Tuesday, January 24, 2012

HE'S THE CLOWN


WHO'S THAT MAN
BEHIND THE FACE
OUTTA TIME
OUTTA PLACE
HE'S THE CLOWN
THAT NO ONE KNOWS
WATCH HIM AS HE
COMES AND GOES

IS THAT LAUGHING
CATCH HIM CRYING
AIN'T NO LIFE
JUST SOMEONE DYING
HE'S THE CLOWN
THAT NO ONE KNOWS
WATCH HIM AS HE
COMES AND GOES

STARS AND KISSES
IN HIS HAND
WRAPPED IN PAPER
RUBBER BAND
OLD AND TATTERED
BROWNED BY SUN
JUST A CLOWN
HE AIN'T NO ONE

WHO'S THAT SHUFFLING
DOWN THE STREET
WITH BROKEN DREAMS
AND BROKEN FEET
HE'S THE CLOWN
THAT NO ONE KNOWS
WATCH HIM AS HE
COMES AND GOES

Bobby Jameson Jan 24, 2012
8:07 am

Monday, December 19, 2011

(part 266) YAY, NAY, AND THE UNDECIDED...


As I try to continue writing this blog, I find myself coming face to face with my own reluctance. Not because there isn't more to the story, there is, but because my experience with writing here has become jaded. Over the years, since I first started in November of 2007, I have lost faith that anything I write here makes a difference. It certainly has made little difference in my life.

Nothing has changed or improved whatsoever. I still live the same way I did before writing a single word. I would imagine that if there are any differences I have derived from this experience it would have to be that I have placed myself squarely in the middle of a target for little or no benefit.

I know there are a few people who are glad I have written this, but that does not get to the heart of my own discomfort in having done so. I am struck by the fact that in telling my own story there is not much to be gained from the doing of it, other than to say, "Well there it is!" The truth is, that it is different when thought about than it is when actually undertaking it as an action over time.

When I first had the story in front of me, as a thing not yet done, there was a motivation that occurred in the doing of it, which replenished itself, simply by knowing there was more to say about it. Now that I have said most of it, and experienced the response to it, that motivation has collapsed into a feeling of, "Who cares?" That feeling or thought is admittedly my own, but is real for me as a question.

Rather, in some cases, too many perhaps, than look at the story of Bobby Jameson as a real person discussing real events, this has degenerated, to some degree, into a comic book character who does nothing but complain, encounters negative circumstance after negative circumstance, and always seems to make stupid choices in the face of wonderful opportunities. If you think I am wrong I would suggest you pay closer attention to many of the comments posted here in the last few years.

Interest is one thing, but interest in a subject purely for the sake of disagreeing, and/or belittling it, because your mind is already made up, is as useless a proposition as I can possibly imagine. It starts to feel like 24-hr cable news, where the yays and nays exist as sides, predetermined to agree and disagree on cue, with nothing ever changing as a result. We have the "we like Bobby," the, "we don't like Bobby," and the undecided. A clown show judged prematurely by prerequisite beliefs and supposed moral standards, which supersede the facts by default.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

TO THIS VERY DAY


TURPENTINE MEADOWS
SALISBURY DAY
LEFT AT THE CROSSROADS
WITH NOTHING TO SAY
WHO CAN I TURN TO
WHAT CAN I DO
ALL I REMEMBER
ARE MOMENTS WITH YOU

COBBLESTONE DREAMS
OF YESTERDAY'S HEART
LIKE VINCENT ALONE
IN A ROOM FULL OF ART
BRUSH STROKES OF FEELINGS
COLOR THE PAST
THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOU
WOULD BE THE LAST


Bobby Jameson Dec, 2011

Thursday, December 1, 2011

(part 265) THE STORE...1987 AND BEYOND

Me in the store

By 1987 I had saved about $5,000 to go back to L.A. This was accomplished by filing for unemployment, as a result of having worked for Pacific Freight in Southern CA. a couple of years earlier, selling tools on the telephone. I filed for it in 85 and saved most of it. I then had a decision to make that would alter the direction of my life again.

I recall being in Santa Maria with my brother Bill, another small town about forty miles south of where we lived. I had taken him with me to the Harley Davidson dealership to look at a Sportster. I told Bill that I had enough money to buy the bike or go back to L.A. for another shot at the music business.

"Whatta ya think?" I asked.

He said, "If I were you I'd buy the bike Bob, because if you go back to L.A. it might kill you!"

I stared at him and then laughed. "Yeah, I know what you mean," I replied, "I think you're right!"

The outcome was that I bought the bike and stayed in the Five Cities area of Central CA. It was a decision that once again changed things. I was clean and sober, and though I had encountered many obstacles and difficulties in Grover City, CA., I had been free from the meat-grinder of the music business. I knew that if I went back to L.A. it was going to be more of the same, or at least that is what I believed, so I opted to pass on it.

In 1987 my mother owned and ran an antique store, something she'd done a lot of in her life. It was called "The Browse Around," and was located in Grover City on the main drag. It sold a lot of different kinds of things, such as jewelry, art, knick-knacks and collectibles of various kinds, and antiques. I started finding things to put into the store to sell and worked there as a salesman.

Eventually I took over the entire business when my mother decided to take a break from it. Rather than just closing it down altogether I told her I'd run it and pay her for things she left in it when they sold. She was happy to do it, because it meant she didn't have to pack it all up and put it in storage. The store quickly took on a new personality, and was frowned on by local law enforcement, but in reality The Browse Around became an immediate hit in the area because a lot of the locals liked the way I ran the place.

My brother Bill, me in the back, and my mother in the store

I began selling things like electronics, tools, motorcycle leathers, knives, and continued with the jewelry, antiques, collectibles, and art. Eventually I started selling firearms, and became a Federally licensed gun dealer, much to the dismay of the various police departments in the area. To some extent it was me pushing back against a community that had gone out of its way to rid itself of my presence, but at the same time it was me searching for a new identity.

I had always known, at least in my own mind, who I was, or who I thought I was, but my move to the Central Coast of California had left me in a quandary about that subject, so I kept trying to re-identify myself in some new capacity. Harley Davidson motorcycles, guns, and knives were part of that search to find a new version of myself, one that I could commit to. The Browse Around, and it's distinctive personality and merchandise became, for me, the way I chose to interpret myself at the time.

In part, it was that I'd been condemned as an outlaw before I really was one, so my response was to become the outlaw I'd been portrayed as, with an in-your-face decision to accept the judgement and wear it with pride. Not only did I consciously choose this route, I made the decision to shove it down the throat of any and all who objected to it, which initially was the city council, the police, and various citizens.

I am not trying to convince you that what I did was a good thing or a bad thing. It is just what I did with my life at the time. I can always look back at my decisions and question them, and I do, but I cannot change them. The best I can hope for is to attempt to explain them and report what happened in the past.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

SPECIAL INSERT POST..from Oct 27, 2011 by McClaughry's Blog


This is a post which relates directly to things I've written on my blog about Camarillo State Hospital and my experience there in the 70's...click on Camarillo State Hospital in red.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

(part 264) MODERATORS OF DECENCY AND PROGRESS


In 1987 I was no longer The person I had been in L.A., London, New York City, or even Nashville. Almost no one on the central coast knew anything about my past in the music business. That shield was gone, and I was, for the first time since 1963, just another person in a town of run of the mill persons. I became acutely aware of what it is like to be average. Whereas once I had been a somebody of sorts I was now just a full-fledged nobody, and if you think I'm overstating it, you ought to try it sometime.

The average-joe syndrome is a mighty leveler in small-town USA. My past had been riddled with small-town thinking from back in my Arizona days, when I was scoffed at by friends for believing I had something to give to the world of music. In Grover City, CA., I was reunited, in spades, with the any-town USA sledge hammer of nationalistic yahooism and religious zealotry as it was spoon fed to me with a shovel.

It would be difficult at best for some to understand the absolute shock to the system that this was, unless they were clear on where my past had actually taken me. But for those who insist that I was always a nobody, they, I'm sure, will frame what I am talking about here as no more than me being forced to grow up and admit the truth to myself.

The history of a person, any person, is their history. It cannot be altered simply because others don't want to believe it. Collectively, people can rob a person of that history publicly to some degree, but the reality is, a person's history will always belong to them. The altering, and/or rewriting of an individual's experiences, is a technique devised and used by some to steal a person's identity and recreate that person in an image preferable to the thieves.

Threats of physical violence and incarceration, along with collective community shunning of a group or individual, are techniques designed for the purpose of ridding and/or controlling a different group or individual by those who fancy themselves in authority over others. This is what I encountered, and still do, on the central coast of California. It is a tactic of dismissing and rebuking those looked down on, or disagreed with, and a practice as old as the country itself. It has been used repeatedly, since our inception, to relegate some into obscurity, for the benefit of others. It is our history as a nation, and cannot be altered as our history, by simply sugar coating it, lying about it, dismissing it, or rewriting it.

I am who I am, not because I say so, but because of what my life experiences have been in reality. I endeavor to put forth the facts as they actually exist, irrespective of what they paint, good or bad, as a portrait of the human person known as Bobby Jameson. It matters not a whit to me, whether some are bothered by what I say here, because what I say here is my attempt to be as forthcoming as I possibly can. No one is completely clean or completely unclean. No one escapes the truth, whatever it is, in the long run. We are all subject to failures and successes in our lifetimes.

My encounters with human beings are my encounters, not yours. My decisions and consequences are mine whether you like them, believe them, or agree with them. What I did, and do, has nothing to do with you, other than I am here sharing it with you. For individuals to become so involved with my work here that it causes them to make contact with me and demean or threaten me is exemplary as a model of what I'm talking about.

In short, I am saying that there are people in this country who will use any and all means to make their little communities splendid, but only splendid for the chosen ones, and it is the chosen ones who decide that they are chosen. They proclaim their own righteousness, while having little, and abuse the system to their own benefit. What I say here is going on all over the country, as well as the rest of the world. People, fed up with the authoritarian ass-whipping handed out by the so-called moderators of decency and progress. There is nothing decent or progressive about it, and the tide is shifting...