(part 170) RHYME AND RUMBLE

ANCIENT HISTORY
WRITTEN BADLY
BY MY HAND
OF ENDLESS SADLY
MELTING TEARS
ON MARBLE FACES
WHERE AM I
IN ALL THESE SPACES

WORDS THAT TITTER
TAT ON PAGES
IN BETWEEN MY
RANTS AND RAGES
PHOTOGRAPHS
OF YESTERDAY
THE LIFE I LIVED
AND THREW AWAY

SYLLABLES
LIKE NUMBERS COUNTED
SENTENCES
ARE FRAMED AND MOUNTED
MEANING THINGS THAT
BARELY MUMBLE
INTO SOUNDS
OF RHYME AND RUMBLE

Bobby Jameson June 2009

(part 169) THE BLACKOUT

There may be some who read my last post thinking I didn't have any integrity left to lose. In other words, my past history and behavior had already sunk to such a low that it ruled out any integrity or honor being left to me.

I can understand this, if some in fact feel this way, but in defense of what I wrote I would have to say that the act of stealing, for me, signaled a new low.

In 1975, I had already been written off by most, as a lost cause, but in my mind there was still something worthwhile buried inside me.

But as I began to see myself engage in breaking and entering, and later acts of burglary, I knew that something had changed, and that these episodes were the beginning of an ongoing downward spiral into more seriously flawed actions yet to come.

The cumulative effect of my steady demise, was further illustrated when I showed up at a bar on Crescent Heights Blvd., just below Sunset Blvd., which was, for the most part, frequented by those who wished to be associated with professional criminals.

I'd gone there alone, and was drinking and went into a blackout. I was informed later, that I'd climbed onto the bar and started kicking glasses, while ranting and raving about something.

Someone dragged me off the bar and out into the back parking lot and began beating my head against the pavement while holding me by my hair.

Since I was in a blackout and didn't even know I was there, the repeated blows to the back of my head only served to snap me back into conscious awareness of what was going on. As the last couple of thumps penetrated into my brain, the guy doing this decided he was through with me, I suppose.

I was lying on my back, spread eagle, in the parking lot when he climbed off my chest and began walking back toward the bar. I immediately jumped to my feet and yelled at him, "Hey! Where ya going asshole?"

Completely caught off guard by this sudden turn of events, he spun around and saw the demented grin on my face. "We ain't done here yet, shit head." I said, as I started walking toward him; he clearly looked alarmed.

He reached in his pocket for a large Buck Knife and quickly opened it exposing the blade. There he was, knife in hand, and there was I watching the fear in his eyes and his face.

"What the fuck are you gonna do with that knife asshole?" I demanded. "It's over man," he said back to me, "let it go, it's over." "Over?" I said, "It ain't over, now it's my turn."

I started toward him, and he pushed the knife toward my chest. I turned slightly, to avoid the blade, and felt it cut into my upper left bicep, opening a two inch gash in my flesh.

I stopped momentarily, looking at the river of blood streaming from my arm, and then back at him. He was clearly shaken by what had happened, and the amount of blood I was losing.

If anything, the sight of my own bleeding arm caused me to become even more enraged, and something just snapped inside my head.

His eyes had that "I don't want to be here look" in them as I studied his face and now trembling hand holding the knife. In a nanosecond I thought about my life and how fucked everything was.

"Fuck me!" I said to myself, "who gives a shit," and with that I went after him yelling "I'm gonna kill you man. Now I'm gonna shove that fucking knife up your ass."

I lunged at him, and he gave in to his own fear yelling, "You're fucking crazy man, you are full on fucking nuts." I watched as he turned away and ran off into the night.

I stood there alone in the parking lot yelling after him, "Come back you chicken shit, come back so I can stick that fucking knife up you're ass, you prick."

A complete sense of exhilaration arose in me as a result of my own madness, similar to what I'd experienced on the tower when I'd reached the top; a sense of victory.

I stood there for what seemed like a long time, raging at the darkness and the empty space around me. Finally I gave it up, and turned my attention back to my arm; it continued to bleed profusely.

I didn't feel I'd have any luck getting help from anyone in the bar, so I opted to get myself to the house of the woman who'd bought the stolen jewelry from me. She was familiar with the bar and it's patrons. In a few minutes, I was pounding on her door, and shortly it opened.

I pushed my way inside. "Oh my God, Bobby," she exclaimed, "What happened to you, what is all this blood from?" "Some asshole stabbed me with a knife at that fucking gangster bar on Crescent Heights," I said, "I need to clean up."

As I stood there bleeding inside the door, she looked down at the floor and saw blood all over her rug. "Oh my carpet," she yelled, "you're bleeding all over my new carpet!" She tried to push me back outside, and I exploded.

"Fuck your goddamn carpet," I yelled, and slugged her in the face. Pushing my way past her, I headed for the bathroom without a word, and washed my arm and wrapped it in a towel. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, shaking my head.

I turned, walked out of the bathroom, and past her to the door, saying nothing. I looked one last time at the blood on the floor and at her. She stood there in silence holding her face. I left, and have never seen her again.

(part 168) THE DAY AFTER.. THE NIGHT BEFORE...

When I came to, after passing out from exhaustion and drunkenness, the thoughts about what had happened, and the feelings of remorse slammed into me like a train wreck of regret.

I could not believe that what I'd done the night before was real, but it was. It was absolutely real, and sent cold chills through my body, as I looked down at the deep cut in my wrist, put there by the jagged glass from the jewelry store window.

I had a hangover that enveloped my entire being with a sense of fear and foreboding. I rushed frantically around the living room of Carol's house, desperately searching for a bottle to quell the screaming demons in my head.

Finding it, I began chugalugging straight scotch to ward off my growing sense of remorse. I gagged repeatedly, as the warm alcohol burned it's way into my empty stomach. I went back for more and more, until I felt the first wave of booze hitting my battered brain.

I fell back into the deep sofa where I had slept, and sat there like a zombie staring at the bottle in my hand. With each passing moment the alcohol did it's job of freeing me from the dark reality of my own actions from the night before.

I began reclaiming the lie that had caused me to violate my own moral code, and to reinforce my dread with false courage from the bottle. I looked around the living room, and watched the afternoon sunlight stream through the windows from the west.

The day was coming to an end as I was coming to. I had crossed a line by stealing the jewelry and knew it. I'd gone directly and irreversibly against myself the night before, and had forever lost something of real personal value in doing so.

Never again would I be the same. I would now know that I was one of those who had given away integrity, trading it for a few pieces of silver.

I took another drink from the bottle, and stared off into space, while filling my head with one lie after another in an attempt to exorcize my sense of guilt and disappointment. With each passing moment I rejected reason for another self-serving justification for what I'd done.

Over the next couple of hours I reconstructed a world of lies into a framework of self deceit, where I could be king of nothing and call it something. Somewhere deep inside me the light of who I was had been all but extinguished.

This may have been a first for me, but in no way would it be the last, in a succession of bewildering and criminal acts carried out by me in 1975. I unfortunately maintained this hard edged form of perversity all the way through that year and beyond.

It was as if I'd ceased being me altogether, and had taken on another person and inserted him into my body. I immersed myself into a world of criminal consciousness, and spent as much time as I could with those I'd met through DP.

What separated me from this particular group, and literally caused them to tolerate me and my insanity, was the simple fact that I could play music and write songs.

At times I'd sit in their homes and make up songs about them, some of whom were total strangers. I would sing the songs, and they would wonder and ask, how someone like me could come up with such personal things about people I just met, and have the songs be not only accurate, but something they liked hearing.

Because of this, and this alone, I was accepted into their midst as if I possessed some sort of magic, that in their opinion, validated me in a special way.

That faint, but ever present spark of who I was, never left, it had just faded from prominence and become more of a clever sideshow I used to ingratiate myself into this basically closed society of people.

Every one of them thought I was one of the craziest persons they'd ever met, but overlooked it because of their fascination with my ability to simply switch to this other personality and perform for them. They'd give me drugs and fix me a drink and say, "Go ahead and play Bobby, play for us."

* * *

Back in the 50's and the early 60's it had always been the music that allowed me to dream my way out of any circumstance I was faced with. It was the magical ability to see past where I was to where I wanted to go.

With a guitar, a pen, and a sheet of paper, I could literally lift myself out of one world and into another. This was the trick, one that I found that I could perform over and over.

My desire and need to write songs, play, and then record them, had given me a concrete path to walk, on my way to a new and different world than that of Tucson and Mesa, Arizona, and later from Glendale to Hollywood, California.

I would simply dream my dream into being, and place myself in exactly the world I had decided on.

* * *

But somewhere along the line something had changed. Now my ability with music had made me into a performing monkey in search for nothing more meaningful than a handful of peanuts from the occasional crowd who gathered on a street to nowhere.

(part 167) I NEEDED THE MONEY

I suppose that as I write this story, some may think I'm "stuck" in an ever repeating rewrite of that which has already been stated and reiterated to death.

This, in some sense is true, but necessary, in that the story itself cannot go where one wishes, but where the story actually goes. The tedious nature of alcoholism and drug addiction is that they are centered in repetition and habitual tendency.

The tragedy is, that alcoholics and addicts are alcoholics and/or addicts because they are caught in the cycle of repeating a failure, which at one point worked for them, but now does not.

It was 1975, and I stood on the sidewalk in front of a very expensive jewelry store on Rodeo Dr. in Beverly Hills. It was 2:00 in the morning, and I figured that the cops would be out looking for drunk drivers who were leaving the bars for the night.

As usual, I was broke, and was determined to do something about it. I stared at the jewelry still sitting in the sidewalk showcase windows.

I carefully read the little signs at the bottom of those windows, which said that the glass was shatterproof and/or unbreakable. "Yeah" I muttered, "I bet I can break it." I went to the car and retrieved a large golf club from the trunk, it was Carol's car.

I don't know why I picked the golf club over the tire jack, but that's what I grabbed. I stood in front of the window and took one last look around. Nothing! There was no one on the street and no traffic.

I lifted the golf club above my shoulder, and swung it like a baseball bat at the first small window. It hit with a thud and barely left a mark.

This incensed me, when I saw that it had done little or no damage to the window. I stood back and took another swing, repeating the action several times.

Over and over I wildly swung at the window like a man possessed. The repeated blows slowly began to break apart the glass, and finally I managed to beat a hole in it about the size of my fist.

I shoved my hand through the opening, and began pulling out the contents, mostly watches. During this process I caught my wrist on a jagged shard of glass, ripping it open covering the area in blood.

I yanked out my hand and looked around again. It was then that I caught sight of a video camera above the entrance to the store, and noticed it was pointed directly at me, and had a tiny red light that was illuminated.

"Shit!" I said, as I turned back toward the car. With the bloody jewelry in one hand, and the now completely bent golf club in the other, I threw everything on the front seat and slid in behind the steering wheel.

My heart was pounding in my chest, as I kept saying, "OK, Bobby, be cool, and don't freak out. Just drive away calmly as if nothing is wrong." I knew I'd set off a silent alarm when I'd hit the window, so I expected the police at any moment.

I could now hear the sound of sirens filling the air from Wilshire Blvd. to Sunset, as they raced toward where I'd just been. I drove off slowly and deliberately on a side street, as if I had all the right in the world to be there.

It was difficult not to over react and drive faster, but I managed to keep my wits and stay focused, at least on the outside. Inside I felt like I was going to have a heart attack.

I headed east towards Hollywood, and managed to miss the police by about twenty or thirty seconds, as I vanished into the darker side streets of a residential part of Beverly Hills.

I knew people who bought stolen jewelry, because of DP. He'd introduced me to them in the past, so I figured I had a way to get some money quick.

Early that morning, I went to one of their houses in the hills and rang the doorbell. When the women I was looking for finally opened the door she said, "What the hell are you doing here so early in the morning, Bobby?"

"I got some stuff to sell," I said. "What kind of stuff?" she asked, half asleep and bleary eyed. "Jewelry," I said, "stolen jewelry." "Oh shit," came the reply, "get in here before somebody hears you."

I went inside and the door closed behind me. "You're nuts, Jameson. You know that?" "Yeah, yeah I'm crazy," I said, "so what! How much can I get for this shit?"

I dropped the jewelry on a coffee table in front of her. "Where'd you get this from anyway?" she asked. I told her where it came from and how I got it. She stared at me like I was from another planet, and shook her head.

"God, Bobby, you really are crazy," she groaned. "How much can I get for it?" I asked. "I don't even want this crap, it's hot as hell," she said.

"Come on," I said, "give me something. I need the fucking money." She stared at me sensing I was not gonna leave without something.

"OK," she said, "I'll give you $250 for it but that's it." "OK," I said disappointed, "give me the Goddamn money, and then I'll leave."

(part 166) CHURCH OF SADNESS

click

In a 12 step program, the first 3 steps set up the basis for the next 9.

Step 1, Admit defeat, and to being powerless over the thing which is causing you trouble, such as alcohol and/or drugs. Further admit that the management of your life, while engaged in this troublesome behavior, is failing.

Step 2, Come to an understanding and belief that some power, spiritual in nature or not, can and will restore you to sanity regarding this behavior admitted to in the first step.

Step 3, Make a concrete and real life decision that you will relinquish yourself, both your will and your life, to this power described in step 2.

These three things were attempted by me initially, but became bastardized eventually by my unwillingness to accept defeat, believe in a power greater than my old self, and turn my will and my life over to the care of anything other than me, alcohol, and drugs.

My higher power was in fact drugs and booze. That was my main focus in life. I'd made getting loaded into my God, and was determined to maintain my right to glorify my chosen religion through the intake of substances.

I had always believed in God, and had always thought he cared about me, but some time during my previous eleven to twelve years, I'd come to believe that God had abandoned me, or possibly more precisely, I had abandoned God.

Prior to going to England in 1964 in an attempt to get away from Tony Alamo, I'd had a sense of deep spiritual connection to the Universe, but I altered my destiny by suddenly leaving America to engage with Andrew Oldham and Mick Jagger, and that sense of deep connection was changed.

The connection didn't vanish, it was just different. When I came back to America in 1965, I was not the same. I'd lost something I'd once possessed, and I tried desperately for the next ten years to reclaim it.

The use of LSD, and other substances, were no equal for what I'd felt naturally at 19 years old. But drugs and alcohol became for me, the new doorway to the unknown secrets I'd heard about and read about.

The simple and straight forward belief I'd had, was never recaptured or crystalized through the use of drugs, any drug.

Somewhere along the line, the use of those drugs had caused me to sink into darkness rather than rise into the light of clear thinking. Somehow, I had lost my way rather than found it.

So now here I was, lost and angry, and completely unwilling to embark wholeheartedly on a new way of life. Rather, I held to the past, and all that had failed me, in a stubborn fit of destructive and shortsighted behavior.

Gone was any sense of real purpose, other than to prove to the world that I could endure the endless pain and misery I seemed to create for myself through using.

Now I was more like a machine than a person, fueled by alcohol and drugs, and ever more determined to clash with everything and everyone I encountered.

Buried in the deep recesses of my memory was the big eyed boy who wanted only to sing songs and taste life to it's fullest. Buried too, was the true creative force I'd always relied on and used for inspiration and direction in deciding my next step in life.

This blank and dark room of no man's land became my domain, a place where tears were mistaken for laughter, and love traded for cruelty.

This was my altar, my church of sadness. A place of believing in nothing more than the ruthless selfishness of addiction, self-pity, and all that comes with it.

(part 165) COURT

I have no recollections of who I contacted, or where I stayed, when I got back to Nashville, but I do remember taking a 3 grain tuinal, a sleeping pill, before going to court.

This act of stupidity left me slurring my words and unsteady on my feet while trying to maintain my composure in the court room. I suppose I believed I might go to jail so I'd opted for being high if in fact that occurred.

As I stated in previous posts, many of the people I knew in Nashville had grown up together and gone to the same schools. It was a very small town in a lot of ways, and because of this, the lines between the non law abiding and law abiding were blurred.

For instance, DP had become a cocaine dealer, while close friends of his had ended up in politics and the government. One of these friends of his was the prosecuting attorney in the case against me, who I'd met during my previous time in Nashville.

The fact was, that I'd introduced this particular attorney to a flaming red haired nymphomaniac who he'd fallen in love with, and subsequently married. Who would have guessed?

Anyway, that was the case, and in this guy's mind I'd done him the biggest favor of his life, at least that's the way he saw it. Couple that with the fact that I knew where the cocaine I'd sold had originated from, DP, and the prosecutor was a friend of DP's, you had a mighty interesting and unusual set of facts.

While I sat in court, waiting for the proceedings against me to get underway, the prosecutor informed the judge that the state was not going to proceed with it's case against me for various reasons.

I sat there in shocked silence, and then was ordered to stand up while the judge launched into a long rambling dissertation about how the state of Tennessee was being drug traumatized, and was going into debt trying to deal with all the drug cases. He said the state was running out of jail and prison space because of it.

The long and the short of it was, that the judge said Tennessee had enough of it's own people to deal with, and that the state wasn't interested in further burdening it's dwindling resources to prosecute, convict, and then house idiots like me from California, who had come to Nashville and gotten in trouble.

He ordered me to leave the state forthwith, and not to come back for a very long time, if ever. I stood in the court room with my mouth hanging open, while it quickly dawned on me that I'd just been cut loose and was free to go.

One would think that I could have seen that I'd been miraculously spared prison, and that I'd sober up and go back to L.A. and rededicate myself to the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, but this was not to be the case. In fact, I ended up at Friday's bar celebrating with DP and his crowd, and was told repeatedly that I'd beaten both the odds and the system.

During this celebration, the prosecutor, whose name was Tom M., and who'd dropped the case against me, walked up with his hand outstretched and a big smile on his face saying, "Stay out of trouble Bobby and good luck."

As I reached out to shake his hand he slipped a neatly folded hundred dollar bill into mine saying, "I owed you one partner, now we're even." I always assumed this was due to the fact that he'd married the red head I'd introduced him to.

Again, I have no recollection of leaving Nashville or getting back to L.A., but I assume I was stoned out of my mind, and stayed that way.

Something had occurred in my psyche, which caused me to reject AA altogether at that point, yet in thinking about it now I can only guess as to what that was.

Maybe it was just wanting to be loaded more than I wanted to face the world sober. Possibly it was as simple as I got clean in the first place because I was faced with prison time for committing a felony, and now I was over that hurdle.

I may have thought that appearing to straighten out my life by going to AA in the first place would help me with the problem in Nashville, but now that the problem was resolved I simply returned to what I wanted to do all along, which was to get loaded. It may all have been nothing more than a charade to cover my tracks.

I can think of many reasons, but may never really know the whole truth. The fact that I needed sobriety was self evident, but wanting sobriety was not.

There was no hunger for it the way I had thirsted after success and fame. There did not exist for me in those days a driving need to stay clean and sober.

What I do know for sure is that when I went back to drinking and using, I went back with a vengeance, the likes of which I'd never known. It was as if I was daring life to take me out of my misery, and my aim was to push it to the outer edge of all things reasonable.

My ticket back to hell was in reality, spending the next fourteen months of my life trying to drink myself to death, and vowing never to go back to AA. In fact, I did everything I could to make it a reality.