My first magical musical memory was the band The Hurricanes, a hot blues band that played regularly at Le Chalet on Newport Ave in late 70’s.  I wish I could remember who was in the band.  I think it included Obciean Aristole Georgio on harmonica and Blond Bruce on guitar.

Other highlights:

Tomcat Courtney with Obciean Mighty Joe Longa playing the organ at the very small and wall to wall Texas Teahouse on Voltarie.

Sundays at Winston’s with Earl Thomas.  Also Earl playing at my wedding reception.

Seeing Jewel at the Java Joe’s right after she released her first album.

Fabulous Thunderbird front man Kim Wilson with his all-star blues band (Gene Taylor on piano) at his annual December gigs at Winston’s.

The San Diego Symphony Orchestra at Dusty Rhodes Park for the first and last annual Peninsula Arts Festival.

Billy Bacon and the Forbidden Pigs at Winston’s and the O.B. Street Fair.

The late great Country Dick Montana reading poetry while jumping from table to table at Winston’s (O.K. not really music.)

more to come…

In late 1984, we heard that the game show Family Feud was auditioning in San Diego. This was the Richard Dawson original Family Feud with five family members, which seemed to the five James brothers a good omen to try-out.

After a rigorous 1/2 hour of training (“good answer, good answer!” “LOUDER” “good answer, good answer!!” ) and strategizing (don’t ask Richard Dawson about Bob Crane), we were ready.

At the Scottish Rite Center in Mission Valley we spent 2 hours being put through our paces by the shows producers. They tried to mess with our heads by one moment shouting encouragements (“that was very perky, we like perky”) and another moment making disparaging comments about our answers (“Are you high? Nixon was not a “Evil Fictional Character”). They wanted to make sure we wouldn’t crack in a game situation.

To our surprise we were asked to come back the next day.

After more of the same, we were told that the James Family would be contestants on the Family Feud.

We had to cancel our first recording date due to conflicting plans. We waiting patiently for our rescheduled date, our date with destiny and Dawson. Maybe we would be so popular we would be asked to star in our own Musical/Comedy Hour. “Here’s the James Gang with special guest Madonna.” Having just split with Sean Penn I could have been the next Mr. Madonna.

Finally a letter (click on above image) arrived from Goodson Todman Productions.

Damn those Nielsens, damn them to hell. The show had been canceled.

My dreams of stardom and adopted children from Africa were crushed.

Former baseball pitcher David Wells is the most famous person from Ocean Beach. He is also prime example of the popular adage: you can take the boy out of O.B., but you can’t take the O.B. out of the boy. (o.k. I coined the adage.) He was always considered a non-conformist in the baseball world.  Growing up with the San Diego Chapter of the Hells Angels cheering you on at Little League games, would give you a different perspective.

If you want to learn about David I suggest you get his book: Perfect I’m Not : Boomer on Beer, Brawls, Backaches, and Baseball.

My story takes place in January 1997. David was in town to attend his beloved mother Annie’s funeral.

Last call for alcohol.

When in town, David always traveled with his Point Loma posse. These were guy he grew up with, guys he went to high school with.

It was 1:30 in the morning, David Wells and his entourage were cruising O.B. in his Lincoln Town Car. Parking in the Hodad’s side lot, the crew got out to make a quick brewskis run to the corner market. They thought it would be so quick they left the car running with its doors wide-open.

Meanwhile Cheswick regulars, Armand and Steve, were just completing an evening of barhopping and were on their way home. Spotting the unattended car in the lot, they thought this was the funniest thing they ever saw. To add to the drunken hilarity, Steve decided to turn off the car and put the keys under the seat.

A homeless person watching from a dark corner was thinking he was glad to be schizoid, not crazy like all these other dudes.

As David and one of his buddies neared the car they noticed it was no longer running, looking in they saw no keys.

The homeless guy pointed down the alley and yelled something incoherent. Understanding, David and his friend ran down the alley.

Spotting Armand and Steve across the street they ran until they were face to face with the key suspects. “Hey, where’s my f@**ing keys, David snarled.

“Keys, I don’t know anything about any stinking keys” Armand replied unconvincingly.

Just then the rest of David’s gang came flying around the corner.

Feeling like a cornered rat, Armand took the first swing.

Fistsicuffs ensued.

Boom.

ALL’S WELLS THAT ENDS WELLS

David “Boomer” Wells had just received a multi-million dollar contract from his new team the New York Yankees.  Now he would have to explain to George Steinbrenner how he broke his pitching hand.

Armand thought he deserved some of that contract, being it was his face that David broke his hand on.

David was able to pitch for the Yankees, his perfect game only a year away. (He was the second of only three Yanks to pitch one, the first was also a Point Loma High graduate, Don Larsen.)

Armand stuck-out in his lawsuit and never saw a dime.

Moral of the story: Don’t slowdown if your heading for home.

In 1983, I was 25 years old and was serving my second term as president of the Ocean Beach Merchants Association. My relationship with our Councilman Bill Cleator was sometimes strained, but I think he still respected me.

A city ordinance was to be passed for a test ban of alcohol on all city beaches after 9:00 pm. Thinking this was way too early for my fellow Obcieans, I proposed to our councilman that the beaches in Ocean Beach be allowed to have alcohol until midnight. To my surprise Bill Cleator agreed.

This provision only lasted a couple of years before all beaches had a permanent alcohol ban after 9:00 pm.

For a while though, I was happy to know that you can fight city hall.

click for larger image
Find me and win a prize.Many don’t even realize that the Ocean Beach Bowl even existed. It was located on Bacon Street between Newport and Santa Monica Ave. Its eight lanes were built in the 1940’s and were connected to the Arizona Cafe*.

*while they occasionally served food, the Arizona Cafe was in reality one of the best dive bars in San Diego.

In late 1980 the Ocean Beach Bowl become home to a unique Monday night league.

My brother Ron was a member of OMBAC (Old Mission Beach Athletics Club), he proposed a Ocean Beach version to pursue our athletic endeavors. The Ocean Beach Athletic and Recreation Foundation or OBARF was born.

The first activity was a Bowling League. Members included many James Gang employees and friends from the Sunshine Company Saloon.

The league was also where my brother Rich developed the national fad of “Disco Bowling.”Now I won’t say we weren’t very good, but our best OBARF bowler, with a 162 average, was a certified blind accountant (he was certified blind, as an accountant I’m not so sure). He was a hell of a spot bowler.

Being connected to the Arizona Cafe, allowed cocktail waitresses to keep us supplied, without missing a turn. We kept them busy throughout the evening.

We also kept Little Joe, the Alley Manager, busy as well. Little Joe had been working at the O.B. Bowl since he was a kid. He later became a popular bartender at the Arizona with Big Joe and Middle Joe.

Being that the lanes were pretty old, demanded they have constant attention.  “Little Joe, ball stuck on Lane 5.” “Little Joe, need pin reset on Lane 1.’ “Little Joe, man down on Lane 3.”

I loved Bowling Night, I even bought my own shoes and a bowling ball.

A few years later, Brunswick, who leased the old equipment, decided to rip it all out. That was a sad day, but a fortuitous day for the James Gang. In 1990, after the James Gang lost their lease on Newport Avenue, they were able to move into the old bowling alley building. If it had not been available they most likely would have been forced to move out of O.B.

They say on a quiet night, if you walk by the James Gang, you can hear the thunder of falling bowling pins and the strains of the BeeGee’s “Staying Alive.”

In 1978,  James Gang Custom T-Shirts was beginning its third year. Business was booming and my brothers felt it appropriate to celebrate our success with our friends and family.

Time to have a party.

Fitting the company name, a outlaw/cowboy party theme was chosen. In a corner of the Pac Shores my older brothers outdid themselves, devising the James Gang Get Down, Hoe Down. A quaint party with three or four hundred OBceans, getting and hoeing down.

It was agreed that a party of this magnitude could not peacefully take place in the confines of Ocean Beach. It was time to head to them there hills. The Big Oak Ranch was a frontier town/amusement park in Harbinson Canyon outside of El Cajon. It was perfect, an isolated patch of land next to a nudist colony.

A $20 ticket (a bandanna) got you a t-shirt, all the beer you can drink, live entertainment, a BBQ dinner, a barn dance, a piece of hard earth to sleep on and a Bloody Mary breakfast.

The fiesta started with the Shoot-out at the O.B. Corral. The James Gang (my brothers and I) ambled down Main Street with six-shooters at our side, looking for the Sheriff and his deputies (Played by the Big Oak Cowboy Players). Apparently derogatory remarks were made about wearing flip-flops with cowboy hats. Soon shots were fired and as the script foretold, I and several others lay on the hot ground as the drama played out. Shotgun touting women folk finally came out the saloon and dispatched the rest of the men on Main Street. We then dusted ourselves off to a round of applause and beers.

On one corner a one-man-band entertained the crowd, playing a Willie Nelson tune with his drum, harmonica and guitar. In the dusty saloon a piano player cranked out songs as Obceans sang along. My brother Pat’s hands were soon bloodied as he strummed a rousing rendition of “She’ll  Be Coming Around the Mountain” on a washtub bass.

In the meantime, a horseshoe tournament and a Chili Cook-off kept the rest of the party occupied.

It was soon dinner time, hundreds were served carne asada and other Mexican fare while listening to a mariachi band.

As darkness fell, the barn filled with the Country/Western music of the band Tall Cotton. Everywhere you looked boots and bare-feet were stomping to the beat. Attempts at the Texas Two-step in short order became the O.B. Misstep.

Later that evening, gunshots were heard coming from the parking lot. We figured the Big Oak employees were firing off the rest of their blanks. Come to find out later, the owner of the ranch, Rock Kreutzer was knocked over the head with a crowbar by a disgruntled former Big Oak cowboy. The shots we heard were live rounds being fired by Rock’s employees hitting the fleeing attacker’s car tires. With sheriff helicopters overhead, the culprit escaped.

After the band played their last song the party-goers headed to their tents for much needed sleep. For those who lacked the foresight to set-up their tents before drinking, their sleeping bags and blankets soon haphazardly littered the hillsides. For those slackers the sunrise came to soon. Waking to the bright reality of the hard ground, after a day of consuming muy cervazas, was indeed torture. Not that the tent dwellers had it a hell of lot better.

Under the shade of a large (big) oak tree, salvation came as Rich and Ron James had laid out a liquid breakfast. Reminiscent of a zombie movie, the groaning masses crawled out of sleeping bags and slowly stumbled down the hill to consume the replenishing Bloody Marys.

People tend to forgot the pain of good party and James Gang Get Down, Hoe Down played out two more years at the Big Oak Ranch. Each year had it’s share of added drama though. The second year campers were woken to the sound of firefighter’s bulldozers putting out a brush fire a few feet from where they slept.

Shortly after the third event, Rock Kreutzer was convicted of shooting his son-in-law and is still in prison.

The fourth and last year had to be moved up the road to Stallion Oaks Ranch in Descanso. Of course being a ranch, there were horses. Of course, we came to find out, horses and beach drunks don’t mix. An inebriated female, known to be a six in the morning Beach Club Cocktails and Live Entertainment regular, tried to pet the wrong end of a nice horsey. She was summarily kicked in the shins.

After our insurance company paid her bar tab for the next year, we decided to call it quits.

If you ask a survivor about the James Gang Get Down, Hoe Down, you should see a smile cross their face and a twinkle in their eye, as they answer, “You know, I really don’t remember.”

One night in early 1988 I was quaffing a few Henry Weinhard’s (my beer of choice at that time) at Cheswick’s West Tavern. Having heard that my bartender, Valerie, had recently become engaged to an Irish lad, Derek, I told her the story of my dad performing my brother’s wedding (see story below). Inspired by the story, she asked if I would become ordained and officiate her ceremony. After a few more Henry’s on the house, I readily agreed. I was, after all, a chip off the old block.

The next week I sent off my request for ordination, with a donation of $10, to the Universal Life Church of Modesto, California.  When I wasn’t waiting by my mailbox, I was at the library preparing my ceremony (The Prophet, Apache Wedding Blessing, Wedding Ceremonies for Idiots).

Just days before the wedding I received my ministry license and got my tie back from the dry cleaners. I was ready.

On that special day, in the bridesmaid living room, I performed my first duties as the Right Reverend Mike.  The longest, knee-trembling, nerve-wracking, cotton-mouthed, three minutes of my life. It wasn’t so much being in front of crowd, it was the enormity of the event. I wondered, who was I to sanctify this act, would Valerie and Derek later regret this decision and blame me, would I be smitten by lightning and leave a stain on the carpet.

A shot of Jose would put me at ease. (After 20 years, Valerie and Derek are still married and living in Florida with their twin daughters.)

The word of my prowess as a minister soon spread throughout Ocean Beach. “I don’t know what he said, but it was quick.”

I was soon booked by numerous couples to perform their nuptials.

Still not feeling completely comfortable in this role, I at first refused any monetary compensation. I did however accept a donation of a case of domestic beer (Henry Weinhard). Later that would upgraded to imported beer (Pilsner Urquell) and even later, having stockpiled more beer than I could drink, I began accepting honorariums of $100 (Crisp Twenties).

Since 1988 I have performed something like 50 or 60 weddings. If I knew in the beginning I would do more than a few I would have kept count. I was honored to later perform my brother Ron and his wife Mary’s wedding.

Statistically my record fellows the national average of success for marriages (around 50%).  I’ve only had to honor my guarantee twice “If your marriage fails, your next ceremony is on the house”.

There has been many wonderful moments sharing this day with the hundreds of brides and grooms. I always loved the expression from the aunt from Albany as she spied me doing shots with the groom before the ceremony. Or the shocked look from grandmas as I did my James Brown impression at the reception.

Where people do the sign and take your hands-ah
And dancin’ to the music James Brown band… mmm

They’re dancing on the good foot
I got to get on the good foot
Got to do it on the good foot
Do it with the good foot

Said the long-hair hippies and the afro blacks
They all get together across the tracks
And they PARTY
Ho! On the good foot
You know they dance on the good foot
Dance on the good foot

“Wasn’t that the minister doing the splits on the dance floor?”

There was the day I performed two weddings at La Jolla Shores, after the minister failed to show at a neighboring ceremony, I was quickly recruited from the first couple’s reception. Unbeknownst to the second couple, I had already consumed a few cocktails and may have forgotten the “I do” part during their vows. I think it was still legal. No, really.

I’m proud to be a second generation minister of the Universal Life Church of Modesto, California. For those not familiar with this denomination, the ULC believes that every member has the right to believe what ever he wants, as long as doesn’t infringe on the rights of others to believe what they want. Now that’s some dogma I can get my teeth into. They also believe that everyone has the right to be ordained as minister (or as a pope for that matter).

In 1973,  as a lark, my dad, Bill and my Uncle Rich were ordained as ministers of the ULC. I don’t believe my father ever thought he would ever utilize this position.

That would all change in the early morning hours of April 20, 1974.

Now it’s often said it is never a good idea to have a bachelor party the night before the wedding.  Throwing caution to the wind my brother Greg held his bachelor party just hours before getting married to his beloved Donna Cooperider. The venue was Straw Hat Pizza in Redding, California where Greg was a loyal employee. Much pizza and beer was consumed during the course of this sodden soiree.

Around closing time, after a somewhat inebriated consultation between father and son, Greg announced to well wishers that he would be firing his minister and that his dad would now be officiating his upcoming nuptials.

The next morning my father awoke in a panic, hoping that his offer had just been forgotten. Alas it was to late, Greg had already given his original minister his walking papers.

Sitting around the kitchen table, a nervous and acutely hungover father and son penned the sacred words that would be shared with hundreds of family and friends in just a few hours.

Having survived the war-torn jungles of the South Pacific during World War II, my dad still states that officiating this wedding, while one of his happiest moments, was one of the hardest things he ever had to endure.

Greg and Donna recently celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary. My 85 year old father went on to perform more weddings, but always stayed sober the night before.

———————————————————-

More to come. As I tell of the story of my following in my father’s footsteps as the Right Reverend Mike of Ocean Beach, California.

For the past 15 years or so, Coronado officials have invited a group of Obcieans to partake in their Fourth of July parade. With their unusual attire and freakish behavior, this group of unstable deviants are allowed to march along the quaint streets of the “Crown City.”

These waterlogged ruffians are readily accepted by this fair city. The local military presence may give city officials some comfort, but they know that this rabble could incite mass hysteria among its citizens at anytime. Yet they are invited every year.

Special protocol has been established to lessen any threat. Labeled “00″ by marshals, this unit is not only the first to enter the parade route, they are also allowed to march fifteen minutes before the official start time of the parade. This precaution was taken to eliminate any disruption they may cause the other units.

As the riffraff approaches, crowds are at first alarmed by the loud noise and clothes. Soon they become mesmerized by the dizzying effect of art in motion. The throng who line Orange Avenue are entranced by the sound of the fast-paced guitar music, nostalgic transportation and the precision acrobatic magic.

After many miles, these paraders entrench themselves under a giant tree to quash their thirst. After an hour or so of reminiscing of parades past, and to the relief of the local population, they soon find their way back to home to watch the O.B. fireworks.

The Coronado Fourth of July Parade officially steps-off at 10:00 am on Saturday July 4th, but if you want to see the Ocean Beach Geriatric Surf Club and Precision Marching Drill Team and Gidget Patrol you better be there by 9:45.

As co-chair of the first Street Fair, I must set the record straight. This year’s 30th Annual Street Fair is actually the 28th.

The first street fair which took place July 4th, 1982 and was an expansion of the Fireworks Festival which began in 1980 (hence the 30th annual).

Sponsored by the Ocean Beach Merchants Association and KPRI Radio, the event was held on the 4900 and 5000 blocks of Newport Ave.  With no vendors and a crowd in the hundreds, it seemed somewhat bare compared to the hundreds of vendors and the tens of thousands that show up now days.

The venue included a few rides, a stage for the 4 bands and a 40×80 metal fence encased “Beer Garden”.

Still fun was had by all.

My favorite memory was the mechanical bull which was situated right in front of the Strand Theater. I can still hear the amplified Texas twanged voice of the bull operator as he encouraged the crowd, “Whose gonna ride this here bull in Oceeean Beeeeach Calli-forn-ya.” Urban Cowboy had just been released and Obcieans wanted to give John Travolta a run for his money. So with long hair a flyin, many earned the title of  “O.B. Buckaroo”.

The most popular event that day was the competition for the coveted title of Miss and Mister O.B.  In the late afternoon, bikini clad ladies and muscular men strutted their stuff in front of hundreds of adoring fans. With no Q and A, winners were quickly chosen and the audience and contestants poured back into the bars.

Another highlight was a martial artist breaking a world’s record by breaking something like 5 blocks of ice with his bare hands. I believe the ice was later used for margaritas at Le Chalet.*

Much was learned by the committee that first year.  I recall pushing a broom up and down Newport Avenue at ten o’clock that evening (while cursing my co-chair and brother Ron who was entrenched at Pac Shores) and thinking next year we should hire a cleaning crew.

It’s satisfying to see that this event has become one of San Diego’s premier events.

*the Le Chalet later became Bullfrog’s and is currently Gallagher’s Irish Pub. Also the ice was never really used for human consumption