JOHN & ALEX

    Last Friday, December 8, marked the 20th Anniversary of the assassination of music legend John Lennon. That day, twenty years ago, was far and away one of the worst days of my life. There is no way to express the sense of loss that I felt when I heard the news. I was sitting in my living room watching Monday Night Football when Howard Cosell informed me, and the rest of America, what had happened in front of the Dakota Apartments in New York that night and my heart just sank.

    I have never been affected by the death of a celebrity beyond the sadness of knowing that I would never be able to experience new work by them. Not knowing them on a personal level the loss would be far removed. But this was different; this was more like losing a parent. This was a person, who even though I had never met, had a key role in my upbringing. He had influenced me not just with his music but in his philosophies and his actions. 

   He had been part of my life since I was 8 years old and his music had been the soundtrack to my youth. At the time of his death he was once again giving the world the gift of his musical talents which had remained dormant while he was raising his youngest son. The album “Double Fantasy” had just been released and it pointed to a new era of musical magic from John Lennon. Sadly an era that was cut short by a madman's bullets.

   With all the press over the anniversary of his death and the release of a new compilation album by The Beatles I began listening to his music more than usual. In doing so, my kids began to ask questions about who we were listening to. I did my best to explain without becoming over zealous in my description. Hoping that somewhere in their future they would be able to understand the contribution made by this man.

       The fact that I was discussing The Beatles as a history lesson with my kids just seemed so bizarre. The memories of The Beatles and their music are still so fresh in my mind it feels as though it was only yesterday. Having to recite their first and last names and what instruments they played was such an alien exercise, probably because everyone who is my age knows it by heart.

    My ever-curious 9-year-old Alex was peppering me with questions every time the song on the CD changed. He finally got around to the inevitable question “Are they still alive?” I explained that all but one was and of course he wanted to know how he died. I was torn about how to answer his question. Alex is very sensitive about this kind of stuff, so I took it one step at a time.

    I didn't want to unleash the tirade that usually accompanies my discussing Lennon's assassination. Because of how passionate and angry I get at the entire situation I thought it best to take it slowly to see how much information he required. A week ago he was absolutely devastated by the news that he missed making “Honor Roll” at his school by a percentage point. So I decided not to go into all the gruesome details and give him the minimalist version.

    After I explained that a crazy “fan” shot him he wanted to know if they caught the guy. I said yes. Next he wanted to know where the “fan” was now. I told him that the killer was in a mental hospital. Next Alex wanted to know what a mental hospital was. I told him that's where they put people who have mental diseases. Then he wanted to know if he would ever get out of this place. Not knowing for sure but being hopeful I said, “No, I don't think so”.

   What I didn't share with Alex at this stage of his life was the deep-seeded venom I feel towards this “fan” and his senseless crime. That I didn't think he was crazy. That I think he is a cold-blooded murderer who should never be allowed to walk among us again. Alex would never understand how badly I wanted this guy to be in prison on death row. How current executions were far too humane a death for someone who deprived the entire world of who knows how many years of great music and peaceful social activism.

   If you noticed, I have not mentioned the name of the pathetic little weasel who committed this heinous crime. The reason he gave for committing the crime in the first place was to “get attention and to be remembered”. Therefore, I am not about to give him one millisecond of recognition or acknowledgement. I would not sell him my spit if he were dying of thirst. At a recent parole hearing this killer said that if John were alive he would forgive him and want him released. Well, we will never know that because someone not worthy of taking out his garbage has extinguished his flame of life.

    Maybe John would be that compassionate, but this is where he and I would disagree. While it is divine to forgive, I can never forget. With all the lessons that were given to me by him in his all too brief time on this earth, this is one that I can not abide by.

    The void that was created when he left disrupted so many peoples lives, that it can never be erased or replaced

I know that there will never be anyone in Alex's young life to rival the impact that John Lennon had on mine and I find that sad. I can only hope that by sharing the gifts that were given to me at his age, such as John Lennon's messages of “Give Peace a Chance” and “All We Need is Love” will transcend his tragic death and live on for generations to come.

REX LUTHIER: A REX BOGUE TALE

The week before last, in the Los Angeles Times Sunday Calendar section in the Pop Eye column, I read that Dweezil Zappa, son of the rock icon Frank Zappa, was about to sell a guitar. This guitar was not your average guitar; it had a very special history. 

This particular guitar was once owned by Jimi Hendrix and was played by him at the Miami Pop Festival. As with most of his performances, at the end of his set he doused it with lighter fluid and set it on fire on stage.

This guitar was eventually given to Frank, and if you were to believe the LA Times, Frank “restored this guitar and played it extensively during the better part of the 70’s”. Unfortunately, this was not true.

On March 13, 1976, my 21st birthday, a friend of mine invited me to dinner. His name was Rex Bogue and he was what is called a luthier. A luthier is someone who builds or restores guitars. In Rex’s case, his specialty was electric guitars. Rex suggested that before we head out to dinner that we meet at his shop, he had something he wanted to show me.

When I arrived, he handed me a charred body of a Fender Stratocaster Sunburst guitar. No neck, no electronics, just the body. I looked at him completely confused and asked him what it was. He told me that he had just gotten it from Frank Zappa with the instructions to rebuild it. Not to refinish it, but to just lacquer over the burnt body, replace the neck, and electronics. The electronics were one of Rex’s specialties.

In the years that followed, I did see Frank play the guitar many times in concert. There were also times when he would just place the guitar on a stand, center stage with a spot light on it, in sort of an homage to Hendrix. Even though Rex built many custom guitars for people like Carlos Santana and John McLaughlin, this restoration was something that he was very proud of. I felt it was my duty to send a letter to the Times to set the record straight, which I did. Whether they set the record straight or not remains to be seen, but my conscience is clear.

I met Rex while I was in high school and he was one of the most colorful characters I have ever known or even read about. There were so many times when he made me laugh, so many times he made me frustrated, and many more that were happy, sometimes all in one encounter. 

He was a complex individual. Someone capable of creating beautiful pieces of art on the one hand and someone who, once he would take on a project, could procrastinate like no one I had ever known. He could make both his friends and clients crazy. He was no saint by a long shot, but all who knew him, loved him.

Since writing the letter to the Times, I began to reflect on my friendship with Rex and how he had given me a plethora of memories and how he had made my youth a unique one. Exposing me to many things that without having known him I would have never experienced. As I look at my kids and the friends they are making now, I find myself wondering, will they be lucky enough to find someone as special as Rex was to me. Maybe they will become someone else’s Rex, only time will tell.

As I write this I am questioning why it took me so long to draw on my memories of the adventures I had shared with Rex, there were so many. The more I dwell on them, the more come to the surface, some surreal and bizarre, some humorous. There were lessons learned, both good and bad, and I am sure he will return to this column in one form or another. He was viewed as a genius by some and a lunatic by others, but anyone who met him will never forget him.

If you did, you were lucky because you don’t have that luxury now. Rex Bogue passed away on February 8, 1996, at the age of 44. A victim of his own excesses and complications of mishandling his diabetes. The mantle of lunatic certainly fit during the last years of his life, he became a casualty of the rock and roll life style he had adopted many years before.

So if you are fortunate enough to have a Rex in your life, embrace every moment you have with them, even the most maddening ones, because you never know when it will come to an end. 

(Bill Dunn received a call from the Los Angeles Times Wednesday evening. His letter will appear in this Sunday's Calendar section.)

THE LAKE KIDS

Having just returned from my nirvana to the north, the Eastern High Sierras, I came back feeling a little more mellow than usual. I am sure this is just a passing phase that as soon I have settled back into the daily grind will evaporate rapidly. 

While at our cabin by the lake this year I witnessed a metamorphosis. At our special place each generation has developed its own bonding ritual that, in some cases, has developed into life long friendships. This, despite the fact that the likelihood of these kids ever seeing one another any place other than at the lake is slim. But for the brief pocket of time they are together the friendships are intense. As intense as any day to day relationships they have during the year. Perhaps it's the knowledge that they only have a limited time to share one another's company.

Many families do it in different forms and if combined with a strong family unit, it is a critical part of growing up. If you don't have a cabin or RV, get a tent and go camping, If you are not the camping type find a nice little hotel. It can be a yearly trip to any place that the family likes, but remember to let your kids interact with other kids while you're there, even if your stay is brief. It will not only benefit your kids, it will make the other kids' vacation a little more special, too.

I never analyzed it as a child and they, I am sure, are not analyzing it either. It just happens that way when you go to the same spot with any regularity, or travel in a group that involves the same group of people. I remember going on group camping trips to Mexico. The parents had all bonded through mutual interests but the kids generally had nothing in common, but we bonded anyway. It was kind of like being stranded on a desert island. You made the best time you could with who you were with. While Robinson Crusoe and Friday were friends while on the island, I just can't picture them hanging out afterwards.

Even though we went our separate ways once the vacation was over, the anticipation was always lingering until that next trip to see what new adventures we could add to the memory banks. The memories that you carry with you for the rest of your life. The kids don't even realize it at this point, but they will many years from now when they begin to reflect on these special times. I know I have. There were many times when these trips were happening that I didn't want to be there. Now as I look back I wouldn't trade a second of it for the next set of winning lottery numbers.

So as I sat by the lake watching this new generation of Lake Kids, I smiled and began to reflect on that pocketful of miracles that I had of the lake and could see a lot of them replaying themselves with a different cast of characters. The interaction between this generation was the same as it was with mine. No matter if it was two or three playing, or if it was a group of twenty, they all had a common bond, they were all in the same place at the same time.

During one of the birthday parties that happened while we were there, I watched as these kids played. Out of the 20 kids in attendance most were meeting for the first time, but you wouldn't have known it in watching them. You would have thought they had known each other all of their lives or at the very least played together on a regular basis. Even though some of them were first generation to our lake, where many of the residents are working on a 4th generation, it made no difference. They were now part of the group. They were the next generation of Lake Kids, know it or not.

Many of the old guard at the lake fought with, and some still do, the advent of any new technology. They feared that with the invasion of any of those “confangled” new inventions like the radio, television, and VCR that the special feel, the vibe of being in the Sierras, would be lost. But I can say from an eyewitness standpoint that nothing was lost and, if anything, it has enhanced the experience. What was good before is still good now and the hours that the kids would dread, the night, have been filled with pastimes they can relate to.

When I spent my summers at the cabin, when night would fall the choices were slim. There wasn't a commercial radio due to poor reception and the phonograph played only 78 rpm records. You could read the comic books that you bought on the way up, play cards, go outside and look at the stars, or go to sleep. The only difference nowadays is product updates; the comics have been replaced with videos, the cards with Game Boy, and the 78's with Discman. The stars will always be cool.

Some things will never change and even though it had not crossed my mind for 35 years when it presented itself on this last trip I couldn't help but smile. Cap guns. 

Now I can just hear some of you self-righteous PC types out there saying “Oh I never let little Johnny play with any type of gun.” Well good for you, I do and while we were up there my son discovered cap guns for the first time and he was in heaven. He was experiencing the same euphoric bliss I did when I was his age and got my first cap gun. To me it was the perfect symmetry to the environment. He was reliving a part of my history and it was something we could both relate to and share.

My one hope for my children, other for them to be truly happy in their lives in whatever they decide to do, is that they pass it along. Pass along to their children what my parents gave to me. Summer times that were made special by family outings and bonding with the Lake Kids.

...and God Laughed.

A couple of weeks ago, in a moment of uncommon bliss, I expressed my love of rain--pointing out what I thought were all of the positive, happy points. At that time, I was reveling in the first rain of the season, but little did I know that God was reading my article and thought I was enjoying it a little too much. 

He looked down and laughed, and thought to himself, “Bill seems to think that rain is all warm and fuzzy. I think he needs to experience the flip side of that coin.” He chose to do it with an exclamation point for the benefit of all those who did not share my feelings about the rain.

Last Friday, March 5, at Millham Field at Longden School in Temple City, it was Opening Day Ceremonies for Temple City National Little League. After weeks of preparation the payoff for all our hard work was finally here. That payoff is in the looks on the kids' faces as they took the field for the first time to be introduced as a team to all in attendance.

As our President, Kristen Dearth, took the microphone, the evening got off to a great start. The kids were giddy with excitement as they ran onto the field as their teams were called. Their brand new uniforms shiny and colorful under the bright lights, the cleanest they will be for the rest of the season. Jeff Bearman directed them to their spots on the field and it flowed like a well-oiled machine.

Kristen was beaming as she made her announcements, followed by Al Millham leading the players in the Little League oath, seeming to be proud of the field that bears his name. Next was Gaylon the Barber playing the National Anthem on his trumpet. The kid's excitement level rose again as Kristen and Debbie Rea started raffling off gifts to all the players. Then as it ended, the coup de Gras, each player got a free T-shirt, hot dog, coke and a Snickers bar. It doesn't get any better than that.

Next up was the first game of the season, the Major Dodgers versus the Major Pirates. Although many people had left, the stands were still full, standing room only. The snack bar was hustling and bustling, selling all those Little League culinary delights at a furious pace. Being a relative newcomer to the Little League scene, I was staying mobile, cruising around and being a people watcher with one eye, and keeping the other on my kids who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

The night was colder than usual and most people were bundled up in winter garb. I am a particularly warm blooded individual who rarely wears a jacket and if at all possible wears T-shirts and shorts when I am not working. On this night, sweat pants were in order, but still no jacket. But as the night wore on, it got colder than I had anticipated, and I began to regret it.

Then as the second inning began something caught my eye. High in the dark night sky, far to the southwest a flash of light. It happened so subtly I barely noticed it, almost as if I was seeing things. As I moved out to the parking lot I kept my eyes trained on that part of the sky to see if there was any follow ups or if I was just hallucinating. 

Remembering the old adage that a watched pot never boils, I turned to walk away. Suddenly two more flashes in the same spot in rapid succession. It was still too far away to hear the thunder, but it seemed much closer and seemed to be moving fast. Standing nearby was Dermot Cullen, the player agent, surrounded, as usual, by people asking him questions about the league. They all stopped and asked, “Was that lighting?” With typical Dermot calm he responded “Yeah that was lighting” and returned to the conversation.

 I decided to find my son just in case it started raining. By the time I reached the snack bar I could feel the first few drops. First, I spotted my wife, Stacey, who was still collecting money for the 50/50. For the non-Little Leaguers out there, the 50/50 is a mini raffle where you buy tickets and split the pot with the league. This happens at every game, so come by and try it. Wait a minute I got off track here, back to the story.

I go up to my wife, who instructed me to find our daughter Rachel. As these words were leaving her lips the rain became steady as someone over the loudspeaker continued to tout the 50/50. Another flash of lighting came and this time it's accompanied by thunder. The umpire does not miss a beat, threw up his hands, and called the game. 

As soon as the game is called, and the rain was now coming down really hard, people were either fleeing to their cars or are taking refuge under the eaves of the snack bar. There were people scurrying around everywhere as the rain came down harder and harder. I couldn't find Rachel. But in the midst of the swarm of the rain-drenched crowd, I found my son Alex. At that moment, the rain turned to hail. I am very aware of this due to the fact that I was not wearing a jacket, as I mentioned earlier, and the hail was actually stinging me. Alex had had enough of this and wanted me to take him to the car. No argument from me and off we went.

After I got Alex settled in the car I set out looking for Rachel but to no avail, and the hail was now coming down full bore. I returned to the car thinking she'd show up any second, which she did. She told me to get out of the car as I am telling her to get in. Of course I won this argument through the glass and she got in. I asked her why she wanted me to get out and she said mommy wanted us to go into the snack bar to get out of the hail. I pointed out we were out of the hail and we would wait for her.

The true diehards stuck close to the snack bar eaves waiting for the 50/50 results to be announced. Suddenly Stacey appeared at my door--completely soaked--asking why we were here and not in the snack bar. I said because I thought we would be leaving shortly. She asked where are our 50/50 tickets, because they were about to announce the numbers. Diehards indeed.

At first I can't find the tickets. Stacey ran back to the snack barn and a minute later I found the tickets. So back out in the rain and hail I went. I gave her the tickets and returned to the car, twice as wet and cold as I was before. A few minutes later she returned to the car. They had done the 50/50 and we had not won, what a shock. When God decides to make a point, he leaves no stone unturned. 

So, in closing, let me reevaluate my prior reflections as far as rain is concerned. During baseball season rain sucks, Amen.