Country Music Broke My Brain (6 page)

The Lid Incident and Smoking with a Monkey

WHEN
I WAS FIVE, a very traumatic thing happened to me. I was pretty small, and I took advantage of it. Whenever I had to take a leak, I would stand at the big porcelain target in our only bathroom and lay my pecker on the edge of the bowl. This freed up both hands, and I could just relax and go about my business.

One day I reached for a towel and, I guess, brushed against the back of the toilet seat. The next few moments happened in slow motion. All I remember is standing there with my male glory laid like a guilty Frenchman at the guillotine. I just froze as I watched the 400-pound solid oak lid come crashing down toward my favorite appendage. I heard someone screaming like he'd had a massive piece of wood smash directly on top of his willie. My mom (who'd been next door and still heard me) came rushing into the narrow bathroom and scooped me up. “Oh, my darling, you squished your weenie, didn't you?”

It was a pretty obvious observation, but I whimpered something that resembled “yes.” At that point, my father heard the commotion and was roused from his giant brown easy chair by the police radio and wandered in to check on the situation.

My mother was grief-stricken. My father thought it was hilarious. I leaned more toward my mother's reaction. My father asked if he could view the damaged dingus for himself. Mom wondered aloud if we should go to the doctor. It was then I learned my dad was funny. He said, “Well, if you do, see if he can take away the pain but leave the swelling.” At the time the humor flew right over my head, but for years afterward, it became known as the “lid incident.” We laughed about it 'til he passed away.

The lesson that I take from that experience is that sometimes, in the midst of what is the worst possible situation, there might be something funny going on. I don't mean grace under pressure; I panic probably more than most people. But making fun of something awful, embarrassing, or painful can sometimes help the situation. Or get you punched out. You have to judge the situation case by case. Realizing you're at your lowest and learning to laugh at it is, however, a good quality.

One of my favorite singers in the whole world was able to do that. I don't want to reveal his name because he's had some difficulties, but he told me what had changed him. He'd had several major pop hits—big, wonderful, amazing records that made him a minor star. He then turned to Nashville when the pop thing started to slide a bit. I would go see him at The Bluebird Café or the Exit/In anytime he was playing one of his solo shows. We became friends. Not call-you-from-jail friends, but still, we shared some good talks. He told me this story:

He had moved to Nashville to start over, something he was quite good at. Before the move, he'd been drinking and taking other “additives,” and eventually his concert dates got worse and worse. He'd fallen to the point where he was now playing in a hotel on the beach in Tampa, opening for an animal act. Yes! He went on first, and then this guy and his chimp came out to amaze the 7
P.M
. and 10
P.M
. dinner crowds. During the day, there was nothing to do but sit on the beach and smoke a joint or two. He waited all day for the sun to go down and for showtime.

It was just a typical day, and he was on the beach enjoying a little smoke when the trainer with the chimp ambled down and plopped beside him. Our hero, the trainer, and a monkey at the beach. Our hero took a hit and passed the joint to the trainer. The trainer took a long, smoky drag on the joint and handed it to the chimp. The chimp puckered up his lips and then, with a deep and satisfying sucking sound, “hit” on the community joint. They did this two or three times. They all got very mellow and just gazed out at the ocean. My friend told me the chimp was especially calm. So much so, they all fell asleep. They were startled awake by the hotel club manager screaming they were “on” in ten minutes.

Showtime! The trainer pulled the groggy chimp to his feet and half-dragged him toward the hotel. My singing friend stared up at the sky and started laughing uncontrollably; he couldn't stop. The manager just stared at him.

It was at that precise moment our singing hero stopped doing drugs and drinking for the rest of his life. Quit. Cold turkey. He's clean. How? He said, “Man, once you're smoking grass with a monkey on the beach, you know it's time to quit drugs and try something else.”

Who actually said this to me: “I am the father of Madonna's baby”?

A)
  
Johnny Cash

B)
  
Jason Aldean

C)
  
Roseanne Barr

Baby's in Black

WHILE
I WAS ON the radio one morning, I answered the phone. The Man in Black was on the other end. Johnny Cash was at the airport and had run into the Judds. Apparently, Naomi explained to John that I was asking who the father of Madonna's baby could possibly be. Madonna had announced she was “preggers” and at that time wouldn't divulge who made her that way.

After some prodding from Mama Judd, Johnny decided to call and confess that
he
was indeed the Papa of the Madonna Love Child. Few people know what a wacky sense of humor John R. Cash had. Whenever I ran into him, Johnny Cash was imposing and bigger than life. It was
that voice.
But once you started talking to him, you realized he was a kind and normal guy. He was also very funny.

I remember having crossed 57th Street in Manhattan several years ago, and noticed beside me a man in white—white pants, white shirt, white hair. The packed New York City street crowd never had a clue that Johnny Cash was walking beside them. I said, “Hey, John, it's Gerry. What are you up to?”

He rumbled back, “Oh! Hi, Ger, I'm going downtown to visit Rose.” (Rosanne Cash, his daughter, lived in New York. She's one of the smartest people I know and what a songwriter.) I also noticed that this older gentleman crossing the street was invisible . . . until he spoke. When he answered me, suddenly fifty people turned to see where
that voice
was coming from. It sounded like Johnny Cash, because it
was
Johnny Cash.

That was the last time I saw John; he left us not long after that. I didn't bring up his “confession” to being the father of Madonna's baby. It was just a fun story between friends. I remember seeing him wave and fade into the crowd. All in white and kinda fragile.

He was still the Man in Black to me. He was still Johnny Cash.

Garth Brooks

MY
WIFE HAD AN AUNT who never wanted to meet anybody new. She said she'd “met everybody she needed to know,” and if she met one more person, she'd have to forget somebody. That makes perfect sense to me. I notice now, when I shake hands with somebody I've never met before, I get a slight chill. It's because a person who was once dear to me or who worked with me or who went to school with me is leaving my memory bank. I can almost hear the door click behind them.

Like most folks, I also greet everyone as warmly as possible and say my name. They do the same and tell me their name. I then
immediately
forget it. I can't remember people's names even when they are wearing name tags. I can't remember the names of people I'm related to. I'm not suffering from any old-age problems; I've just been like this all my life. I hate it. I feel bad. I have very little celebrity, but people do come up and speak to me all the time. I feel like I should say, “I'm so glad to meet you, but next time I won't remember your name, so shout it at me when you see me.”

The worst thing folks blurt out when they are walking toward me is, “You don't remember me, do you?”

“Of course I don't. I'm not even sure who that woman standing over there is who looks like my wife! How the hell am I supposed to remember you?”

I should be honest and tell them the truth. But I never do that. Instead, I say, “Of
course
, I remember you. How could I forget you?” Then I'll turn to the woman I think is my wife and say, “Honey, you remember Adolf Hitler here, don't you?” They laugh and nine out of ten times announce their name to what's 'er name. Then I repeat the new name and for the rest of the night call them “Pal” or “Buddy.”

Now that I've admitted what a doofus I am about remembering people, I should mention a guy who apparently never forgets anyone. I
do
remember his name: Garth Brooks. In all my years, Garth is perhaps the most mysterious of all the people I've crossed paths with. He has charisma for days. He's lovable and quick-witted. And he seems to remember a guy who did his dry cleaning from thirty years ago. I'm certain it's a trick or a gift or that he has a “person” who works for him taking pictures, but he remembers everybody. It's a wonderful thing. I've probably had a hundred people say they ran into Garth at some affair or another and say, “Man, he walked right up and said my name and shook my hand.” These people
glow
when they tell that story. To be honest, it always made me a little jealous. If I could remember one of the names of the people who've told me that story, I'd call them up and tell them it's a trick or something.

Garth is also a genius at marketing. That's part of his deal. He has figured out how to sell the same twenty songs over and over in different packages. I think that's brilliant. And he's a great singer, guitar player, and entertainer. He's not much of a dresser, but then who is? He has that Garth eye, too. Whenever I see the ads now for the movie
War Horse,
I always think of Garth. It's kind of scary, with the head turned and that Big Eye starin' at ya, sizin' you up. Rememberin' your name and useless stuff like that.

Over the years, I've seen and heard several versions of Garth sing—The “Aw, Shucks” Garth, the “Country” Garth, and the “Barry Manilow” Garth—and there's nothing wrong with any of them. “Aw, Shucks” Garth can self-deprecate himself into a tizzy. “Country” Garth can wear old boots and jeans and sell out Vegas. “Barry Manilow” Garth stands in a dazzling spotlight and belts to the stars. There have been recorded versions of all the Garths: “Friends In Low Places,” “Two of a Kind, Workin' on a Full House,” and “Somewhere Other Than the Night” = “Aw, Shucks/Country/Barry” Garth. It's brilliant!