Fenn Street, in Los Angeles, was up a mountain overlooking East L.A. and downtown. A dirt road, leading to a dead end, where I lived at two vastly different times in my life. The first time I drove up there was to see Paul Lagos, then drumming for John Mayall and the Johnny Otis Revue. Driving up and around the hill and turning onto that dusty gravel, then seeing a hand drawn sign: "Wild Game Reserve" which was put up by his neighbor Glenn (sp?). Peacocks and dogs coexisted on that road and who knows what other animals. The peacocks were beautiful, but the loud cries made you glad the "reserve" was at Glenn's, not too close to Paul, who kept goats for milk. This pastoral scene was just a few miles from downtown Los Angeles and about once a year, the L.A. air was clear enough to see Catalina Island out over that stretch of the Pacific.

Glenn was a leathery-skinned woman of indeterminate age, but one or more of us would occasionally hang out for a few moments over at her place, which was pretty much a shack of a house. She had a Philippino man  living with her, Eddie I think his name was, and I know he helped her do the physical things she couldn't do. One day he got sick, and I believe he died shortly after. I was stopping over there whenever I passed by then, and I learned some things that made Glenn unusual and to some extent, a hermit. First was the fact that she was very close to a Japanese woman who was interned in a camp near L.A. during the war. I'd never seen or spoken to anyone like that before. This is one of many things Americans like to forget about. Well, she had gotten over the past and she and Glenn met for tea or coffee from time to time. Another odd thing about Glenn is that she was in the movies in Hollywood at some point. She showed me an 8x10 black and white photo of her in a scene with Ingrid Bergman. Ingrid was then a beautiful young woman, but Glenn was adorable as perhaps a Swedish au pair, with braids in her hair and an innocent but seductive smile. I didn't ever hear more about Glenn's Hollywood days, but I guess she was an extra in a movie or two.

Every human being has a story. Some have many stories. Wars and catastrophes change millions of lives, yet most of us have never had any involvement with these inevitable events. I know Glenn eventually died, not that long after "Eddie".

Seeing Ingrid Bergmann on cable TV last night reminded of that photo Glenn showed me, and of how she had been one of the most colorful and interesting characters I'd ever met in a place where nearly everyone you'd meet in my line of work was colorful and interesting. And that decades before, she was a very attractive young woman. What other changes had she seen in her life? What brought her to this hermit existence at the outer edges of East Los Angeles, Highland Park and Montecido Heights?

If you haven't seen Casablanca for a while, it is a radical change from much of the unsubtle, explosion and car chase-filled fare of our times. We watched it all the way through last night and I still find it's one of the best, most universal and engaging stories ever made into a movie.

What trace will you leave when you're gone? Is there a wikipedia entry on you? A foundation in your name? A bench at a park? Will you live on in the memories of others whose paths you've crossed during your life? WIll your music echo in the ears and imagination of someone who heard you play years before? Will your paintings make vivid visual dreams for another person who saw them hanging somewhere or in a book?

I forgot a few people in my list of dead people I don't see anymore and one of them was Hervé Villechaise, most famous for a couple of roles, a James Bond movie, The Man with the Golden Gun in 1974, and Fantasy Island (1978-80's) where he co-starred with Ricardo "Rich Corinthian Leather" Montalban before quitting over wages. I was on the set once and Montalban and Hervé appeared to totally detest each other.
 

 
I met Hervé after meeting his ex-wife Anne, in Paris when I set up the Laserium in 1978. (I need to tell that whole story here soon.) They were both very good-hearted people, in different ways. Ann was motivated to finish school and become an RN. When I moved back to L.A., Anne was also living there and one day I got a call from a woman who identified herself as "the secretary of Mr. Villechaise". I was invited to Hervé's place out in the valley for parties. Each time, there seemed to be a mixture of typical Hollywood hangers-on but also some very cool, regular people. Hervé and I also cruised the bars a couple of times and I recall once pretending to not speak any English in one of those bars. When I later married, my wife and I went out there for dinner several times.
 
I was pretty shocked that Hervé took his own life, but not surprised after all. He was an artist, and I guess pretty confident in that area, but as an actor and a man, probably unsure of himself. He scowled at me once when in passing I used the expression "my boy" which it was common to use ironically among friends. I do know that he did a lot of good work for children out there until at the age of 50, he blew himself away.

You can play this song, "The WOman in WHite" while you read this:

This is an anecdote about two ordinary Los Angeles couples. T and his wife were dealing H out of their Hollywood apartment. J and his wife were regular customers.

I was at T's place one evening and the J family was there. I'd met them several times before. They were nice folks. He had a goatee and was a big guy and she was blonde, pleasant-looking and only a pound or two over her ideal BMI. Neither looked in any way vulgar or trashy. It's unfortunate that I can't recall what we were talking about - people do actually converse in these situations - but I do know J wanted some H and had insufficient $ to pay for it.

Although you could literally buy a house under the HollywoodLand sign on credit, you could not get a quarter bag as easily. This is where I got a surprise on the human behavior level. I've always thought that working in a bar, especially seeing everyone there from the height of a raised stage, gave a unique psychological point of view.

Forgive the digression, but a tiny bar gig anecdote comes to mind. We were playing in a club one night and a bunch of bikers came in. About an hour later, there was the pretty much inevitable bar fight, with at least 5 major events taking place at once on the dance floor. At one point a mic stand got slammed into the bass players face and one of the two guys in front of him, who was being choked at the time, squeezed out "Sorry!" before dancing away with his partner in strangulation. Unforgettable vignette! Possibly explains my great enjoyment of Sons of Anarchy. I've already said, it's The Sopranos on motorcycles and it rings true to life.

Back to the J family. So they didn't have $25, but Mrs. J made a few phone calls and was able to set up an "appointment" at a nearby motel. I thought maybe she was a hairdresser. While I talked to J within 50 yards of the sleazy motel room door (Don't ask me what I was doing with them or what could we have been discussing at that moment) Mrs met a guy in the lot and led him upstairs. I do remember J saying we needed to stop talking for a few minutes because it would "spook the John". I swear those were his exact words. So picture me standing with J in sight of a motel room where his wife was pleasuring someone for money. J was not just calm, but totally indifferent, cheerful even, as if his wife were dropping off some laundry, which was about the amount of time that we passed together in silence. I guess there wasn't much of a line. When she joined us again, I almost expected her to be holding a receipt so strong was the "business as usual" vibe.

I've quoted the Dalai Lama in the past who said that one distinct characteristic of prostitution is the mutual lack of respect. Isaac Bashevis Singer once wrote [something like] "Who knows what goes on in another man's head?", a line, I think, from the Magician of Lublin. Indeed, who knows what J was thinking.

I hope it has occurred to anyone who considers themselves human that a person can be driven to do unimaginably difficult and sometimes horribly damaging things by necessity, whether they create it themselves by being addicted to a drug or whether they just happened to be born in a place so hopeless, they will throw their children into the sea from a boat if this can obtain a better life. You shouldn't need to walk a mile in anyone's shoes to feel these things if you have a brain and a soul. What the world needs now isn't so much "love, sweet love" but empathy and respect.

Extra points:

- Who or what is The WOman in WHite?
- Why am I numbering these things in octal?