with what Jerry Kmen had described ’til one day while gazing at a very sexy cartoon in Mad Magazine I figured it all out. Oh, that’s what that pole thing was! Little did I know at that time that I’d be chasing that feeling from that moment on.
My parents were no help in the sex-education department. One day my dad handed me a dark green book called Moving into Manhood. He kind of averted his eyes as he slipped it to me. After glancing through it I still knew nothing about the actual process of sex. The book said things like, “when the sperm meets the egg …” How the hell does that happen, guys? I still was not quite ready for one of those three holers.
It wasn’t ’til I was with The Ides on one of our first road trips (this one to Savanna, Illinois, to play the Road-Runner Den) that I connected all the dots. One of the guys had acquired some grainy black-and-white porn tapes from the ’50s and we watched them in our seedy sleeping quarters above the club owner’s office on the projector we had brought with us. The men in the films were all Brylcreem, white legs, and black socks. The gals were overweight, pasty white, and over the hill, but at least I saw the act in motion. My line, now famous in the pantheon of Ides of March lore, was, “Hey guys, it’s like jagging off—in a girl!” Prior to this I thought you just put it in and waited motionlessly.
For as long as I could remember, my mother had one big dream for me. “Jimmie, you be’s a doctor,” is what my mother always said. For some reason, she spoke this phrase in a kind of “Porgy and Bess” dialect.
My mom actually had a metal box exclusively earmarked for my post–medical school career. “After each patient, you put the money in,” she explained, opening the box and carefully arranging the bills for visual aid. It was never about saving mankind; it was about the money I would make that would go into this strong box.
“You be’s a doctor!”
I heard my mother’s tirade year after year until, at the age of ten, I could stand it no longer. I finally stood up to her and said, “Mother, let me be what I want to be, okay?” The anxious expression on her face eventually broke into a smile. She finally realized that I was my own man, and she never brought it up again.
That’s how I am with my son, Colin, too. I believe that if you raise a child with good values and you set a good example, that example goes beyond words, beyond lectures. I trust him so much that I don’t lecture, just as my parents didn’t lecture. Nobody ever said, “Jimmie, don’t drink and drive. Don’t smoke pot.” Nobody ever told me that. They knew I wasn’t going to go there—it was just that unspoken trust.
My reaction to the stoners and drinkers was, “Why do that?” It was never a temptation. In fact, I think I felt a tiny bit superior because I had the willpower to resist that course.
I’ve seen too many of my rock ’n’ roll brothers fall to drugs. They’re some of the most evil substances known to man because they totally take you over, change your personality, and ruin your body. I once had a writing session with the lead singer of a very well-known group from the ’70s. He said, “Jim, you know, my problem is that I’ve never had one great song idea when I wasn’t doing coke.” It’s a voice inside many of us that says, “I am not enough—I need a crutch.” To silence that voice is my everyday challenge.
I tried to tell him that those creative juices are “you”; it’s not the work of the drug. You can access those inner chemicals in a natural way by engaging in physical activity, eating right, sharing your talents with others, embracing loved ones, and doing nice things for people. He said, “Yeah, but I still need the coke.” This man ultimately lost his wide vocal range and ability to perform onstage.
I’ve seen way too many examples of this. When I give master classes at a Camp Jam seminar,2 I always tell my cautionary tale of the time The Ides of March were invited to the aftershow party hosted by Led Zeppelin after our triumphant gig opening for them in Winnipeg, Ontario.
Here’s what happened. We knocked on the door of the band’s hotel suite. (They stayed at the fancy hotel in the area—not the lowly Holiday Inn where we were staying.)
Robert Plant came to the door in his bikini briefs and welcomed us in. As we walked in, we spotted half-naked groupies cavorting on the bed in a pillow fight. Pot was being smoked, cocaine snorted, John Bonham was in a stupor, and booze was everywhere. Jimmy Page was in the bathtub with a young lady going through some uncomfortable- looking contortions.
I looked at Larry (The Ides’ rhythm guitarist), Larry looked at Mike (Ides’ drummer), and we turned on our heels and said, “Thanks guys, see ya later!” This was not our scene at all. We repaired to a donut shop across the street from the hotel. We were back in our comfort zone.
When I tell that story at a master class, believe it or not, the kids always cheer. I tell them it’s probably why I’m still here talking to you right now. You can’t keep the party going at all costs.
My own Czech heritage also impacted my childhood. About twice a year, usually to commemorate the day someone had died, we would visit my ancestors at Bohemian National Cemetery on Pulaski Avenue and Foster.
Before the age of expressways, this would be a day-long expedition, ending with a feast at one of the authentic Czech restaurants on Cermak Road in Berwyn or Cicero. At the cemetery, we would be spellbound by the elaborate gravestones, which carried hard to pronounce names like Vosacek, Vlcek, Krahulek, and Klitpetko. These names were always dense with consonants.
Nowadays, many American parents take great pains to teach their children their native tongue, but back then, the goal was to assimilate. When my parents didn’t want me to understand what they were saying, they would speak in Czech.
They whispered little Czech phrases under their breath when they wanted to be secretive. Though I didn’t understand a word they were saying, I could pretty much decipher the meanings by their inflection, tone, and decibel level.
My strongest connection and fondest memory of my Czech heritage was the Bohemian cuisine. My mother mainly prepared Czech food. Dinnertime would become another time during which I would get teased and get called “Fatboy.” (My mother had to shop with me in the “husky” section of the department stores where you could find any color of corduroy pants you wanted as long as it was brown or navy blue.)
About once a month, the family would go out for an “eating party” (a phrase I apparently coined at age four). Some of our favorite destinations for Bohemian food were Klas in Cicero (the sidewalk in front shimmered with shards of colored glass), Old Prague, and the Dumpling House in Berwyn.
My family bought “bakery” (always used in place of “baked goods”) at Vesecky’s on Cermak Road (kind of the Rodeo Drive of Berwyn and Cicero). There we’d stock up on hoska—wonderful, eggy bread studded with slivered almonds and laced with dark and light raisins.
We’d also buy plenty of kolaches: doughy rounds made with cream cheese and targeted with apricot, cheese, and prune fillings, or my favorite: poppy seed. Cermak Road was a street lined with the most savings and loans and banks per block of any one city—Bohemians were a frugal lot, that’s for sure.
Little old Czech ladies wearing colorful babushkas (scarves) would wheel their shopping carts from butcher to baker. For meats, there was Vlceks (also on Cermak) for your pork loin and chicken and my favorite sausages called jelitzy and Jaternice or Jitrnice.
One was blood-red, barley sausage in a casing; the other was a light-colored veal sausage. You would squeeze it out of the casing (half the fun of it, really) and mix these garlicky, fatty meats with mashed potatoes and gravy. Talk about a triple bypass plate!
Since that time, of course, the area and the demographic have changed radically. The neighborhood is now largely Hispanic. The homes are still meticulously kept, but many of the restaurants now specialize in amazing flautas and enchiladas. The population has changed, but the smells are still intoxicating.
A little while back, I took my friend and Facebook guru, Paul Braun, on a walking tour of my old stomping grounds of Berwyn. Paul is not only a great friend,