It was a Saturday morning about 10 years ago. I arrived at my parent’s house. My mom was home, but my dad was out. She was in the kitchen making some croquettes (a delicious Dutch treat). I walked into the kitchen, greeted her and asked her where dad was. She smiled and said, “Picking up his headstone.”
The confused look on my face prompted her to explain, which she reluctantly did. She told me that one of her co-worker’s daughters had died and they didn’t have enough money to take care of all of the expenses. So being that my mom and dad had a couple of plots at Oakdale Memorial in Glendora, my parents thought it would be a good idea to donate one of them to her co-worker.
Apparently at Oakdale Memorial (I don’t know if all graveyards do this), they store the prepurchased headstones on the prepurchased plots, so my parents' headstones were already there, with their dates of birth etched into them. Since my dad’s headstone had a type-o (Or is it an etch-o?), they decided to remove his headstone and use his plot. It was a very nice gesture by my parents, and my mom’s humility made her rather uncomfortable talking about it. But it still didn’t quite explain why he was picking up his headstone.
So she explained further that the error on my dad’s headstone was fixed, but since they could no longer store it on the original plot, they had no place to put it. You would think they would have had some sort of storage area for them, but apparently, they didn’t. That or my dad was too frugal to pay for storage, so they called my dad and asked him to pick it up. After my mom explained all of that, an evil thought popped into my head. What if my dad got into a car accident and died? Talk about being prepared. I mentioned it to my mom, and our sick minds started laughing. It was horrible, yet funny at the same time.
When my dad arrived home, he saw that my car was there and recruited me to help him move his headstone into the garage. We went to the back of his Explorer and opened up the back lift gate. There, lying on the carpet was the newly edited headstone that read “Anthony M. Jansen, April 6, 1936 to ___________.” It was a rather haunting site.
“Can you get the dolly?” my dad asked. I did just that and when I got back to the Explorer, we lifted the heavy headstone onto the dolly. We then proceeded to roll the dolly, with headstone in tack, to the back entrance of the garage.
While rolling the dolly, I mentioned to my dad, “This has got to be one of the most morbid things I have ever done in my life.”
Annoyed my dad replied “Your mom and her fucking ideas!” This reply said it all. He loved my mom, but sometimes her ideas would put him in odd situations, and this one topped them all. When we got into the garage, my dad pulled out a piece of cardboard. We place the headstone on the cardboard, and wrapped it up. We then placed it under his work bench for safe keeping. I felt it needed a little more before we placed it in its final resting spot, like a benediction and a sprinkling of holy water. Maybe even a serenading with a Gregorian Chant during this whole process would have been appropriate, but much to my dismay, none of these things happened.
Over the years I and my brothers would mess with my dad about the headstone, but he didn’t really care that his mortality was in the garage. It didn’t seem to faze him. Sadly, when my father actually did pass, we were not able to use this headstone. My parents purchased two more plots at Forest Lawn, and Forest Lawn requires a special type of stone for their markers. Apparently their soil can only use a certain type. I have my own opinions about that, but I’ll leave that be, because quite frankly, aside from that, Forest Lawn was and is spectacular. They are a class act.
The end result is we still have a headstone with my father’s name and birth date on it in the garage at my parent’s house. Does anybody need a headstone?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Moccasin Joe - Revised 05.08.2019
The year was 2003. The time was approximately 2 am. Later that day I would attend KROQ’s Inland Invasion, a concert featuring The Cure and Duran Duran. I hadn’t been to such an event in a while and thus was excited about going to this concert later that day.
It was my second year and second job out of college. I was working at an accounting firm in Hollywood. The firm dealt mostly with high-end celebrity clientele, so it was very common for me to interact regularly with famous actors, writers, producers, and musicians. Occasionally I found myself in very unique situations. Such as the time I had to drop off a large sum of cash to a high profile actor waiting for me at the beach, or when a retired agent opened the door to her home while wearing nothing but a diaper and a T-shirt. While this type of job might sound exciting, often it wasn’t. Most of my memory of that time is comprised of dealing with people on the backend of their fame. Therefore, interacting with fading stars didn’t exactly create a happy work environment.
At the time I was living in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles. Every morning I would have to drive to Sunset and Doheny in Hollywood. It was a seven-mile commute that took about an hour; normal for LA traffic. To escape my non-rewarding Hollywood job, occasionally on Friday nights I would make an even longer trek back to my old neighborhood in Covina, a suburb located in the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles.
In Covina, my old friends and I were frequent patrons of Elvies, a little dive bar that made killer drinks for cheap. That Friday evening before the Inland Invasion happened to be one of those nights spent throwing back drinks at Elvies. We hung out and drank until about 1 in the morning. We all then said our goodbyes before we would regroup later for the concert.
I was on the 10 Fwy driving back home to Los Feliz from Covina, when all of a sudden I heard a flip, flip, flip, …coming from my driver’s side rear tire. I knew I had to pull over and deal with this tire issue. However, I did not want to stop on the side of the 10 freeway. Therefore, I exited somewhere in Alhambra and turned onto the nearest side street in order to assess my damaged tire. The street I pulled onto was dark and in an area of Alhambra that I was not familiar with. I knew there were, and probably still are, some not so friendly areas in Alhambra. Because my surroundings were dark, unfamiliar, and located near the freeway, my guard was up.
Despite my uneasiness, I got out of my car to assess the situation. I went over to the rear driver's side and discovered a key sticking out of the tire. The handle of the key was bent over and was probably making the “flip flip” sound. While getting the little jack and donut-sized spare tire out of my trunk, I heard a voice come out of the sky. “Hey man, do you need a jack?” I looked up and all around as if I heard God’s voice speaking to me. Where was this voice coming from? Then it spoke again, “Up here bro!” My eyes followed a stairway up to the duplex in front of me and I saw a long-haired figure. “Do you need a jack?” he repeated.
“Yeah, sure. That would be great.” I responded. The long-haired dude sauntered on down the stairs of the duplex. It was so dark that it was hard to make out what he looked like besides his long hair.
After he descended all the way down the stairs, he went into the alley behind the duplex. I then heard a garage door open. He reemerged, rolling over an impressive professional sized floor jack. He placed it under my car. With two pumps on the jack, the car was high enough to take the tire off. I switched out the tires, and then he put the car back down. That was the quickest change of a flat that I had ever participated in.
After a tire changed that briefly got me to consider trying out for a NASCAR pit crew, I asked if I could use his sink to wash my hands. He said, “Go for it bro!”, so off I went. I was expecting his duplex to smell of bong water and stale dust. But as I entered his apartment, I noticed all sorts of well cared for pristine musical instruments; mostly conga drums. I headed towards his kitchen, which was around the corner from his living room. While I washed my hands I made a comment about all of the instruments and how beautiful they were. When I finished, I walked around to the living room to thank him. Due to the light, I now noticed this guy was a bit older than I originally thought. His hair was still long and dark, but I could see some mileage in what I assume were his Native American eyes.
I mentioned that I was a bit of an audiophile and that I used to work at a jazz club when I was in college. I added that in the mid-90s, I would frequent a lot of local music shows and had a particular fondness for the Surf Rock of that era. I think I also must have mentioned that I was currently going through a bit of a Bossa Nova phase. We talked at length about the local music scene and different styles of jazz.
He then started to play a lot of his own recordings for me. To my surprise, it was damn good. His music was very much influenced by his Native American culture, but it didn’t sound all that tribal, as one might assume. He mixed the progession so well with the incoming melodies. It had this flowing rhythm. One song, in particular, was about a journey to the afterlife, in which the spirit takes a canoe from this world to the next. Even though I initially pictured Little Hyuwatha from the old Warner Bros cartoons in that canoe, Hyuwatha soon faded away into someone a lot more proud, yet a bit weathered, much like my gracious host. That song was amazing. I think I could have listened to it for hours.
Apparently, this guy used to play as a hired musician with an old Native American 60’s/70’s band called Redbone. Their big hit was “Come and Get Your Love.” He was very proud of that. If you’ve ever heard their music, you’d understand his pride. It’s really that good! We ended up hanging out talking about music until 6 in the morning!
Since I was driving on a donut, and smartphones did not exist, he gave me directions on how to get back to Los Feliz via the streets. His directions were spot on. Before I left, he gave me his card, but I must have lost it at the Inland Invasion. He also gave me a CD of The Rick Lawndale Band, which was some local Surf Rock. To this day, I still have that CD. Aside from the Rick Lawndale album, the only thing else I had of him was what he referred to himself as; Moccasin Joe. Sadly, I never kept in touch with Moccasin Joe.
When I look back at that morning, I think how lucky I was to have had such an experience. The older I have gotten, the more I have come to appreciate these serendipitous situations in my life. Way back when, I tried Googling him. But using Moccasin Joe as a search term is like hunting for a needle in a haystack. There seems to be quite a few Moccasin Joes out there, but none of them fit the profile of the guy I met during the wee morning hours in Alhambra.
Over the years I have occasionally continued my search for Moccasin Joe. Although I must confess, I have not been too diligent. I tend to be the type of person who likes to leave memories where they are, in the past.
However, I recently wanted to connect with this memory again. Maybe it’s my age. Therefore, I tried Googling Moccasin Joe again. This time, my search included the name of his band, “Redbone.” What do you know? Something promising came up on Youtube and Facebook. I have messaged him, but have yet to get a response back.
You never know when events like this are going to happen. So do your best to identify and enjoy them when they do occur.
It was my second year and second job out of college. I was working at an accounting firm in Hollywood. The firm dealt mostly with high-end celebrity clientele, so it was very common for me to interact regularly with famous actors, writers, producers, and musicians. Occasionally I found myself in very unique situations. Such as the time I had to drop off a large sum of cash to a high profile actor waiting for me at the beach, or when a retired agent opened the door to her home while wearing nothing but a diaper and a T-shirt. While this type of job might sound exciting, often it wasn’t. Most of my memory of that time is comprised of dealing with people on the backend of their fame. Therefore, interacting with fading stars didn’t exactly create a happy work environment.
At the time I was living in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles. Every morning I would have to drive to Sunset and Doheny in Hollywood. It was a seven-mile commute that took about an hour; normal for LA traffic. To escape my non-rewarding Hollywood job, occasionally on Friday nights I would make an even longer trek back to my old neighborhood in Covina, a suburb located in the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles.
In Covina, my old friends and I were frequent patrons of Elvies, a little dive bar that made killer drinks for cheap. That Friday evening before the Inland Invasion happened to be one of those nights spent throwing back drinks at Elvies. We hung out and drank until about 1 in the morning. We all then said our goodbyes before we would regroup later for the concert.
I was on the 10 Fwy driving back home to Los Feliz from Covina, when all of a sudden I heard a flip, flip, flip, …coming from my driver’s side rear tire. I knew I had to pull over and deal with this tire issue. However, I did not want to stop on the side of the 10 freeway. Therefore, I exited somewhere in Alhambra and turned onto the nearest side street in order to assess my damaged tire. The street I pulled onto was dark and in an area of Alhambra that I was not familiar with. I knew there were, and probably still are, some not so friendly areas in Alhambra. Because my surroundings were dark, unfamiliar, and located near the freeway, my guard was up.
Despite my uneasiness, I got out of my car to assess the situation. I went over to the rear driver's side and discovered a key sticking out of the tire. The handle of the key was bent over and was probably making the “flip flip” sound. While getting the little jack and donut-sized spare tire out of my trunk, I heard a voice come out of the sky. “Hey man, do you need a jack?” I looked up and all around as if I heard God’s voice speaking to me. Where was this voice coming from? Then it spoke again, “Up here bro!” My eyes followed a stairway up to the duplex in front of me and I saw a long-haired figure. “Do you need a jack?” he repeated.
“Yeah, sure. That would be great.” I responded. The long-haired dude sauntered on down the stairs of the duplex. It was so dark that it was hard to make out what he looked like besides his long hair.
After he descended all the way down the stairs, he went into the alley behind the duplex. I then heard a garage door open. He reemerged, rolling over an impressive professional sized floor jack. He placed it under my car. With two pumps on the jack, the car was high enough to take the tire off. I switched out the tires, and then he put the car back down. That was the quickest change of a flat that I had ever participated in.
After a tire changed that briefly got me to consider trying out for a NASCAR pit crew, I asked if I could use his sink to wash my hands. He said, “Go for it bro!”, so off I went. I was expecting his duplex to smell of bong water and stale dust. But as I entered his apartment, I noticed all sorts of well cared for pristine musical instruments; mostly conga drums. I headed towards his kitchen, which was around the corner from his living room. While I washed my hands I made a comment about all of the instruments and how beautiful they were. When I finished, I walked around to the living room to thank him. Due to the light, I now noticed this guy was a bit older than I originally thought. His hair was still long and dark, but I could see some mileage in what I assume were his Native American eyes.
I mentioned that I was a bit of an audiophile and that I used to work at a jazz club when I was in college. I added that in the mid-90s, I would frequent a lot of local music shows and had a particular fondness for the Surf Rock of that era. I think I also must have mentioned that I was currently going through a bit of a Bossa Nova phase. We talked at length about the local music scene and different styles of jazz.
He then started to play a lot of his own recordings for me. To my surprise, it was damn good. His music was very much influenced by his Native American culture, but it didn’t sound all that tribal, as one might assume. He mixed the progession so well with the incoming melodies. It had this flowing rhythm. One song, in particular, was about a journey to the afterlife, in which the spirit takes a canoe from this world to the next. Even though I initially pictured Little Hyuwatha from the old Warner Bros cartoons in that canoe, Hyuwatha soon faded away into someone a lot more proud, yet a bit weathered, much like my gracious host. That song was amazing. I think I could have listened to it for hours.
Apparently, this guy used to play as a hired musician with an old Native American 60’s/70’s band called Redbone. Their big hit was “Come and Get Your Love.” He was very proud of that. If you’ve ever heard their music, you’d understand his pride. It’s really that good! We ended up hanging out talking about music until 6 in the morning!
Since I was driving on a donut, and smartphones did not exist, he gave me directions on how to get back to Los Feliz via the streets. His directions were spot on. Before I left, he gave me his card, but I must have lost it at the Inland Invasion. He also gave me a CD of The Rick Lawndale Band, which was some local Surf Rock. To this day, I still have that CD. Aside from the Rick Lawndale album, the only thing else I had of him was what he referred to himself as; Moccasin Joe. Sadly, I never kept in touch with Moccasin Joe.
When I look back at that morning, I think how lucky I was to have had such an experience. The older I have gotten, the more I have come to appreciate these serendipitous situations in my life. Way back when, I tried Googling him. But using Moccasin Joe as a search term is like hunting for a needle in a haystack. There seems to be quite a few Moccasin Joes out there, but none of them fit the profile of the guy I met during the wee morning hours in Alhambra.
Over the years I have occasionally continued my search for Moccasin Joe. Although I must confess, I have not been too diligent. I tend to be the type of person who likes to leave memories where they are, in the past.
However, I recently wanted to connect with this memory again. Maybe it’s my age. Therefore, I tried Googling Moccasin Joe again. This time, my search included the name of his band, “Redbone.” What do you know? Something promising came up on Youtube and Facebook. I have messaged him, but have yet to get a response back.
You never know when events like this are going to happen. So do your best to identify and enjoy them when they do occur.
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