THE FIRST TIME I MET JOHHNY CARSON
The first time I met Johnny Carson I was taking a leak in the sand driveway behind an old and dilapidated surf-shack beach house that squatted like a festering wound of hedonism amidst the soft and lily-white belly sands of the affluent seaside community known as Del Mar, California.
I was shrooming balls at the time, and remember thinking that Johnny -- who pulled into the driveway on a sparkling turquoise and chrome low-rider Harley-Davidson -- couldn't possibly be as close to me as he looked. Me with my wang hanging out and pissing and all.
But he was, of course. It seemed that instead of seeking the relative privacy of a fence or a tree or even the corner of the house, frying like I was, I decided to relieve myself smack-dab in the middle of the driveway. Consequently, Johnny could only pull in a few feet without running me over. This was why the bike had to be parked with its rear tire sticking out into the alley, and also why, when he hopped off the hog, Johnny was standing almost right on top of me and my draining weasel.
With a concentrated burst I finished, wiggled off the excess, and quickly zipped up. Then I did the only thing one could do when approached while pissing in public by a television legend. Without so much as a word, I bolted up the back stairs and into the house, locking the door behind me.
Inside the spacious and sparse living room, my pal Punchy was playing with a giant gob of sticky resin he had just scraped out of the house bong. The two-foot, double-chamber, blue and green-swirled, blown glass bong had not been cleaned for some time, and with ten permanent rent-paying residents, as well as a revolving cast of thirty or so transients and untold numbers of partiers, that bong got quite a bit of use. Hence, when cleaned, it yielded large amounts of concentrated herb and hash resin. The glob Punchy had amassed looked like a gooey, melting black golf ball. He was loading about a third of it into the bong's glass bowl as I burst frantically in the side door.
But before I could relay the harrowing tale of my encounter with the silver-haired celebrity biker, Punchy handed me the bong and lit it. I put my thumb on the carb and dutifully obeyed his unspoken instructions to hit it. Yo.
Punchy was also shrooming at the time and understood the look on my face as one belonging to a person in fast need of sedation. As usual, he was right. But just as I exhaled the pungent black-cloud sigh of relief -- as the nimbo-cumulus formation rose over the pool table and briefly threatened to storm the green felt landscape below -- a figure appeared in the hallway. It was moving toward us, emerging from inside the bowels of the house like the ghost of aging surfers and bikers past.
It was Johnny Carson. He was taking off his gloves and carrying a shiny black helmet under his arm. He spotted me while I was still coughing and immediately linked me up and identified me -- by the jet trail leading from the base of the cloud to my mouth -- as the controlled substance-smoking culprit. Then, with the same clear eyes, he went on to sourly recognize me as the indecent exposing, fleeing driveway urinator.
The old show-biz pro didn't crack though, he didn't even flinch. He just casually waved a puff of black smoke away from his slightly wrinkled nose and acted totally unfettered, as if stumbling into nearly condemned, bong resin smoke-filled rooms inhabited by conspicuously shrooming, un-housebroken freaks and slackers was part of his daily routine.
He stood confidently in the doorway -- his knee-high, polished brown leather biker boots reflecting the smoky light indiscriminately -- and attempted to appraise the situation. Proper rules of engagement for this crew weren't covered in the standard pre-interview Tonight Show questionnaire.
That's when Punchy got it.
"Where's Ed?" He routinely asked our dapper guest, like late-night talk show hosts were always washing up on shore and stopping in for cocktails.
"Brad Walker?" Johnny offered in response, ignoring Punchy's query altogether. His eyes glanced guardedly around the room as if he knew he was at the right address, but somehow couldn't believe that any son of his, Major Brad Walker Sr., USAF Retired, could possibly live in such a wild animal den, and with such unruly and unwashed-looking, deviant, dope-smoking cohabitants. Then his eyes marched purposefully to the rear of the living room, flew through the wide picture window, and came to rest upon the great blue marble slab of the Pacific Ocean. At which point the Major nodded almost imperceptibly -- as if he was struggling to understand the grander appeal of the squalor -- and frowned in general disapproval.
"Name a dude who's gone skiing for the weekend," someone commanded in response to Johnny's Karnac-like opening line. Later I found out it was me.
Johnny's face fell a little more. Apparently, he was still clinging to the desperate hope that he might have actually wandered into the wrong house and no one would recognize the name he tossed out. It was hard for him to accept that this was the fate of the new generation, and that his only son and namesake was somehow a part of it. How could so much have fallen so far so fast?
"Bong hit?" Punchy asked the venerable Mr. Carson by way of consolation, extending toward him the blown glass, sea-colored water pipe.
Laughing is the last thing I remember.
I was shrooming balls at the time, and remember thinking that Johnny -- who pulled into the driveway on a sparkling turquoise and chrome low-rider Harley-Davidson -- couldn't possibly be as close to me as he looked. Me with my wang hanging out and pissing and all.
But he was, of course. It seemed that instead of seeking the relative privacy of a fence or a tree or even the corner of the house, frying like I was, I decided to relieve myself smack-dab in the middle of the driveway. Consequently, Johnny could only pull in a few feet without running me over. This was why the bike had to be parked with its rear tire sticking out into the alley, and also why, when he hopped off the hog, Johnny was standing almost right on top of me and my draining weasel.
With a concentrated burst I finished, wiggled off the excess, and quickly zipped up. Then I did the only thing one could do when approached while pissing in public by a television legend. Without so much as a word, I bolted up the back stairs and into the house, locking the door behind me.
Inside the spacious and sparse living room, my pal Punchy was playing with a giant gob of sticky resin he had just scraped out of the house bong. The two-foot, double-chamber, blue and green-swirled, blown glass bong had not been cleaned for some time, and with ten permanent rent-paying residents, as well as a revolving cast of thirty or so transients and untold numbers of partiers, that bong got quite a bit of use. Hence, when cleaned, it yielded large amounts of concentrated herb and hash resin. The glob Punchy had amassed looked like a gooey, melting black golf ball. He was loading about a third of it into the bong's glass bowl as I burst frantically in the side door.
But before I could relay the harrowing tale of my encounter with the silver-haired celebrity biker, Punchy handed me the bong and lit it. I put my thumb on the carb and dutifully obeyed his unspoken instructions to hit it. Yo.
Punchy was also shrooming at the time and understood the look on my face as one belonging to a person in fast need of sedation. As usual, he was right. But just as I exhaled the pungent black-cloud sigh of relief -- as the nimbo-cumulus formation rose over the pool table and briefly threatened to storm the green felt landscape below -- a figure appeared in the hallway. It was moving toward us, emerging from inside the bowels of the house like the ghost of aging surfers and bikers past.
It was Johnny Carson. He was taking off his gloves and carrying a shiny black helmet under his arm. He spotted me while I was still coughing and immediately linked me up and identified me -- by the jet trail leading from the base of the cloud to my mouth -- as the controlled substance-smoking culprit. Then, with the same clear eyes, he went on to sourly recognize me as the indecent exposing, fleeing driveway urinator.
The old show-biz pro didn't crack though, he didn't even flinch. He just casually waved a puff of black smoke away from his slightly wrinkled nose and acted totally unfettered, as if stumbling into nearly condemned, bong resin smoke-filled rooms inhabited by conspicuously shrooming, un-housebroken freaks and slackers was part of his daily routine.
He stood confidently in the doorway -- his knee-high, polished brown leather biker boots reflecting the smoky light indiscriminately -- and attempted to appraise the situation. Proper rules of engagement for this crew weren't covered in the standard pre-interview Tonight Show questionnaire.
That's when Punchy got it.
"Where's Ed?" He routinely asked our dapper guest, like late-night talk show hosts were always washing up on shore and stopping in for cocktails.
"Brad Walker?" Johnny offered in response, ignoring Punchy's query altogether. His eyes glanced guardedly around the room as if he knew he was at the right address, but somehow couldn't believe that any son of his, Major Brad Walker Sr., USAF Retired, could possibly live in such a wild animal den, and with such unruly and unwashed-looking, deviant, dope-smoking cohabitants. Then his eyes marched purposefully to the rear of the living room, flew through the wide picture window, and came to rest upon the great blue marble slab of the Pacific Ocean. At which point the Major nodded almost imperceptibly -- as if he was struggling to understand the grander appeal of the squalor -- and frowned in general disapproval.
"Name a dude who's gone skiing for the weekend," someone commanded in response to Johnny's Karnac-like opening line. Later I found out it was me.
Johnny's face fell a little more. Apparently, he was still clinging to the desperate hope that he might have actually wandered into the wrong house and no one would recognize the name he tossed out. It was hard for him to accept that this was the fate of the new generation, and that his only son and namesake was somehow a part of it. How could so much have fallen so far so fast?
"Bong hit?" Punchy asked the venerable Mr. Carson by way of consolation, extending toward him the blown glass, sea-colored water pipe.
Laughing is the last thing I remember.
1 Comments:
what - no monkeys!?
By revrunt, at 5:23 AM
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