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Filmmaker's Diary:
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My wife has always hated Warren Zevon.
Her feelings were admittedly not rational, but they were real all the same. She couldn't stand him. She couldn't stand to see his face or hear one of his songs on the radio. She even walked out on The Color of Money when 'Werewolves of London' came on.
OK, that's not true, but you get the picture. She didn't like him.
It all traces back to 1986:
Ronald Reagan was president...
Blue Velvet was in theatres...
a family called The Huxtables was teaching us how to laugh...
and in Miami, two impossibly handsome, excitable boys named Ned and
Alex drove up to a small club in Ft. Lauderdale to see Zevon play.
Well, I think we drove. And I'm pretty sure it was Ft. Lauderdale. Shit, maybe
it wasn't even Warren Zevon, but the rest of this recollection is absolutly
accurate.
[Neditor: It WAS Ft. Lauderdale, but I'm pretty sure it was
to see jazz guitarists Larry Coryell and Emily Remler play. But for the sake
of this story, let's say it really was Warren Zevon. I certainly did see him
play in Miami during the mid-80's on a solo tour, and he was fantastic. But
I don't think Alex was even there...]
My wife was not yet my wife, but we were dating. We were serious, and young, and hurtling inevitably toward marriage, so naturally I was doing everything I could to sabotage the whole thing. And one of the most memorable things was when Ned and I picked up a couple of chicks from Boca Raton at the show.
Actually I picked them up. Ned was involved, but his main role in this story was to rat me out to Melody. [Hear that?, I say to my wife of many years who may read this diary someday...I was swept up into Alex's irresistible Latino tractor beam of birddogging 'chicks' (that's what we called them in Miami, btb). I was just the driver, dammit!]
Now she should've hated me for this. Or the chicks (although not much happened--they were from Boca, after all). Or Ned. She definitely should have hated Ned. But not poor, poor, pitiful Zevon. He had nothing to do with it.
I guess that's just what happens when you're a hurt kid like she was. Associations are made and buried deep in one's subconscious. Her enmity toward the great rocker would continue unabated for seventeen years.
But on Sept 8th, when Warren Zevon died in his home in West Hollywood after a long battle with his shit being fucked up, Melody was sad. Not just for his family or his fans, but because he was a part of our history. One of the characters in our personal mythology. One of the contributing factors that led to our coming together and staying together all of this time.
Thanks, Warren.
As for this monster, you'll find a brand new clip for your viewing pleasure. Unless you haven't visited us since before July 7th, in which case you'll find 16 new clips for your viewing pleasure. Despite being thankfully busy with lots o' acting work (working with Joe Pantoliano, [Joey Pants!] Joe Mantegna [Fat Tony!], and John fucking Cleese, for fuck's sake [John fucking Cleese, for fuck's sake!]) I had to make some progress. Mostly because Ned kept calling me a bitch and saying that the web folder that holds any new materials was "as empty as your soul". [That's so true.]
Next time I'll tell you about my wife's seething hatred toward John Ritter and Gordon Jump.
[And Johnny Cash and Robert Palmer and George Plimpton ... when the hell did September become The Month of Death?]