards to my new commitment to her, had become the more critical point. The need for a human connection to someone was now at the forefront. It had superseded my original intent of, "Write Bobby! Tell the story, and don't let anything get in the way of it!"<br />
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In a way it was serving a deep need in me. The need to feel loved by a woman, and to love her back. My entire life had lacked that, so it is not hard to see why this happened. It was the child in me who had always felt abandoned, and uncared for, and certainly unloved. But it was also the man in me who desired to have a relationship with a woman based on caring. I had never been able to do that in the past, so the seeming opportunity to rectify it, with Paula, became of primary importance to me, and for her as well, or so I believed. The blind ability, to superimpose one's own need to love, and be loved, onto another person, hoping it will be reciprocal, was a critical misstep, and I made it.<br />
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Each time I questioned what I was doing I pushed it aside and continued on, telling myself it was OK. That it was safe to do. I felt, or believed, that any doubts I had were simply old fears that I had to get rid of to make this work. I didn't want a make believe relationship, I had had too many of those in the past. I wanted the real thing. I wanted to trust someone, and wanted them to trust me. I tried to keep the fb world at bay, because I believed it would destroy what we were building if we let it, and in the long run, it did. The virtual world of friends today, enemies tomorrow, was full of gossip and misrepresentation. There were those who liked nothing better than to cause trouble by whispering in the ears of the gullible. I watched relationships and friendships go down hard, too many times, to believe there wasn't someone watching from the sidelines with a desire to get in closer, and pretend to be a friend.<br />
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The choice I made between Paula and Sharon was nothing I ever planned on. It came from the experience I had with having them both in my life at the same time. It came from real feelings I had for Paula when push came to shove. Sharon became the victim of that choice, a choice I didn't want to make, and foolishly had not perceived as a possibility. It wasn't fair, but either was what caused it.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-724584683704960292015-02-27T15:30:00.003-08:002015-03-01T16:19:47.846-08:00(part 286) You Better Be Careful Bob<br />
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by paulo-zerbato<br />
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Sometimes the obvious is not so obvious, until you're standing in the wake of it's destruction. For me, it was another one of the mistakes I hadn't seen coming until it was too late.<br />
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It was sometime in 2010, I think, when problems began to erupt between Sharon and Paula on facebook. I was constantly fighting headaches, working on this blog, and repairing the roof at home. I had a full plate, and needed the mess between the two of them like I needed a gunshot wound. It was bad timing, but this kind of trouble always is. I got a message from Paula that said she could not stand anymore of Sharon's overt love comments on my page, that her fawning all over me made Paula extremely uncomfortable. She said she had no intentions of publicly competing with Sharon on facebook, because it embarrassed her. I asked her what I was supposed to do about it, because Sharon was an old friend of mine too. She had no answer, but made it clear that this was an ultimatum. All of a sudden I was caught in the middle of a feud between two women I had known in the 60's, who had both shown up on the internet and become online friends. I wasn't left with any wiggle room at all, and it felt as if I'd been hit in the face with a problem I had foolishly not thought about at all. It was exactly the kind of bullshit I didn't need. It pissed me off, because both of them had agreed in the beginning not to let this happen. I did not want to be in a fight with old girlfriends, I wanted to work. It's why I came to the internet in the first place. I felt as though my need to accomplish something important to me had been pushed aside, and replaced, by a bullshit battle between them. My initial response to Paula was, "Well fuck this shit, I know how to handle this, I'll just get rid of both of you," and that's exactly what I did.<br />
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After it happened I didn't hear anything except how unfair it was of me to delete them from fb. I responded by saying I didn't want to get stuck in a pool of quicksand. I told both of them I had better things to do with my time, and that they'd put me in a no-win situation with their bullshit. I stood my ground for awhile, but after a week or two I began noticing I really missed talking with Paula on the phone and in messages on fb. I'd grown accustomed to meeting her every night, online, and enjoyed the back and forth between us....It had been fun, but more importantly it had meant something to me. Meant something to my heart, and to my sense of connection, something I had lost long ago. I thought seriously about it, and decided I'd been forced into the position of having to make a choice between the two. Not anything I wanted or expected, but a choice nonetheless.<br />
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I reached out to Paula and told her I really missed her, and that she had nothing to fear from Sharon, because I didn't feel the same about Sharon as I did about her. Paula basically didn't believe me and was reluctant to hear anything I said. I told her I would keep Sharon off facebook and she wouldn't have to deal with her anymore. It took a lot of work to get her to believe me, but in the end she did, or so she said. But in doing this I put my foot in it again. Without meaning to, I gave Paula a shit load of power over me. I'd unwittingly put her in a position of control. She had complained and I had capitulated. From then on my emotional state was highly dependent on making sure she was satisfied, and for a long time it seemed to work. We continued, and even expanded, our nightly meetings on fb. I became far more open about my feelings for her and did not hold back in expressing them. I told her I loved her and that she had become the most important person in my life. I said these things, and meant them when I said them. She was the first woman in my life who I ever told over and over, "I love you!" But thinking back to that time, I can still recall that little voice in the back of my head saying to me, "You better be careful Bob, because you are getting in deeper and deeper," a voice that I pushed aside as nonsense, and an old familiar fear of commitment.<br />
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<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-1303973507773740622015-02-20T17:44:00.002-08:002015-02-20T18:57:31.304-08:00(part 285) THE HAT<br />
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I get zero satisfaction writing what I've written about lately. On the other hand it was this blog that caused those mentioned in my most recent posts to contact me initially. What happened five years ago, and since then, as a result of my writing this blog, has now become part of the story. I quit writing here for a long time, for the most part, but lately returned to this blog as a place where I can write about my thoughts and feelings with respect to what has taken place in my life in the last few years, and more recently.<br />
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On September 28, 2014 I lost my brother Bill, and on January 15, 2015 I lost my mother. Neither of them should have died the way they did. My brother Bill, a schizophrenic, had his anti-psychotic medications cut, while he was in the hospital, by a doctor who had no experience with psychiatric patients, or their medication needs. To make matters worse, this doctor, and others, did not inform anyone in our family that this action had been taken. Needless to say, taking away a schizophrenic's medications, or altering the doses in any way, is of paramount importance. Without his medications Bill quit eating, walking, and otherwise doing the basic things a person has to do to survive. Simultaneously, my mother had had a stroke, and was recovering herself. Neither her, nor I, knew that this had happened to Bill, so nothing was done about it. We only learned of it after Bill's death, when we read the hospital medical reports. Those reports made it clear what had been done to him. My mother, who had returned home by that time, became incensed by the information and overwhelmed by grief after reading some of the reports. Within three days, she had a second stroke and was paralyzed on her entire right side. She could not walk or speak and died some 25 days later in a nursing home in San Luis Obispo. Before she had the second stroke, in the preceding three days, she wrote two poems about Bill, and drew a picture of his favorite hat. My mother was a fine writer and artist, and what I post below, and above (the hat drawing) is her last work.<br />
<br />
about my oldest son, Bill, who died Sept. 28, 2014<br />
<br />
The Hat<br />
When you died I was in a health facility<br />
Recovering from a long illness<br />
When I finally came home<br />
I had to become familiar again<br />
With what now seemed alien and strange.<br />
I walked through the house<br />
Reminding myself of everything,<br />
Walked into the living room,<br />
And caught sight of your favorite hat<br />
On top of a neat pile of hats<br />
You had put on the coffee table<br />
So you could easily pick a different one<br />
When the mood struck you<br />
Your favorite hat still has the shape of your head…<br />
So familiar, so dear<br />
And it seemed that at any moment<br />
You might come in the door, smiling,<br />
Carrying your bag of artwork as usual<br />
I could see your hat, the plaid sweater you loved, your khaki shirt…<br />
Always somehow looking stylish<br />
Even if your clothes were old and not up-to-date<br />
When you came in, you would always sit on the couch under the window,<br />
Put your things on the coffee table,<br />
And then perhaps change to a different hat…<br />
As you so often used to do to mark the day<br />
A wave of sorrow swept over me<br />
As it suddenly became real to me in my heart,<br />
That you would never come again,<br />
Nor would I ever again see you smile as you came in,<br />
Nor could I ever watch you organize<br />
Your thoughts and your things for the day<br />
No; you are gone.<br />
And yet your hat still sits waiting,<br />
Not knowing you won’t come once more<br />
And choose it from the pile<br />
Not knowing that the world is now empty<br />
Without you<br />
Troy Farr, 12-19-2014 <br />
<br />
the 2nd poem<br />
<br />
Everything is just as you left it<br />
Capturing a moment in time<br />
When you thought you would be coming back<br />
Your hats on the coffee table<br />
Your tennis shoes and sandals underneath<br />
And on the table, mementos you kept<br />
A Route 66 Key chain<br />
A sketch pad with an unfinished drawing<br />
A notebook with things you looked at daily<br />
Deepak Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws<br />
Just the laws which I scanned and printed<br />
For you, you like them so much<br />
A selection of your own art<br />
That was meaningful to you<br />
Letters and keepsakes<br />
Since you looked at this daily<br />
Leaving it meant you thought you’d come back<br />
But you didn’t, you couldn’t<br />
Illness struck me first, and I couldn’t help<br />
Then it struck you, and I couldn’t help<br />
Two days before I came home you were gone<br />
Now, seeing your things as you left them<br />
Knowing you expected to come back<br />
Knowing how temporary you thought your absence would be<br />
Tears at my heart that I couldn’t help you<br />
When you most needed it and I most wanted to<br />
For the first time I wasn’t the master<br />
Of my own life<br />
How abandoned you must have felt!<br />
How sad I feel to know that you were.<br />
That I couldn’t help you<br />
When you most needed it<br />
And when I most wanted to help you<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-77322634893465907332015-02-18T15:28:00.000-08:002015-03-05T13:20:41.910-08:00(part 284) SELFISH AS HELLPeople showing up from my past was something I had not planned on, but you may think I should have expected it. I didn't really think anyone would pay attention to me, or this blog, when I began in 2007. You have to consider that I felt like a complete failure when I started all of this. My mindset was I was getting fucked by another record company the same way I had in the past. It was just the latest version of the same old thing. The difference being, that I could come and write about it on this blog, and various other places on the internet, like myspace and facebook. Any expectation that someone from my past would show up as a positive did not exist for me. I was damaged goods and knew it. I was a pissed off human being with nothing to lose. The music business didn't mean shit to me at that point, and still doesn't. I had the attitude of, "let's tell the truth about it," which I had never been able to do in the past, except to occasional individuals who might have listened for an hour or so. Whether or not anyone listened here was immaterial to doing it. It gave me an emotional release by doing it. A place to put my own decades long anger. I had been so penalized for being angry in the past, by friend and foe alike, that I needed a place of my own to vent at will, and this blog was that place.<br />
<br />
I was not about to let the opportunity to speak out get squelched by anyone or anything again. My experiences were real to me, and the opinions of others, which came in the form of comments about what I wrote, were damn near meaningless. I looked upon adverse reactions to what I wrote as more reason to push on and keep writing, which I did. When you have almost no self-worth with regards to your own work you have to make up, and remake up, your mind on an ongoing basis and keep going forward, which I also did. In the music business I was condemned for being pissed off by the same people who had fucked me out of ever getting paid. On the blog I could say that and make it stick, at least in print. My only real enemy was myself. I could let the opinion of others halt me, or I could keep on going. So my daily battle was with me more than it was with anybody else. Along the way I stumbled repeatedly in my efforts to continue, but in the end I did continue, and am still here.<br />
<br />
So if you understand, even in the slightest way, what I said here, then you will be able to understand why I say I was not expecting anyone from my past to show up and be positive about what I was doing. Negative...perhaps, but not positive. That is why I was surprised when women who I'd known in the past showed up and didn't condemn me. They'd left me in the 60's, so I figured they'd gone away for a reason, a reason that would be impossible for me to conclude had been positive. "If you liked me so goddamn much, why did you vanish one day without a word?" "If you loved me, what made you throw me away?" "Did you ever think about how it felt to me, looked to me, what it meant to me?" I seriously doubt whether you ever stopped to think about that. What I think is that you were much like me, a selfish son of a bitch who was out for yourself. What I resent is that you act as if you were pure as driven snow, and that your heart was true. Bullshit! You're heart wasn't any truer than mine was, and I was admittedly selfish as hell.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-3867886285593024712015-02-15T15:18:00.000-08:002015-03-07T17:38:04.217-08:00(part 283) ......AND HOW WE REMEMBER IT.........<br />
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still from "mondo hollwood" georgiana steele and bobby jameson<br />
<br />
Becoming involved with women from my past, online, presented me with a variety of problems, particularly when it came to so-called social media platforms. The reason being, was each of them became aware of each other's presence. I had nothing to hide, as I said earlier, but hadn't considered the possibility that they might not like each other at some point. I'd known each of them separately, in the past, but now there was a collective intermingling taking place. Looking back on it now, I realize I blindly put my foot in it. I'd been so focused on what I was working on, before any of them showed up, that I paid no attention to the now obvious stupidity of it.<br />
<br />
Early on it was Paula who started calling me on the telephone, just to say hi occasionally, and we'd talk about the old days in the 60's, and how we'd met. The more I talked to her, the more details I remembered about that specific time. She'd been one of the few people who was actually present at some of the "Color Him In" recording sessions, which, according to her, she remembered fondly. As for me, it was more a memory of the work I did rather than who was there.<br />
<br />
As time went by, and the calls from Paula continued, there were conversations where I erupted in anger to some of her remarks about the old days in West Hollywood. One of them had to do with me being on the 11th story ledge, or roof, of the Continental Hyatt House on Sunset Blvd. in the 70's. You might want to keep in mind that I had not seen nor spoken to this woman since 1967. Her comments about this life altering occasion of mine seemed to be minimized by her at the time. For me it just stood out as an uncomfortable subject that she really didn't want to discuss. She told me she'd driven by as it was happening, but said she didn't know it was me up there until later in the day. I asked her why she hadn't tried to contact me after she found out? She said she'd heard I was up on the Hyatt House demonstrating against record companies.<br />
"What?" I yelled, "I was up there because I was going to commit suicide goddamn it!" <br />
"I didn't know that at the time," she said, "I just heard it was a stunt."<br />
"Well even if it was a fucking stunt, as you call it, why didn't you try to get in touch with me if you cared so fucking much?"<br />
I never really got an answer to my question that day about why she hadn't tried to contact me, but the feeling I got from that call never left me. <br />
<br />
In another telephone conversation she told me she had been at a house in Laurel Canyon, in 1980, when I was there playing/singing with some musicians and song writers. Again, I hadn't seen her since 1967, and had no idea she was there, so I was pretty confused when she told me about it.<br />
"If you knew it was me Paula, why didn't you say something?"<br />
"Because I didn't like the outfit I had on that day and didn't like the way I looked," she said, "so I didn't say anything, and I didn't know if you'd even remember me!" <br />
Huh? If I cared about someone as much as she was claiming to care about me, and I ran into them thirteen years later at a house in the canyon, I think I would have said something no matter how I looked, but that's me. My response to this was it kind of pissed me off, and I said so at the time. I had a hard time believing that she could care so deeply about me, if she couldn't even say hello when she'd been in the same house with me. <br />
<br />
As far as Sharon went, she'd taken to emailing me on a regular basis. I couldn't handle another set of telephone calls, so I never let that get started with her as I had with Paula. Sharon also said she'd always loved me, and said she'd named her son, Jameson, from her marriage to some other guy, but again, it was all news to me when I heard it. In both the case of Sharon and Paula there was one clear fact that stood out to me. The claim that, "I was always in love with you," that I was hearing from both of them now, had not been present back in the 60's. I don't mean to belittle what they said their feelings were, but history notes that both had suddenly disappeared from my life by their own choice. One day they were there and the next day they were not. So love had not been so clearly defined back then, or so it seemed to me. <br />
<br />
Georgiana was a different case altogether. I had had no love interest in her whatsoever, at least that I could recall. I met her in 1966 on the strip, and I only know that because I saw us together in some film footage ( still picture at top of post) from "Mondo Hollywood" on youtube. We were walking through the Beverly Hills Court House together when I was on trial for disturbing the peace at Ben Franks coffee shop on Sunset Blvd. Bob Cohen filmed some of the trial and it ended up in his movie. Other than that I have no recollection of Georgiana being in my life until 1981. But on myspace, and then facebook in 2008 onward, she acted as if we'd been life long friends. I remember thinking what is this broad's trip? Even Georgiana was surprised by the "Mondo Hollywood" pictures of her and I together, so she hadn't recalled it either, until I posted the pictures on fb.<br />
<br />
The one thing I've learned about people from my past, without exception, is that each of them have recollections that don't square with my own. I stand on my set of facts and details regarding what I say actually took place. If someone has a different version, and I'm sure that they will, let them put it forth if they'd like, and I will post it. If they remember things differently than I do, I understand, but I am writing about what I recall. I have no need to alter anything, because the facts themselves paint an extremely clear picture.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-27630418636400570172015-02-13T16:44:00.001-08:002015-03-07T14:28:41.981-08:00(part 282) Not Too Many<br />
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<br />
<br />
I moved from myspace to facebook in 2008, because back then myspace was having technical problems that were horrendous. I spent more time trying to make the site work than I did using it for posting work. I know it is called social media, myspace and facebook, but socializing was not what I was doing on either of them in the beginning. They were a means to and end, in my mind, and a way to post songs, and parts of this blog. A place where people could see, hear, and read the work I had done, and was doing. I guess some would argue that I was socializing by doing it on those venues, and I get that, but for me, in my way of thinking, myspace and fb were simply technical apparatus that I used for posting work on, something brand new to me about the internet. I did try to make contact with Joe Foster, from Rev-Ola Records, on myspace, but did not succeed. It wasn't until I moved to facebook that I began communicating with him at all.<br />
<br />
On facebook, in 2008, the battle between me and Rev-Ola Records had surfaced around the internet. It was not a secret anymore, and people started choosing sides in the matter. Because of this, I came into contact with people who would have otherwise been disinterested in me all together. Joe had his own following, because of all his work, and I was accumulating a following of my own because of the album "Songs Of Protest" and Joe's connection to it. There was no way to mince words about the subject. It was two distinct camps that refused to budge on either side. As I began to gain ground in the nonstop war of words, my friend's list grew on fb. The more people, the louder the volume. It was the beginnings of the social part of the equation for me. By then, Paula, who followed me to facebook from myspace, had become an ardent supporter of mine, as were others. Sharon also migrated to fb, along with Georgiana.<br />
<br />
Throughout all of this, I suffered with 24-hour a day headaches, which I constantly complained of in writing. I made it as clear as I could to people that everything I did was under duress. I threatened to call it quits so many times I lost count, because of the headaches and the frustration over comments on the blog. The one thing I never got good at, and still haven't, were the comments from strangers about what an asshole I was for complaining about Rev-Ola Records and Joe Foster. On facebook, the same kind of comments became prevalent. I would erupt in anger and attack the attackers with a vengeance. I was incensed by comments of those who thought it fair game for Rev-Ola not to pay me for the reissue of "Songs Of Protest." I quickly acquired a reputation for verbal combat, and a willingness to delete anybody who came to my page to attack me or side with Joe Foster.<br />
<br />
There was far more method than madness to this than meets the eye. I figured that if asking for my share of revenue from the "Songs Of Protest" cd reissue was not getting anywhere, then I'd just flat out beat the shit out of Joe Foster and Rev-Ola verbally, and turn the whole mess into a public free-for-all. Interestingly enough, that actually worked quite well. It didn't get me paid in dollars, but it did give me a real platform from which to speak about the subject of foreign companies reissuing American made music without payment to those who originally created it. From my standpoint I had already been ripped off by Surrey Records and Randy Wood in the 60's, and wasn't in the mood to stand around silently and let a new group of thieves do it again. So the basis of my attitude, on facebook, was directly linked to the fight over "Songs Of Protest."<br />
<br />
As more people became aware of me on facebook, the reason for being there kept changing. Other records of mine, and music I'd written and recorded in the past, that no one had ever known about, began getting some attention. In some cases there was praise for that work, and less interest in my battle with Rev-Ola and Joe Foster. I had to learn to incorporate this into my own thinking, which was admittedly, locked into the battle with Joe Foster at the time. The more recognition there was for some of my other work, the less my original intent for being on fb meant. The virtual world had begun to expand for me as fb increased it's reach around the planet. The number of people who showed up daily was daunting to say the least. I had never imagined anything like what was happening, and had to learn about it...as I was learning to do it.<br />
<br />
From a nobody blog to myspace, and then facebook, my life changed each day. I got friend requests, and a number of offers to do interviews on the radio, which I always turned down. I had no idea of how to handle what was taking place, and was too sick with headaches all the time to accomplish it. So too, another album of mine from the 60's, "Color Him In" had been reissued as a cd, and that came with it's own set problems. In 2009 I got sicker. I had emergency surgery to remove a grapefruit sized aneurysm from my abdominal aorta. That, on top of the 24-hour daily headaches, nearly killed me. It was hard to live in my body at that point. It was like a torture chamber of pain. In the hospital, no one from San Luis Obispo came to see me, with the exception of my mother, a neighbor, and a single member of N A... It was another one of those moments in life, where I got to see who really gave a shit, and as usual the answer was, "Not too many!<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
It was Paula who called me when I was in the hospital. I remember being surprised at the fact that she did. I felt as though she had stepped forward from the rest of the crowd, and made her interest in me more concrete with that action. I was too sick to talk much, but it was the idea that she did it that impressed me. It made knowing her more real than just comments and messages on facebook and the blog<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a><br />
<br />
<br />Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6026171904413475346.post-18273182812585520892015-02-11T12:59:00.000-08:002015-02-17T23:32:16.795-08:00THE CHAIR <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
i took her <br />
picture down <br />
and put it<br />
away in a<br />
cabinet <br />
along with a<br />
small box <br />
of trinkets<br />
she'd sent <br />
to me<br />
so many <br />
years ago,<br />
so many <br />
smiles ago,<br />
so many lies ago...<br />
i'd begun <br />
feeling <br />
uncomfortable <br />
at some point <br />
like the <br />
other man<br />
in her life<br />
like a once<br />
favorite chair <br />
now placed<br />
in another <br />
room…<br />
occasionally<br />
she'd come <br />
by and<br />
sit with me<br />
but quickly <br />
vanish<br />
and i would<br />
return to<br />
waiting<br />
and hoping...<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://bobbyjameson.blogspot.com/2007_12_02_archive.html">GO TO PART 1 OF BLOG</a>Bobby Jamesonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01527521612297449370noreply@blogger.com0