Catching the midnight movie with Jimi Hendrix

I was invited to speak at the monthly “Storyteller’s Night”, at IdiomArt (Mariscal Lamar 14-25 y Estevez de Toral the other night. It was a totally cool evening hosted by my new neighbor and soon-to-be good friend, Barry Callen, who mc’d this second-Thursday-of-the month affair that starts at 7 p.m. It was great!

Mark your calendar.

My story begins nearly 50 years ago. It is a simple one learned by many over countless years:  How you are perceived by others may not be how you know yourself to be, at all.

One of my older brothers, Rick, was prone to sowing the wind, and reaping the whirlwind. There wasn’t a scrap of trouble he couldn’t burrow into.

Rick fled home early, yearning for sweeping searchlights that would direct him to the latest movie and the endless beaches that encouraged him to desert the land for the turbulent sea. He settled- as best he could in a clapboard cottage in Laurel Canyon where I joined him in the summer of 1967.

Rick was working then as the assistant manager of Warner’s Cinerama Theatre on the corner of Hollywood Blvd. and Sunset Drive.

It was the kind of shit job that required him to obey the manager, some dork who later became a famous director of period pieces starring Keira Knightley.

Rick hated the guy so much that when I suggested that our friends visit the theater to watch the long-running Saturday midnight screening of 2001 Space Odyssey from the comfort of the upper lounges that were closed to the public, he enthusiastically agreed.

It was so much fun we did it almost every Saturday at midnight for nearly five months.

On Sept. 28, 1968, at 12:10am, I arrived at Warner’s Cinerama Theatre.

I knew I was late, the movie had started, so I would have to wait for my brother to do his rounds before seeing me at the lobby door and letting me in.

Now, I had scored a thai-stick that morning and rolled three pin joints to get me through the night.  And, while I was waiting I fired up a bone while watching an assortment of tricked out cars slowly cruise Sunset Blvd. before driving to Tiny Naylor’s for a late-night cheeseburger.

It was only moments later that a skinny black dude, all tripped out in hippy regalia walked up to the ticket window before noticing that it was closed.

I called out, “Hey, my brother works here and when he comes by and sees us he’ll let us in for free. Here, take a hit off this and your Space Odyssey will start a little sooner than you may have expected.”

“Thanks” the stranger said, took a long hit, and passed it back.  We stood together quietly smoking and passing the time. I told him about my day — surfing Venice beach in the morning, scoring the weed we were smoking in the late afternoon, and then scurrying down here to watch the flick with some friends.

But,when I asked him about his day. He paused for a moment or two before beginning:

“I spent all afternoon at a party for goddamn Donovan, for Christ’s sake! It was one of those “important people” parties hosted by geeks, and attended by every sleazy record executive, pretender, and thieving character crawling out of the rat-infested gutters of LA.!”  People pulled at my sleeves, and shoved their fucking cameras in my face like I was a circus animal.”

He added: “They were stealing the air around me.”

He took another hit before continuing,

“After that we all went to the Hollywood Bowl to watch that goddamn fraud with all his flowers and incense and childish babble. What a fucking joke! I wanted to get up there and at least teach him how to play a cord on that goddamn guitar of his!”

Boy, he sure was mad!

I was shocked, as well, by how drawn and weary he appeared.

“Whoa,” I said, and then almost, but not quite sarcastically, “Who are you, Jimi Hendrix?

“Yeah”, he said.  ‘I am. I’m Jimi Hendrix.”

I remember thinking I don’t care one whit if this guy’s story is true, or not, because it was such a surprising and unusual story with enough detail that seemed genuine, sad, and deeply lonely.

I recall sputtering something like, “Well, Jimi, you are doing the right thing. You escaped those lousy creeps, you took a  nice long walk all the way from the Hollywood Bowl, and now you are going to see a masterful film directed by Stanley Kubrick. You’ll like it. I’ve seen it a bunch of times.”

I said that I heard he was from Seattle, and that I was from a long way north of there.

I said, “I miss the trees and, really, even the rain, but most of all I miss the quiet.”

Jimi was quiet for a long time before saying, “Yeah, I liked it too. I remember riding my bike as far as I could go into the forest before getting scared and racing back.”

A short time later Rick walked by and let us in. “That’s your friend?!!” is all he said as he pushed the door open and trotted off.

I climbed the stairs to the upper lounges where my friends and I watched the movie, mimicked the voices of the actors and recited the entire screenplay by memory. We were getting high, joshing one another, and generally entertaining ourselves con gusto until my brother’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers,

“Intermission!”  signaling a ten-minute break to buy popcorn, or whatever, before watching the second half.

We all tumbled down the stairs to the lobby as the crowd swelled.

Chatter consumed the eclectic bunch scanning one another for fashion tips, and possible hook ups until someone exclaimed, “Look! It’s Hendrix! Hendrix is here!”

It was then that I knew for certain that the skinny little black dude, wading his way through the pawing, grabbing, crowds was, in fact, Jimi Hendrix. People jumped up and down to get a better look; the bouncing bodies seemed to be blinded by ecstasy, selfies, and their obsession of taking something, anything, from their idol, regardless of whether or not the object of their affection objects.

In the middle of all this disruption, Jimi turned his attention to me and patted my shoulder while saying, “Hey, Bob!  It’s great to see you again! Catch you later.”

My friends were awestruck, and I was stylin’.

You know, he didn’t have to do that. It was just that he was thoughtful, generous and kind.

When I saw him in the lobby I knew he would never become the kind of friend who would drop by without calling, or consider babysitting two children over a three-day weekend, or hang out in a pub, spinning tales of the world gliding by.

He’s Jimi Hendrix, the greatest guitar player in the world!

All these years later, I believe he knew that his simple act of comradery and kindness would last me a while – and it has: it lasted a lifetime.

That’s my story and I am sticking to it:

I smoked a joint with Jimi Hendrix.