Chapter 59 - Last Autograph part 2

Bridget (Ray Charles) Bardog

Bridget Bardog

AFTER THE TWO Guys broke up in late ‘83, Blair took his series 7 test and became a stockbroker. He made a ton of money and bought a condo off Sunset in one of those high rises. A few years after that he had a scare—they found a grapefruit sized tumor in his stomach. Although it was benign, Blair had decided that life was too short not to do the thing he felt he was born to do—play music. He sold his condo and moved into a one-bedroom apartment on Waring Drive in Hollywood. He sold his Porsche and bought a fifteen-year-old Toyota Celica. Soon after that, he did a solo instrumental record and, through Joey’s brother John Hamilton, got a gig with Vickie Lawrence playing piano. He soon grew tired of being on the road, and after a few years, ended up in Woodland Hills, where he still plays music and making millions in the annuity/insurance trade. He bought three and sold two Ferrari’s and owns some other extravagant classics, the original mixing console from RCA Studios in Nashville—the one Elvis Presley used, and Chet Atkins had left a coffee ring stain by the talk back button. Blair never could refuse a good deal so when he was offered an ungodly amount of money for the console, he sold it. Blair is not the most sentimental or nostalgic person in the world, and he hardly ever thinks about the past like Stephen, and I do. His favorite saying, “I see life as a man driving in a car looking through a windshield, not a rear-view mirror.” I guess it makes sense for a person to keep looking forward, but there comes a time when a little reflection is necessary to keep things in perspective. After all, that’s how we all got to the point we’re at now, right?

Flash forward to 2012 - 2013: Blair and I were writing music together over the phone and he decided to re-cut some of the Two Guys songs. But like the Gemini he is, he flip-flops on the notion of looking back. For someone who doesn't like to live in the past, why on earth did he decide to re-cut songs of ours from the eighties? After all, country music today is nothing more than rehashed rock from that aforementioned decade with fiddles and twang thrown in for good (or bad) measure. They actually sounded fairly professional, and he hired some of the best singers and musicians—I even flew in a few parts from my computer in Thompson Station to his hard drive in Encino. But after being swindled by a song-plugger who did a Bernie Madoff on us, making things up out of thin air. He would send us monthly reports of certain artists in Nashville who he said had listened to the songs. They either passed on it or would keep it for consideration. About twenty artists a month made it to that spreadsheet and the ratio was about fifty/fifty. It seemed a little too good to be true. It’s funny one of the artists was my neighbor, Billy Ray Cyrus, who is a helluva nice guy. He came to our house dressed up as Santa Claus one Christmas bearing gifts, but I was so sick with the flu I missed it.

Anyway, I thought it was ironic that I had to send a song that was recorded in L.A. to a song-plugger in Nashville to a guy who lived across the road. After the sixth month of reports, Billy Ray had passed on the two songs he was holding. I had a sinking suspicion this song-plugger was just pulling facts out of thin air but had no way of proving it until I contacted Mr. Cyrus and he said, not only had he never heard the songs, but he hadn’t worked with the representative indicated on the spreadsheet in over five years. After confronting the song-plugger with this information, he said he would give us our money back. He was caught red-handed, and he knew it. I would like to mention his name, but some things are better left unsaid. He’ll get his comeuppance someday.

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Now back to 1981. After breaking up with Marly for the second and final time, I was at the beach in Malibu climbing north through the rocks and sand. I thought about what I needed at the time, and after being with Marly and her sweet dog, Marou, I decided I needed a dog, yes a dog would fill the gaps in my life and give me something to do besides moping about lost loves and broken up bands. One day I was looking out of the window at Radford at Ventura Blvd, when I saw this emaciated, blonde dog, around six months old, wandering in circles on the sidewalk. A bus pulled up at the corner and the dog actually entered through the double doors. A few moments later the dog exited the bus and meandered to the alley outside of my apartment. I ran downstairs to see what she was all about. There was a retired aircraft mechanic who lived in the laundry room of the small apartment complex whose name was Jack, and he looked like the man on the label of Jack Daniels Tennessee whiskey. I asked him about the dog, and he said she had been hanging around the alley for a couple of weeks. They had even named her—Bridget Bardog. It was the perfect name for the perfect dog. I told Jack I wanted the dog, but he said that would have to be up to her. I then went up to Bridget and whispered in her ear that if she wanted she could come upstairs to my apartment, and I would take care of her. After that, I went upstairs alone hoping that she would follow me, but she didn’t. I sighed a heavy breath and resigned myself to the fact she might be better off with Jack and the rest of the old wild men in the alleyway. But in my heart I didn’t believe it. I knew that dog was special, so I closed my eyes and prayed that she would come upstairs. About twenty or thirty minutes later I could hear the faint sound of clip-clopping of claws on cement. It was her, and she had decided to pay me a visit. I guess she had to say goodbye to her friends in the alley in her own doggie way. We stayed together for sixteen years after that, and she even made it to Tennessee where she died peacefully in my front yard on June 21, 1997—Sunday’s final round of the British Open.

     Bridget was my constant companion and I realized that I needed to go back to work to support the two of us. Central Supply had moved to Van Nuys, and I started working there again. I buried Jim Phillips and now a new persona was created—Jeff Henry. Jeff was much nicer than Jim and made a lot more money too. When Jim found a phone book in the supply room from the Virgin Islands, he (I) made a small fortune. After I got through with that phone book, the Virgin Islands were virgin no more, and were now known as just “The Islands”. I bought a Porsche, and for the first time in my life had enough money to buy my own white powdery substance. This became the start of one of the loneliest depressing periods in my life. Thank God I had Bridget Bardog to keep me company or I might have done something irreversible. I was “out there” for more than two years, losing weight and losing my health. I knew I had to put a stop to it, but it was difficult—almost impossible. I would promise myself I wouldn't buy anymore, but nevertheless I would find myself at my dealer’s house buying another gram he would always front to me so I would be indebted to him. It’s a common game that drug dealers play to keep you coming back. I drove my Porsche back to my apartment on El Cerritos in Hollywood with a fresh gram in my pocket. I went upstairs and did a line. I don’t know what came over me—maybe it was guilt, or providence, but I decided that my health and welfare were at stake, and it was time for me to put away my childish toys and I promised I would never do the evil drug again. I put the stuff in my jacket and drove back to the drug dealer’s house, slammed the vile on his coffee table and said. “I can’t do this anymore.” He looked at me inquisitively and said, “Why, is there anything wrong with it?” I just shook my head and said, “No, the game is over.” He took back the gram and we were all square. 

I did cocaine only one more time in New York City in the late eighties. I was at an apartment on the west side, where a dark haired, Jewish girl named Karen who I had met in Aspen on New Years Eve of 1986 lived. She had a little coke and gave me a few lines. I was so wired and felt terrible, so terrible that I had to get out of there right away— even though it was three in the morning. I fast tracked at a rabbit’s pace along the west side, past the U.N Building for more than thirty blocks thinking I was going to get mugged, killed or something. I finally made it back to 72^nd and First Avenue safe and sound. I never did that white powdery stuff again. Smart move, wouldn't you say?

You are probably thinking that I did my fair share of drugs and was a raving alcoholic. Yes and no. I was habitual in my drinking and the only drug I really was partial to was grass. My Dad was what you would call a five o’clock drinker and he would reward himself when he came home from the day’s activities with a scotch or vodka. I wish I had that much self-control, because once I got started it was hard for me to stop until either I passed out or got sick. And it WAS making me sick. I would try and temper my drinking by pouring myself White Russians thinking, if the booze was mixed with milk it would sooth my stomach. I didn't even realize that I had acid reflux disease. It wasn't until I got married in 1990 that my wife insisted I go to the doctor’s office where he scoped me with one of those long cameras on a string to diagnose my illness. Nothing that a little Omeprazole can’t remedy now.

Back then, I wasn't really a social drinker, but I was afraid of drinking and driving, so I would usually have a beverage by my bedside table. My friends could always hear the ice clinking in my glass when I was on the phone with them. Then there was divine intervention.

On the eighteenth anniversary of John Lennon’s death, I knew things were getting out of hand when I started hiding the booze from my wife and my mother, who was staying in our guest room here in Thompson Station. My wife Donna was pregnant with our third son (I didn't know it was a boy at the time), when the obstetrician told us the baby had a high risk of being born with Down syndrome. I freaked out and said a prayer. “Please God, I’ll do anything in the world if you see to it that the baby is a happy, healthy child.” Suddenly a voice like thunder on steroids echoed in my head. “STOP THE DRINKING NOW!” It was earth shattering and I acted. I knew I could have blown it off like a dream or an audio hallucination, but I didn't. I gathered every drop of alcohol I had in the house and poured it down the sink. I remember when my mom walked into the kitchen she asked, “Jimmy, are you drinking at this time in the morning?” I said, “No Mom, I’m never going to drink again.” I said to God, “I promise I will never touch alcohol again from this moment forward if you make good on the deal. But if the baby is born with any defects, I’m going to pick up my drinking where I left off.”

On May 11, 1999, Morgan David Haymer came into this world a happy, healthy baby boy and I made good on my promise. A deal is a deal, and you can’t Welsh on the man, or woman upstairs, but the voice definitely sounded male, hey maybe it was my own super voice I was hearing. I guess I set it up, so it was more than for myself I was quitting. It was for my son—after all I am a superstitious man. I know if I ever started up with the booze again, something terrible would happen to him and I could never let that happen, especially if I knew I might be responsible. It is much more than for me that I gave up the terrible addiction (although I did pick up plenty of benefits from stopping), it was for my family. I was a lucky one to have divine intervention, and that’s what I believe it was. I have seen too many friends leave this planet due to alcohol and drug abuse and that includes over one third of the member of Silverspoon. Yes, it’s true that some of them went by the wayside by disease but their past was riddled with abuse. Doug Fieger and Mikel Japp had both been sober for over twenty-five years, but they succumbed to cancer. Maybe it was too much and too late, I don’t know. Yes, I miss alcohol sometimes, especially a good single malt scotch, or real imported beer, but I figure I did enough drinking to keep an army drunk for a decade. I feel so much better, and I think, and I pray that I have added years to my lifespan. I did smoke pot from time to time, but recently I had to give that up too because I was having episodes with vertigo. It’s odd to be sober, and I never thought I would be. Life’s surprisingly good, most of the time. Sure, I still get upset and I lose my temper, but it is never as out of control as it used to be when I was drinking. It was definitely providence that saved my life. I recommend it to everybody.