Gianelli took Scarlett and her four-week-old kittens to the veterinary clinic of the North Shore Animal League in Port Washington, New York, where they were treated for their injuries. One kitten, weakened by smoke inhalation, died of a virus. After three months of treatment and recovery, Scarlett and her four surviving kittens were well enough to be adopted. The story of Scarlett's heroic efforts to save her babies resulted in worldwide publicity; the League received seven thousand letters from people offering to adopt them. A committee at the North Shore Animal League read the letters and picked three families. Two kittens, Oreo and Smokey, went to Debbie Palmarozzo of
Long Island. The two other kittens, Samsara and Panuki, who were inseparable during their recovery time at the clinic, were adopted by Corinne and Ginette Vercillo, also of Long Island. Scarlett was adopted by Karen Wellen.
The North Shore Animal League created the Scarlett Award for Animal Heroism in Scarlett's honor. This award is presented to animals who have engaged in heroic acts to benefit others, whether humans or animals.
"She's a wonderful, gentle animal who did a courageous thing," said NSAL shelter manager Marge Stein. "It shows with all creatures—animals or people—there's no way of measuring a mother's love."
TANGLED UP IN BOB
ith the publication of Bob Dylan's long-awaited autobiography, Chronicles (Simon and Schuster), on the heels of a reissue of my old friend Larry "Ratso" Sloman's classic, On the Road With Bob Dylan (Three Rivers Press), I've got an excuse to tell you about the first time I met Bob. It was the fall of 1973, and my band, the Texas Jewboys, was playing the Troubadour in Los Angeles. One night Bob walked in barefoot, wearing a white robe. Possibly he thought he was Jesus Christ or Johnny Appleseed, or maybe he'd just gotten out of the bath, but everybody definitely treated him like a god. He was friendly, cryptic, and almost shy when he was introduced to us after the show. Later, we watched from the dressing room window as he got into his limo in the alley behind the club. Willie Fong Young, our bass player, said it best at the time: "He may not have any shoes, but at least he's got a limo."
It wasn't long after that that his road manager called my road manager (who, cosmically enough, was named Dylan Ferrero). I was instructed to go out on the Santa Monica pier at midnight and meet a baby-blue 1960 Cadillac convertible that would take me to Bob. After a long, mystical journey, I wound up at the home of Roger McGuinn, the founder of the Byrds, who was to become a friend of mine even though I did make the following comment to him that night: "There is a time to live and a time to die and a time to stop listening to albums by the Byrds."
By two o'clock in the morning, I had still not seen Bob, but I did stumble upon Kris Kristofferson talking to a young groupie he'd apparently just met. Kris looked up and said, "Kinky?" Simultaneously, the girl and I responded, "Yes." Kris pointed me in the direction of the kitchen. I wandered in, and there was Bob sitting on the counter, strumming a guitar and singing a song I'd written, "Ride 'em Jewboy."
It was fashionable in the early seventies to talk long into the night about "life and life only," and Bob and I did that. I told him about my recent trip with the members of Led Zeppelin aboard the Starship, their private jet with a fireplace, and that I was particularly excited about urinating backstage next to Jimmy Page. Bob was not impressed. "They have nothing to say," he said. "You and Kris have a lot to say. You should say it. Without," he went on, "using makeup and dry ice."
Later, I went off to find a drink, and when I returned, Roger was helping Bob up off the floor. "The wine's not agreeing with him," Roger said. That night, I suppose, I wasn't agreeing with him much either, but that could have been because I had a chip the size of Dallas on my shoulder. Or it could just be that time changes the river. However you look at it, it's now clear that Led Zep, like so many other acts, has been relegated to the bone orchard of nostalgia, while Bob remains a spiritual beacon in a world largely remarkable for its unwillingness to be led to the light.
Traveling and making music with Bob is a rare opportunity to see a magic messenger at work and play. In 1976 Bob asked me to join him and Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr, Allen Ginsberg, and many others as part of his Rolling Thunder Revue, which traveled across America that year, leaving behind some satisfied women, some wildly enthusiastic audiences, and some brain cells that promised they'd get back to us later.
I hung out a lot with Bob after that tour, and as mesmerizing and untouchable as he seems onstage, offstage he can be extremely warm and witty. Imagine Bob and me standing in the parking lot of a seedy motel in Fort Worth at two-thirty in the morning with a redneck motel manager repeatedly asking him for his driver's license. Or picture Bob at a barbecue at my parents' house in Northwest Austin. (When my mother brought him a plate, he said, "Thanks, Mrs. Friedman. You must be very proud of your son.") I remember shopping with Bob at the famous Nudie's in North Hollywood, where he saw a rhinestone jacket embroidered with Jesus' face. "A guy ordered this a long time ago," Nudie told Bob, "but he never came back for it." "He has now," said Bob. Bob bought the jacket, wore it for one performance, and then gave it to me. The Bob Dylan Jesus Jacket promptly brought me seven years of bad luck, after which I sold it at Sotheby's. (It hung for a while in the Hard Rock Cafe in Tel Aviv.) Several years ago I caught up with Bob in New York and told him what I'd done with the jacket. He shook his head and said, "Bad move."
Speaking of jackets, I once spent a month with Bob in the village of Yelapa, off the western coast of Mexico. Although it was over 100 degrees every day, Bob never took off his heavy leather jacket. I knew he was from Minnesota, but it did seem somewhat odd, so one day on the beach I asked him about it. His answer was to tell me a story about the king of the gypsies, and how, when the king got old, all his wives and children left him. I thought at the time that Bob might be feeling a chill that few of us ever feel.
People often ask me what Bob is really like. He's naturally shy and superstitious and hates to be photographed because he believes that every picture taken of him reduces his chances of becoming an Indian when he grows up. Bob, in fact, has a lot in common with the Native American people. They both believe, for instance, that you can't own land or a waterfall or a horse. The only thing they both believe you can own is a casino. Yet Bob's been so many things in his life that it's almost impossible to pin him down. He's been a vegetarian, an Orthodox Jew, a born-again Christian, a Buddhist, a poet, a pilgrim, a picker, a boxer, a biker, a hermit, a chess player, a beekeeper, and an adult stamp collector—and almost everything, except a Republican, that a human being can possibly be when a restless soul is forever evolving toward his childhood night-light.
And, of course, he's a very funny American. I remember once when we had to book a flight at the last minute and there was nothing in first class available. When we got back to coach, there were only a few seats left and Bob found, much to his dismay, that he was seated next to an enthusiastic young female fan. "I can't believe I'm sitting next to Bob Dylan!" she screamed. Bob gazed calmly at the girl. "Pinch yourself," he said.
POLY-TICKS
ith the presidential campaigns really starting to heat up, it is somewhat ironic that, even with all the energy and excitement being generated, people continue to hold politics and politicians in such low regard. Well, hell, they deserve it. Politics today consists of more lawbreakers than lawmakers and it's the only field in which the more experience you have, the worse you get. The two-party system, which I call the Crips and the Bloods, has pretty much become the same guy admiring himself in the mirror.
Our government, unfortunately, has also become a government of the money, by the money, and for the money. If you don't believe me, just try forgetting your checkbook and seeing if you can get into your congressman's office. Another reason people distrust politicians and politics today goes all the way back to George Washington's time. George believed that all government and politics needed was "common sense and common honesty." Sadly, these two precious commodities are preci
sely what's lacking today in our elected officials.
These are only a few of the reasons that have goosed me into coming up with my own definition of politics. It goes as follows: Poly means more than one, and ticks are blood-sucking parasites. Throughout my campaign for governor of Texas I often contended that musicians could run the government better than politicians. We wouldn't get a lot done in the morning, I said, but we'd work late and we'd be honest. Frankly, beauticians could run the government better than politicians. So could opticians, magicians, or morticians—anybody from outside of politics is going to be a damn sight better at getting the train back on track than the ones on the inside who put her in the ditch to begin with.
First as a musician, then as an author, I've traveled all over this great state, and I know that I'm more in touch and in tune with real Texans than are most politicians. Think of the last time you were truly inspired by a politician. Think of the last time you really respected one. And think of the last time a politician really respected you.
I've hung out often in my life in rooms full of musicians and now I can also claim—though it's quite far from a brag—that I've also hung out in rooms full of politicians. There's a basic, almost palpable difference between the two groups. The musicians have honesty, integrity, humanity, creativity, and a sense of humor. The politicians, as a general rule, have none of these qualities in any great degree. They lack creative solutions to problems, they are shallow and superficial by their very nature, and they all appear to have humor bypasses. Whether they are big stars or virtually unknown, the musicians all seem to evoke a basic sense of decency, a trait noticeably lacking in most politicians.
One of the first people I often seek advice from and, indeed, tapped to be an integral part of the campaign, was Willie Nelson, whom I like to call "The Hillbilly Dalai Lama." For as long as I've known him, he's been rather far to the left of me, not to mention quite a bit higher than me. This was especially true just before the invasion of Iraq when Willie and I were discussing the matter on his bus. To his credit, Willie was against the war from the very beginning. He thought it was a bad idea altogether. I, on the other hand, felt it might be a good idea to knock a dictator off and make the other dictators look over their shoulders a bit.
As we were discussing whether it was a sound plan to invade Iraq, I recall the conversation becoming increasingly animated. Willie, I remember, was smoking a joint about the size of a large kosher salami, and I was getting more and more frustrated trying to get through to him. Finally, I said, "Look, Willie. The guy is a tyrannical bully and we've got to take him out!"
"No," said Willie. "He's our president and we've got to stand by him."
In late 2004, as I was deciding whether or not to officially throw my hat in the ring, I went to see Willie again to get his blessings and any advice or suggestions he might bestow upon me. He was on the bus writing a new song called "I Hate Every Bone In Your Body Except Mine" and smoking a joint the size of a large cedar fence post.
"Willie," I said, "I've got a great life and, as much as I love Texas, I'm not sure if I want to sacrifice it on the altar of politics. On the other hand, we haven't had an independent candidate even get on the ballot in 154 years and this may be the last opportunity of our lifetimes to make this happen."
"And your name is?" Willie said.
After a while we settled down into a discussion of the fact that, for the first time in history, the great state of Texas was importing energy. Willie laid out a highly persuasive argument for biodiesel and agreed to be my energy czar if the people of Texas had the vision to elect me governor. The fact that Willie has a special rapport with farmers was not lost upon the Kinkster. With Willie in charge, farmers' biodiesel co-ops would be springing up all over Texas to make biodiesel readily available to everyone. And, as I went on to often point out in stump speeches all over the state, Willie would be different from the current crop of bureaucrats. He would never have his hand in Texas's pocket.
The more we talked and dreamed, the more we realized that these were two reachable stars—clean energy and clean government. Energy would be Willie's star—fuel you could actually grow. Clean government would be mine—throw the moneychangers out of the temple. From inside Willie's tour bus we saw what we believed could be a new and beautiful Texas—a Texas that would not be forever following behind but soon would be leading the American parade. It was a wonderful dream, and, like all dreams, we figured, there was a chance it might come true.
Before I left, Willie had even come up with a new campaign slogan for me. It was catchy and clever and would soon be ringing out from Amarillo to Brownsville. It was, "Criticize me all you want, but don't circumcise me anymore."
TWO JACKS
villain, a patriot, and a scoundrel. Here's to my spiritual role model, Jack Ruby, the original Texas Jewboy.
On November 22, 1963—the fateful day that shook the world, the day that caused Walter Cronkite to shed a tear on national television, the day that belied Nellie Connally's encouraging words, "You can't say Dallas doesn't love you, Mr. President," the day that gave Oliver Stone an idea for a screenplay—I was a freshman at the University of Texas, sleeping off a beer party from the night before. Indeed, I slept through the assassination of John F. Kennedy like a bad dream and, upon waking, retained one seemingly nonsensical phrase: "Texas Cookbook Suppository."
It was only later, once I'd sobered up, that I realized I'd been sleeping not only through history class but history itself. I'd also slept through anthropology class, where I'd received some rather caustic remarks from my red-bearded professor for a humorous monograph I'd written on the Flathead Indians of Montana. I'd gotten an A on the paper, along with the comment, "Your style has got to go." But I realized that he was wrong. Style is everything in this world. JFK's style made him who he was. Even dead, he had a lingering charisma that caused me to join the Peace Corps. Yet it was the style of another man in Dallas that was to change my life, I now believe, even more profoundly. I'm referring, of course, to that patriot, that hero, that villain, that famously flamboyant scoundrel, Jack Ruby
Like the first real cowboy spotted by a child, Ruby made an indelible impression upon my youthful consciousness. He was the first Texas Jewboy I ever saw. There he stood, like a good cowboy, like a good Jew, wearing his hat indoors, shooting the bad guy who'd killed the president and doing it right there on live TV. Never mind that the bad guy had yet to be indicted or convicted; never mind that he was a captive in handcuffs carefully "guarded" by the Dallas cops. Those are mere details relegated to the footnotes and footprints of history. Ruby had done what every good God-fearing, red-blooded American had wished he could do. And he was one of our boys!
Ten years later, in 1973, with Ruby still in mind as a spiritual role model, I formed the band Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys, which would traverse the width and breadth of the land, celebrated, castigated, and one night nearly castrated after a show in Nacogdoches. None of it would have happened, I feel sure, without the influence of Jack Ruby, that bastard child of twin cultures, death-bound and desperately determined to leave his mark on the world. While many saw Ruby as a caricature or a buffoon, I saw in him the perfect blending of East and West— the Jew, forever seeking the freedom to be who he was, and the cowboy, forever craving that same metaphysical elbow room. I, perhaps naively, perceived him as a member of two lost tribes, each a vanishing breed, each blessed, cursed, and chosen to wander.
In the days and months that followed the assassination, as Ruby languished in jail, the world learned more about this vigilante visionary, this angst-ridden avenging angel. Ruby, it emerged, was indubitably an interesting customer. He owned a strip club in which the girls adored him and in which he would periodically punch out unruly patrons. This cowboy exuberance was invariably followed by Jewish guilt. Josh Alan Friedman, a guitar virtuoso who is as close to a biographer as Ruby probably has, notes that Jack was known to pay medical and dental bills for his punch-out victims and offer the
m free patronage at his strip club. With Lee Harvey Oswald, however, this beneficence was not in evidence. According to Friedman, Ruby was utterly without remorse over Oswald's death, delighting in the bags of fan mail he received in his prison cell.
In time the mail petered out and, not long after that, so did Ruby. He died a bitter man, possibly the last living piece in a puzzle only God or Agatha Christie could have created. I didn't really blame Ruby for being somewhat bitter. The way I saw it, he had actually accomplished something in killing Oswald. He'd helped one neurotic Jew, namely myself, come up with a pretty good name for his band.
Years after Ruby had gone to that grassy knoll in the sky, my friend Mickey Raphael, who plays blues harp with Willie Nelson, tried to get a gig at Jack's old strip club. At the time, Mickey had a jug band, and though he found the place to be redolent of Ruby's spirit, he didn't get the gig. "I thought you guys liked jugs," Mickey told the manager.
Thus is the legacy of one little man determined to take the law into his own little hand. And so they will go together into history, a pair of Jacks, one dealt a fatal blow in the prime of his life, the other dealt from the bottom of the deck; one remembered with the passion of an eternal flame, the other all but forgotten. Friedman notes that Ruby wept for Kennedy. Chet Flippo, in his definitive book Your Cheatin' Heart, tells of Ruby's friendship and loyalty a decade earlier toward another one of life's great death-bound passengers, Hank Williams. Ruby, according to Flippo, was one of the last promoters to continue to book Hank as the legend drunkenly, tragically struggled to get out of this world alive. He was also one of the few human beings on the planet who knew Hank Williams and spoke Yiddish.
What Would Kinky Do?: How to Unscrew a Screwed-Up World Page 6
