Hunger for the holidays

Twice in my life I've been hungry, real hungry. By that, I mean so broke I skipped eating some days and on the other days lived on Top Ramen, russet potatoes, 99-cent burgers and the occasional baloney sandwich.

The first time I went on the poverty diet plan happened when I moved to Los Angeles in 1973, with nothing more than a '67 Chevy and ten bucks. I figured I'd hit the streets, panhandle, and do whatever I had to do to survive. I also figured before I made it rich and famous as a rock and roll star, I'd pay my dues and suffer for my art.

I suffered for my art, all right. For about 25 years, but that's another story.

When I got to LA I lived in my car, and since I was mobile I decided to live in a good neighborhood, Beverly Hills. But there are laws against sleeping in your car in Beverly Hills, and the cops kicked me out the next day. So I moved to the Hollywood Hills, where I fit right in and watched Yul Brenner walk his dogs every night. He was very thin too, but he was on the cancer diet plan, although I didn't know it at the time.

Turns out an old high school buddy, Barry Brown, lived in an apartment in Hollywood while he attended the University of Southern California, so he and his roommate, Tom Lochmoller, let me crash on the sofa (thanks guys). Starvation is never a good thing, but it's a lot better when you live in an apartment overlooking a view of Capitol Records.

Every day, Tom and Barry would commute to USC, and every day I'd read their assigned college books before hitting the streets at night, guitar in hand, looking for some open mike to play. One of the books turned out to be a biography of beat writer Jack Kerouac, who I had never heard of at the time. In the bio, he talks about surviving in Los Angeles and how he subsisted on pre-made baloney sandwiches. It sounded like a good plan to me, so when I got my next $60 unemployment check, I went out and bought a package of baloney and a loaf of bread and spent the day making sandwiches, which I stored in a brown paper bag in the fridge.

"You sure like baloney sandwiches," Tom told me one day. He just didn't get it, but why would he? His dad was a CEO of some big department store -- J.C. Penny's or Sears, I think -- and so daddy paid Tom's rent, food, tuition and drugs (although I don't think daddy was aware of the last subsidy). It was the first of two times in my life when some rich kid would mistake my poverty for some arcane dietary quirk.

One day, about a week before my next unemployment check, I decided to go out and hunt for food. After all, I lived in California, a big agricultural state, and so I figured I could find one of those famous avocado ranches you hear so much about in LA. I started driving south. Big mistake, but what did I know? If I had driven north I might have had a chance, and if I had driven east my plan would have succeded. Fortunately, I was smart enough not to drive west, which would have deposited my Chevy and me into the Pacific Ocean. (I know what some of you might be thinking... why didn't I borrow a fishing pole and plant my ass on a pier? Cause it never occurred to me. When you're not eating much, you're not exactly at the peak of your mental faculties.)

Anyway, I drove south on Sepulveda Ave. I didn't find a farm, hell, I didn't even find a fuckin' vacant lot. When half the gas in my tank was gone, somewhere around Palos Verdes, I turned around and went home. On the way back, I did something smart. I stopped at a dive called The Bar of Melody, which advertised live entertainment every night. I met with the owner, Jim Marin, and talked him into an audition. I only knew 20 cover songs, but I figured I could learn 20 more in a week. Long story short, I got a job playing on Sundays and Mondays at $30 a night, big money at that time.

I was in the bucks and eating again.

The second time I hit the skids, I was 20 years older. I moved to Austin, Texas in 1991, this time with no car and $1600 bucks in my pocket. For some reason, I figured since I was moving from Sebastopol, population 10,000 or so, to the big city I could just take the bus everywhere. Besides, bringing a car with California license plates into Texas scared the fuck out of me, since my vision of the south was frozen in images of the '60s: Firemen hosing blacks and Mexicans, and rednecks kicking the shit out of hippies and fags. And I was sure if Texans knew I was from Calfornia, I'd be taken for all of the above. So fuck it, I decided to take the bus everywhere, which would have been a great plan had I moved to, say, New York or Seattle.

When I got to Austin, I was amazed. The town was filled with New Age stores, long-haired musicians, short-haired punkers, Bohemian coffee houses, poets, artists and software startup companies. Fuck me, I thought, I moved 1,500 miles to another Californian city.

Fortunately, I had enough money to live, and within a few months I landed a job at PCI Communications as a copy editor for the company's specialized computer publications, such as RISC World and, my personal favorite, Wang In The News. Unfortunately, the company was filled with the kind of red neck, ignoramus fucks I had always suspected I'd find in Texas. I got in trouble right away. Two weeks after I started working for PCI, Magic Johnson revealed he had the virus, which prompted a serious lunch room discussion by the Bible bangers in the company.

"This AIDS disease is God's way of saying we have to be held responsible for our sins," one idiot said. Me being me and all, I couldn't let it slide.

"You know, Bucky, when I was a newspaper reporter I once covered Lyme disease. You get Lyme disease from a tick bite. Is this god's way of saying 'Stay the fuck inside?'"

I was pretty much a pariah after word got out that I was anti-camping and pro fucking. I quit within two weeks, largely because of the lunch room incident and also because I was tired of looking at my stupid mug in the mirror each morning as I put on a tie. Besides, I left California and journalism to move to Austin and become a full-time musician. What was I doing back in the print world? I had to take a chance, a leap of faith, and just do music... come what may.

By the way, you may have noticed that every time I decide to go into the music business I wind up starving. That's god's way of telling me I suck, I guess.

After I quit my job, I started living off russet potatoes. One of my roommates, Jason, asked me what my obsession with potatoes was all about.

"I'm Irish," I said. "I'm getting back to my roots." Stupid, fuckin' rich kid.

I got about a year's reprieve from starvation, thanks to a woman who let me stay with her while I did odd jobs and hustled gigs. But in late 1993, we broke up and I hit the couch surfing circuit once again. This time, I played it smart. After all, the first time I hit rock bottom I was only 19, but the second time I was 39 and could draw from more life experiences. The first thing I did was cut my hair short and wear polo shirts, Dockers and penny loafers, so I'd look like some gainfully employed software geek. That way, I could blend in during the day and at night, when I hung out with the musicians, I could switch to jeans and leather. Another benefit of age was that I knew it was easier to get someone to buy you a drink than to buy you a meal (even a 99-cent Whopper from Burger King, a bargain I often took advantage of). Soon I became an expert on Austin's happy hour circuit, cause for the price of a beer, you can eat chicken wings, cheese sticks, chips and salsa, zucchini and carrot sticks. A lot of zucchini and carrot sticks.

Then I discovered a great system. I'd put on my polo shirt and Dockers, grab a gym bag, and take the bus downtown to the Omni Hotel. I'd take the elevator to the gym, work out on the weights, take a shower, sometimes shave, put on my yuppie clothes and go down to the bar. I'd buy a coke for a dollar (yeah, Austin's cheap), tip the cocktail waitress a buck (very important) then eat all of the bar's happy hour food. I was the most phsycially fit hungry guy in Austin. But while the system worked for several months, I kept losing weight. One night during a performance, a female singer-songwriter kept teasing me because my jeans didn't fit. My waist size? Twenty-nine. If you're a muscular male whose 29-inch jeans are baggy at the waist, you really need to get the fuck off the diet. Thing is, everybody told me I was looking great, because thinness is worshipped in this country. God, just think how fabulous I'm going to look once I catch cancer.

I lived this way for months, until October of 1993, when my dad died and I inherited enough money to pull me out of the hole. I was back in the bucks and eating once again.

I know, I know. Who's the fuckin' rich kid now?

Most of the bad things that have happened in my life have faded into dim memories, but not hunger. I'll always remember being hungry and it will always be a serious issue in my life. No one goes hungry on my watch, god-fucking-dammit. To that end, I discovered a Web site the other day called The Hunger Site, where food is donated every time someone clicks on the "donate food" button. It seems legit and there's no catch: You don't have to fill out any forms or give up your e-mail address, you just click the button and you're done with it. If you normally don't go to my Link(s) of the Week, you might make an exception this week. What do you have to lose?

Holy shit! I finally write a column and it isn't fuckin' funny at all.