I might have spent some time in San Diego after Richard and I parted ways, but I doubt it. When I have a goal, and set my mind to it, I want to get there as soon as possible. The first week or so in Southern California I stayed with Phil, a friend from college, somewhere in Orange County. I would drive up to Los Angeles to look for apartments and work. To make those hunts easier, and to not overstay my welcome, I next stayed with the son of my parent’s friends, whom I’d never met. Jeff was nice enough, gay. I found a job and a studio apartment pretty quickly.
The job was at the TAV Celebrity Studios—owned by Merv Griffin—on Vine Street in Hollywood. I was a security guard. The apartment was not far away, a brand-new building. I think I walked to work, maybe not. I worked the graveyard shift.
In addition to the theater where The Merv Griffin Show, Wheel of Fortune, and Jeopardy were taped, the building housed the post-production studio Trans American-Video Productions (TAV). These shows as well as others were edited there.
Two security guards were on duty each night from 11 p.m. to 8 a.m. One guard sat at the front desk in the lobby while the other roamed the building checking doors and such, then we’d switch. On the rounds, we carried around a circular timeclock that had to be keyed at each critical point to show that we were doing our job.
Two great things about that job. We had keys to everything. Dressing rooms, offices, green room, even Merv’s dressing room. The front desk was just across the hall from the production studios. It was easy to watch what was going on there—in which I had a great interest. Working the graveyard shift gave me most of my days free to begin working on my career. Ok, that’s three things.
The halls and offices were lined with framed photos from the various shows taped there. Merv’s dressing room was a sight to behold. Elegantly furnished and decorated, artwork, statuary, huge closet, full bath, and kitchenette. The closet was full of I don’t know how many suits of various shades of blue, gray, and black, countless shirts, and dozens of pairs of shoes.
The guard I worked with one night told me to take a closer look at the African warrior wood carvings, but be careful not to knock the shield off them. Making my rounds that night, I took a closer look at the carvings. Some were quite large, others not so much. Out of curiosity I picked up the shield off one of the carvings. Easily removed, it revealed a huge dick. A very well-endowed warrior. Every one of the warrior carvings was the same, regardless of its size. Though he kept his personal life very private, apparently the well-known secret was true.
The following January was the rainiest January on Los Angeles’ records. We received over 30” of rain that month. I was at work one night when a downpour hit. Outside the front doors of the building, Vine Street was a river, water rushing down the street from curb to curb. As the water hit parked cars it shot up like fountains, several feet in the air. The rains, flooding, and landslides made national news. My parents called once a week or so to make sure I was still alive.
I took a commercial acting class three days a week for six weeks. All I remember coming out of that is a very flattering headshot.
The city of Los Angeles held auditions for a workshop targeted at young performers; singers, actors, comedians. I was one of a dozen or so chosen to go through the workshop. The auditions were held at City Hall. Following the participant selections, we were escorted up to the very top of the City Hall tower for a reception. The views out over the city from there were so amazing and awesome. Especially for a smalltown boy from Ohio.
The coaches for the various fields were from the local show business industry. The culmination of the four-week workshop would be a showcase night where we performed for other industry professionals, talent agents, and talent managers. Lots of fun, hard work, coach and group evaluations along the way, and intense rehearsals just prior to the showcase. Lots of nervousness. It was a great experience for me. Unfortunately, nothing other than that came from it. I went to a number of commercial auditions and got cast in a couple of local commercials. I don’t recall auditioning for any singing gigs or roles.
I knew I was good, I just didn’t push myself hard enough. I have often thought if I had come across someone who took an interest in me and pushed me, I might have actually made a career as a performer. Then again, I don’t think I ever had the X factor. That…thing…that makes someone a star. But there’s a lot I could have done.
After two or three months in Los Angeles I hadn’t made many, if any, friends. I was lonely and needed some fellowship. The first place I thought to turn to was the church. I located a Nazarene church not far away, the First Church of the Nazarene, on Third and Vermont. I didn’t know it then, but 1st Naz was THE mother church for the Nazarene denomination. I attended one Sunday morning and discovered a warm and open congregation with a sizeable and active single adult ministry headed by Ron B. I quickly became part of the congregation and the single adult group.
One of the members, Steve, owned a large house several blocks from the church. It was where the single adults met for bible study, fun, and fellowship. Several of the men lived there. I made good friends there. Ron, his brother Randy (who could have doubled for Robert Redford), Linda, Ron’s girlfriend Janet, Ron S.—a somewhat successful Christian musician—Jeff, a musician who’d once played piano for the Judy Garland Show, his girlfriend Jenny, Dave—who soon became my BFF—and Skip. Many others came and went, those were the core, and the core of my friendships.
Skip was a hang gliding instructor. So I became a hang glider, naturally. Dave had already been training, but was still new at it. I’d get off work at 8 a.m., run home, maybe have a quick bite to eat and a quick nap before they came by to pick me up. We’d train for a few hours, then a nap for me and back to work that night.
We trained initially at one of the beaches that had a bit of a dune we could run off of and have a soft landing. Then we moved on to a small hill with a field for plenty of landing room. The hill was nice for honing skills, but I was hankering for more. Our first mountain flight was in Hemet, a height of maybe 500 or 600 feet. After a few times there we moved to the big leagues and graduated to Torrey Pines and Joshua Tree, much higher heights.
This was back in the late 70’s. There were no altimeters, no safety gear, no motors or flight assistance devices. We wore just a simple harness clipped to the kite by a metal carabiner. We literally ran off the sides of mountains with that little carabiner between us and death. I loved it.
One outing we were with some newer pilots. I think we were out at Mt. Soboba. One of them took off before checking to make sure he was hooked in. Thankfully, he realized it quickly enough he was able to drop to the ground before he got too far out. Though a harsh landing, he didn’t injure himself, just bent the kite up a bit when it crashed. A couple of the others were obviously having trouble getting away from the mountain and returned. Skip called me up and told me to “show them how it’s done.” As soon as I took off, I knew I was in trouble.
There was a nasty updraft coming up the side of the mountain that kept trying to force me back into the mountainside. I was determined not to let that happen. And, determined not to return to the top, defeated. It took all my strength and a good bit of time, but I finally got past the updraft. My first thought at that point was to just get to the landing site as fast as I could. At that height, even that took at least a half hour. By that time, they were all at the landing site waiting for me. I don’t think it was a pretty landing. I didn’t care. I explained what the problem had been. Hugs from Dave and Skip—who understood—congratulations from the others. I was just happy to be alive.
I had moved from the little studio in Hollywood to a large studio on Hobart Street, just off Wilshire Blvd. It was furnished. The rent was $180 a month. The living room had a sofa and two sitting chairs, end table and lamps, and a closet containing a murphy bed—I loved the whole idea of my murphy bed. There was a breakfast nook off the kitchen with built-in cabinetry in between. I ate many an English muffin with peanut butter and jam in the breakfast nook. Between the living room and the bathroom was a small dressing area with built-in closets and dresser. I loved that little apartment. It was on a floor that was about the altitude that police helicopters flew patrolling the city. I eventually got used to the sound and the searchlights. I decided it was time to move when they announced a rent increase…to $200 a month.
About the same time, the security company I worked for at TAV announced they were going to require all guards to carry a gun. They’d provide the training and increase our pay. Yippee! No thanks!! I was looking for another job.
The job was an easier find—a little sandwich shop not far away—than another place to live.
At our Tuesday night single adult gathering, I put it out to the group that I needed to find a place to live. Afterward, the Judy-Garland-piano-player Jeff, came up and offered me the little sunporch room off of his room. Et voila, I moved into the Fellowship House.
I had a single bed, a desk, sitting chair, closet, and inherited a large aquarium. I loved lying in bed with just the aquarium lights on, watching the fish, contemplating life. Me contemplating life, not the fish. Jeff gave me guitar lessons. I never learned to play the guitar very well, but he had awesome stories to tell about his career.
I might have roomed with Dave for a while when Skip moved out of the house, before Dave got married—I was his best man. I had a fro.
I definitely remember rooming with the overly handsome, younger, blond, Brad. I think he inherited Dave’s waterbed. I have fond memories of Brad and that room. I wish it was what you’re thinking.
One in particular.
I decided to go back to school at California State University, LA. I was rushing a fraternity. I forget which one. They hosted a pizza and beer night, somewhere at some pizza place. It was fun. People started doing chug challenges. A challenge eventually came to me. Apparently, something I was good at. I’d won two or three when someone challenged me to a pitcher. At that point, how could I not? I won.
I distinctly remember the drive back to the fellowship house. I remember hearing or reading somewhere—I was always reading—that cops don’t just look for drunk drivers swerving down a roadway, but also for drivers who are obviously trying to drive correctly and overcompensating. With that in mind, I was doing my best to not swerve but not overcompensate while driving down the freeway. It was late. Back then the freeways weren’t as continuously crowded as they are now, especially at night. I made it home safely.
I barely remember getting there, nor getting into the house without being detected. It was not uncommon for guys to be up and about late—Ron and I would often go to Tommy’s for chili dogs in the middle of the night.
Tommy’s Break…
If you’ve never been or never had one of their chili dogs or burgers, you’re missing out. The chili was the greasiest, spiciest, bestest thing I’d ever tasted. They were open 24 hours. I don’t know that I ever had a chili dog before midnight. Thing was, a day or two later you knew you’d had one.
I got into my room and fell into my bed. Brad told me the next day he woke up when I came in and watched me stagger to my bed, which was in the corner, with windows on one side and at the foot. He was afraid I might fall out a window. I got sick during the night, but it didn’t wake me up. I woke up to the stench of having slept in my own puke. Fond memory, that.
I told Linda everything, as I did most of the time. I was not up to the fellowship time the next night, bowing out because I wasn’t feeling well. She knew better. They offered up a special prayer for me that night. Irony.
I had been dealing with my sexuality by this point and was coming to grips with being gay. Many afternoons and evenings spent on a Santa Monica Beach brought me to the realization that I was gay, but that was just a part of who I was. I was a son, a brother, a friend, a Christian, a gay. It didn’t need to be a bigger part of me than any of those other things. So I didn’t tell anyone.
I have not always done good things. I remember a guy who was visiting and staying in the house for a few days. He was cute. I was sure he was gay. I found out one night in his bed. IN THE FELLOWSHIP HOUSE, for christ sake.
Ron’s brother Randy—the Robert Redford handsome Randy—was the youth pastor at the church. Not only was Randy ruggedly handsome, he was a total jock. I was not, but did my best to play along with any athletic endeavors he involved me in. And he always tried to involve me. Did the church have a pool? I don’t think so. But I remember him and me being at some pool, I think just the two of us. Randy was in his trunks sitting on the edge, I was in the water. I think he was throwing a ball at me and I was either trying to catch it, or maybe dodge it. A half naked, wet, Randy. I was glad I was in the water.
He needed help with the youth group. For whatever reason he asked me. I agreed. It couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with his rugged, blond, jock handsomeness that convinced me. To my surprise, I was good with the kids.
My first experience backpacking in the High Sierras was with the young adult fellowship. The second was with the youth group. And Randy. It was an annual thing. Get the kids—most of them inner city kids—out of the city for an experience they might not ever have had otherwise. Two weeks backpacking through the High Sierras my first summer. It was awesome.
I’d never backpacked before. Fortunately for me, many of the others had and helped me plan and equip myself properly. I think I borrowed a backpack that first summer. They helped me select a bedroll, sleeping bag, good shoes, moleskin to go with the new shoes (for preventing blisters), eating utensils, and all the freeze-dried meals I’d need. Those meals, so…yummy.
Ron S. was a master at equipping himself. He always had the latest gadgets trending in the backpacking world: a collapsable camping stove/oven; a pulley system for hanging foodstuffs between trees; lightweight this and that. There are bears in the mountains, which is why we had to put all our food into canvas bags and hang them between trees.
I would think we must have each had a small tent, though I don’t recall that, and it would seem impractical to pack around. But can’t imagine we slept out in the open, either—it still got pretty cold at night, still snow on some parts of the trail.
I have a vague memory of one of our camp spots. We were by a shallow river with a small island not far offshore. I decided to wade over and make my camp there—tent or not, not sure. It should have been a fairly serene setting for a good night’s sleep, but I kept thinking what I’d do if, all of a sudden, the river rose and flooded me out. My mind at work.
There was a waterfall somewhere along our trail. Another of my “what would it feel like moments.” I wondered what it would feel like to be thrust over the edge of a waterfall, feel the fall. What a way to go.
The next year, as the youth director, I led the backpacking trip. There was me and a half dozen of the kids. It was pointless to try to keep everybody together throughout the day, so I led and Dan, my strongest hiker, brought up the rear to pick up any stragglers. We’d stop periodically so those behind could catch up and make sure all were accounted for. Every day we’d stop and wait for the others to have lunch together, and again at night to make camp.
One afternoon we’d stopped for the day to set up camp for the night. When Dan showed up he was alone. We were missing two of the kids. Being the most experienced, I sent him back the trail to find them. There was still some daylight left, but as the sun was dipping lower and lower, I began to worry. It was too late and we were too far along the trail to send someone to get help. I imagined having to return home and tell their family and friends I’d lost the kids in the mountains. Everyone was on edge. Finally, with just a little light left, we saw three figures making their way along the trail. I broke down and cried. So did some of the others.
They knew they’d fallen behind and decided to cut down a hill off the trail to catch up, and got lost—breaking one of the first tenants of hiking/backpacking. Though a little scary, it was a grand adventure for them. We had a happy time after dinner that night laying on our backs, watching the sky and the hundreds of shooting stars. I was happy I’d not be admitting I lost two kids in the mountains.
The youth group had one big fundraiser every year. They secured a space along the Rose Parade route and sold seats to spectators, mostly church members. We arrived the day before the parade to stake out our spot and camped out for the night. They had done this for a number of years in the same spot, as did people and groups on either side. Everyone knew each other, once a year.
You don’t really get much sleep, but that’s part of the fun. You do get to walk the parade route back to the staging grounds and warehouses for all the floats, seeing the last-minute touches applied. The morning of, members of our church, I think probably Linda’s brother-in-law Jim, arrived with a pickup truck full of folding chairs to seat our patrons.
Whenever New Year’s Day is on a Sunday, the parade is held the following Monday…so as not to desecrate the sabbath. Whatever. But, so, we were allowed to show up and claim our spot 48 hours in advance instead of 24. Which of course meant we spent 48 hours camping out. Thank god for church members who kept us fed. Thank god for port-a-potties.
After the parade had passed, our pickup arrived, we folded and loaded in the chairs, cleaned up and cleared our spot and went home…to sleep well for a good long while.
Randy decided to move on, perhaps to another church. I was asked if I’d be interested in becoming the youth director. I agreed. It didn’t pay much, but I wanted to give it a go. I wrote to my dad and told him what was going on. I needed another source of income for three months to give it my best without working outside the church. I think 2 or 3k was what I’d figured I would need. He managed came up with the money. Many years later I found out he had hit up our Uncle George.
Uncle George was a bit of an odd duck. He lived with our grandmother well into his 30s or 40s, until she came to live with us. Dad helped him buy his own house. It might have been a duplex, so he’d have income from it as well. George had been in the military, army I think. He never seemed…quite right. Maybe a mental handicap? Or maybe he was just odd.
Anyway, he had the money to support me that summer with the kids.
I was not a trained youth minister. I did my best to help the kids understand right and wrong, being a good caring person, living a good life. Many of the kids had never been out of Los Angeles, though some were able to go backpacking. I would sometimes load them into the church van and we’d drive to Santa Monica Beach for our weekly time.
Two things I remember distinctly. Driving the kids home one night in the van, we did a joy ride down a steep hill with a few dips in it. It was a bit of a rollercoaster ride. I sideswiped a car. I stopped, trying to think what I should do. I knew I should stop and at least leave a note, set an example for the kids. But I didn’t. I continued on. Some lesson that.
The other was an overnighter we had at the church. It was a movie night, a pizza night, a slumber party night. The church had a full-sized gym with an commercial kitchen attached. This was our space for the night. At some point we decided to have wheelchair races in the gym—the church had two, maybe four wheelchairs. It was a ton of fun. At least until someone noticed the black skid marks all over the gym floor. Horror quickly turned to laughs and giggles. Took us a good long while on hands and knees to clean that up.
Apparently, I was doing a good job and word was getting around. It might have been after the first summer I was a counselor at summer camp. A small Nazarene church in Eagle Rock hired me to be their part-time youth director. I was doing both and loving it.
One of my LA kids, Candis, asked me to be her escort to her senior prom. I wish I could remember more of that. I’m sure it must have been fun, if not a little awkward. Candis was tall, athletic, pretty. I wonder now if she was maybe lesbian, and that’s why she asked me to be her escort. She might have known she was safe with me.
The mother of one of the other kids, Annie, was a cook in the kitchen at the church. She always called me Cielito Lindo, little or sweet Sky, a term of endearment. The women of the single adult group took to calling me Sky Pie. Not as nice a term of endearment to my mind, but I tolerated it.
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