June 2, 1972. These are some of Dumont's notes on a crime-fighting renegade named Johnny California he wanted to develop for TV or the movies. Various episode ideas pop up from time to time in his musings. This appears to be just about all the background I can find on crime fighter Johnny California.
Johnny California. Crime fighter. As handsome as the rising son. Hair long and tangled. Unshaved. Masculine with no tolerance for hard criminals or mouthy women. Lives his life from the trunk of his candy-apple red 1969 Charger Convertible. As a master of karate and other Eastern forms of combat, Johnny California has no need for modern day weaponry. Devastating good looks, and insatiable charm, and the instincts of a mother of naughty children is all Johnny needs to get the job done.
Episode 1:
We open on a blush Beverly Hills residence. Johnny California is enjoying the comforts of three beautiful, barely clothed women when suddenly a masked man adorned in all black crashes through the pool-side sliding glass doors. In only his skivvies, Johnny springs into immediate action in the center of the sunken living room. Terrific man-on-man karate action ensues. Martini glasses fly, women scream, Johnny fights for his very life and those of his lady friends. Finally, a terrific blow to the nose sends the masked assassin through the very same window he came in through and into the nearby kidney-shaped pool. Johnny fishes the dead man out and pulls up the sleeve of the man’s shirt to reveal a scorpion tattoo. Johnny California is on the case.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
My 17-Minute Love Affair with Allen Ginsberg
This is another example of Dumont writing missives on important dates. This one is dated April 6, 1997, the day that Allen Ginsberg died. This is a short piece about meeting Mr. Ginsberg (the assumption that it's true is mine).
April 6, 1997
The year was 1958 and I was living with Pete and Francine in a brownstone on Grove Street, a large one bedroom with most kitchen amenities and a hot plate. Pete and Francine paid most of the rent and claimed the bedroom while I paid what I could and slept on a mattress in the living room.
Greenwich Village was a pretty wild place in those days and people were always coming in and out spouting off poetry and rambling none such that somehow meant something in my clouded brain but in reality probably didn't. But when you're constantly high and nursing from the teat of lady grape, reality plays a very minor role in your everyday life.
Anyway, I think it was a weekend night because the activity on the street was a little more frantic than normal. It was an electric spring evening with temperatures in the high 60s and no clouds. Pete and Francine and me along with some others were lounging around smoking grass, listening to records when a group of folks popped in looking to score. We didn't have enough to sell but we invited them in to partake in what we had. We were very cordial to one another in those days. I had been smoking a lot of grass that day and by the time they arrived I was nearly beat. I was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation, and being a bit older than the others I didn't much care for what they were saying anyway. The apartment was cloudy with smoke and I used the screen as an opportunity to slide into Pete and Francine's room to rest my weary eyes.
Their room was always beautiful. I loved being in there, especially with Francine. They had a great big window that afforded a decent view of the west side and a fortunate breeze sent the cotton curtains billowing into the room like great sails of an English galley. I laid down. Francine's bed was soft and smelled of the sweet smelling oil that she adorned herself with in the mornings. The breeze, the patchouli, and the sound of laughter from the other room made for a heavenly experience. If I concentrate hard enough I can remember it vividly even today.
I must have drifted off because when I awoke I could feel another's presence in the room. I was still under the spell of the weed but based on where I was I only assumed it was Francine. I dared not move or open my eyes. I felt the weight of the person sit down beside me; she began playing with my hair. I didn't want to give away the fact that I was awake so I limited the evidence of my pleasure to a sly smile. Our game went on for what seemed like an eternity. The breeze was so comfortable. In my mind's eye, Francine and I were running through the open glens of Scotland as if from some fruity musical. But the moment couldn't last. Finally she came close and kissed my forehead. But she didn't smell like the patchouli that I had come to expect from Francine. And then he spoke. "Sleep now brother and smell the sweet air of freedom and always always fly your dreams."
Obviously not Francine. I would later learn that it was none other than Allen Ginsberg saying those sweet words. Although I've never had even the slightest homosexual urge in all my years, I did feel love during those 17 minutes. You too fly your dreams, brother.
April 6, 1997
The year was 1958 and I was living with Pete and Francine in a brownstone on Grove Street, a large one bedroom with most kitchen amenities and a hot plate. Pete and Francine paid most of the rent and claimed the bedroom while I paid what I could and slept on a mattress in the living room.
Greenwich Village was a pretty wild place in those days and people were always coming in and out spouting off poetry and rambling none such that somehow meant something in my clouded brain but in reality probably didn't. But when you're constantly high and nursing from the teat of lady grape, reality plays a very minor role in your everyday life.
Anyway, I think it was a weekend night because the activity on the street was a little more frantic than normal. It was an electric spring evening with temperatures in the high 60s and no clouds. Pete and Francine and me along with some others were lounging around smoking grass, listening to records when a group of folks popped in looking to score. We didn't have enough to sell but we invited them in to partake in what we had. We were very cordial to one another in those days. I had been smoking a lot of grass that day and by the time they arrived I was nearly beat. I was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation, and being a bit older than the others I didn't much care for what they were saying anyway. The apartment was cloudy with smoke and I used the screen as an opportunity to slide into Pete and Francine's room to rest my weary eyes.
Their room was always beautiful. I loved being in there, especially with Francine. They had a great big window that afforded a decent view of the west side and a fortunate breeze sent the cotton curtains billowing into the room like great sails of an English galley. I laid down. Francine's bed was soft and smelled of the sweet smelling oil that she adorned herself with in the mornings. The breeze, the patchouli, and the sound of laughter from the other room made for a heavenly experience. If I concentrate hard enough I can remember it vividly even today.
I must have drifted off because when I awoke I could feel another's presence in the room. I was still under the spell of the weed but based on where I was I only assumed it was Francine. I dared not move or open my eyes. I felt the weight of the person sit down beside me; she began playing with my hair. I didn't want to give away the fact that I was awake so I limited the evidence of my pleasure to a sly smile. Our game went on for what seemed like an eternity. The breeze was so comfortable. In my mind's eye, Francine and I were running through the open glens of Scotland as if from some fruity musical. But the moment couldn't last. Finally she came close and kissed my forehead. But she didn't smell like the patchouli that I had come to expect from Francine. And then he spoke. "Sleep now brother and smell the sweet air of freedom and always always fly your dreams."
Obviously not Francine. I would later learn that it was none other than Allen Ginsberg saying those sweet words. Although I've never had even the slightest homosexual urge in all my years, I did feel love during those 17 minutes. You too fly your dreams, brother.
Haiku, January 13, 1994
Wesley tried to get a bit of writing done each day, although the organization of these everyday musings are scattered at best and don't show any sort of pattern. On some days, "a bit of writing" was just that -- just a phrase or two, or in this case, an "Urban Haiku". There are many of these in his writings. This is one of my favorites:
This is 14th street
Stand clear of the closing doors
Next stop is West 4th
This is 14th street
Stand clear of the closing doors
Next stop is West 4th
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
November 23, 1997 (Billy the Kid’s birthday – 1859)
Dumont gathered inspiration from important dates in history. He probably read a "this day in history" column regularly because many of the topics he would choose would relate to a historical fact associated with a particular day. In the story below, Wesley wrote about Billy the Kid on his birthday:
Billy the Kid entered my dream unceremoniously and immediately ordered a drink from the bar. I had the distinct feeling he was disappointed yet amused by the ridiculous cast of characters that had gathered in the saloon during my slumber. My mother was sitting at a table near the back of the saloon, dressed in slutty underclothes with a man I didn’t recognize. My dog, Christmas, who my parents gave away when I was four years old was running around willy nilly. At another table was a group of snakes playing blackjack. I was standing on the stage naked about to give a book report on Huckleberry Finn. Billy ordered another whiskey, drank it quickly and whiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He then removed his gun and let one fly into the ceiling. My father, who was tending bar, didn’t flinch. I held on tightly to my privates but was unable to move. Billy announced it was his birthday and that drinks were on him. Everyone cheered and approached the bar. I remained on stage and told the story of Huck and Jim in a quivering, unsure voice.
Billy the Kid entered my dream unceremoniously and immediately ordered a drink from the bar. I had the distinct feeling he was disappointed yet amused by the ridiculous cast of characters that had gathered in the saloon during my slumber. My mother was sitting at a table near the back of the saloon, dressed in slutty underclothes with a man I didn’t recognize. My dog, Christmas, who my parents gave away when I was four years old was running around willy nilly. At another table was a group of snakes playing blackjack. I was standing on the stage naked about to give a book report on Huckleberry Finn. Billy ordered another whiskey, drank it quickly and whiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He then removed his gun and let one fly into the ceiling. My father, who was tending bar, didn’t flinch. I held on tightly to my privates but was unable to move. Billy announced it was his birthday and that drinks were on him. Everyone cheered and approached the bar. I remained on stage and told the story of Huck and Jim in a quivering, unsure voice.
Dumont, Collections, White as...
Wesley also collected on-going lists of creative thoughts that he would refer back to in his writing. In this particular list, Wesley was collecting similes for "white". This is a culmination of several "white" lists, and there are many others like it. Here's a sample:
As white as a virgin’s front teeth
As white as Siberian snow
As white as the stars on a brand new American flag
As white as a sailor’s cap
As white as the blank page that stares at me now
As white as my ex-wife when I found her getting nailed by the handyman
As white as Ben Franklin’s hair
As white as a freshly pressed hospital gown
As white as pure cocaine extracted from the hand of a dead Colombian
As white as the walls at Bellevue, recently painted
As white as that actor's teeth
As white as unfettered taffy
As white as a virgin’s front teeth
As white as Siberian snow
As white as the stars on a brand new American flag
As white as a sailor’s cap
As white as the blank page that stares at me now
As white as my ex-wife when I found her getting nailed by the handyman
As white as Ben Franklin’s hair
As white as a freshly pressed hospital gown
As white as pure cocaine extracted from the hand of a dead Colombian
As white as the walls at Bellevue, recently painted
As white as that actor's teeth
As white as unfettered taffy
Dumont, Oct. 8, 1988
This is a classic example of a Wesley Dumont short story. Not necessarily his best, but a classic example. There are hundreds of these, each interesting and insightful in its on way.
Frank woke early at the shelter grabbed his various bags and headed out. It was a bright fall morning, the sun just beginning its accent over the east side of Manhattan, the pale glow casting just enough light to bring a smile to Frank's cracked face. Sitting on a bench near the hospital, the sun all around, he rummaged through his bag and found a section of the New York Times he hadn't read from the day before. In the lifestyle section was a review of a book, a memior of a woman that had suffered from terrible depression her whole life. The book discussed her fear and remorse, emotions that were so bad she often found it difficult to get out of bed.
Frank wished he could have been there to help. Obviously the woman needed company. And throughout his life, Frank has needed a bed. At the end of the day, isn't that what love is all about?
Frank woke early at the shelter grabbed his various bags and headed out. It was a bright fall morning, the sun just beginning its accent over the east side of Manhattan, the pale glow casting just enough light to bring a smile to Frank's cracked face. Sitting on a bench near the hospital, the sun all around, he rummaged through his bag and found a section of the New York Times he hadn't read from the day before. In the lifestyle section was a review of a book, a memior of a woman that had suffered from terrible depression her whole life. The book discussed her fear and remorse, emotions that were so bad she often found it difficult to get out of bed.
Frank wished he could have been there to help. Obviously the woman needed company. And throughout his life, Frank has needed a bed. At the end of the day, isn't that what love is all about?
Wesley Dumont - His History
Welcome. In the coming months or years, I will be sharing some of the found writings of Wesley Dumont, a nearly homeless man that lived in the basement of my building in New York for a number of years.
Wesley Dumont died on November 2, 2002. He was 85 years old. Born on October 15, 1917 in Paris, France, Wesley was the son of a Frenchman and an American Red Cross worker. On the day he was born, Mata Hari, the archetype of the seductive female spy, was executed for espionage by a French firing squad at Vincennes outside of Paris. Wesley would boast that this the omen for his luck with women.
I first came to know Wesley Dumont in the summer of 1994 in New York City. He was a regular at a bar in Hell's Kitchen that I would frequent as well. Although I was many years younger than Wesley, we struck up a casual drinking relationship almost immediately and he filled many an afternoon with the sort of stories that went perfect with my thirst for beer. As a young writer new to New York City, I loved listening to his stories. They were so rich in imagery I could almost taste them. Stories that spanned generations. Stories about the whole world. About love and loss. About war. About drink. About the power and the shortcomings of the American spirit. About women. And certainly a lot about writing and story telling in general.
I don't want to suggest that Wesley and I were the best of friends. We certainly spent a good many hours together, especially in those first several years. But the sixty years of age difference certainly kept us from hanging out on any sort of regular basis. I mostly saw him at the bars in Hell's Kitchen, or in the neighborhood. In fact, there were several years in the latter part of the 90s that I rarely saw Wesley at all, and when I did, he barely recognized me. By that time I had put the dreams of becoming a writer off to the side in exchange for a career in advertising. With that I set aside the nightmarish image of the lonely writer sitting in the dark in front of a blank page. I moved in with a girl and that was that. Marriage was on the horizon. But as fate would have it, all that changed and I hit a wall and decided it was fine time to tackle the midlife crisis before it set in. At only 30 years of age I found myself without a job, without the girl, and ultimately back in the bars of Hell's Kitchen rekindling my friendship with Wesley. I had also taken an apartment in the neighborhood that proved to be a pretty good dear rent-wise, and it came with a storage unit in the basement that some people would have paid up to $500 to live in. Wesley had fallen on some particularly hard times financially so I allowed him to sleep in the basement provided that he minded his own business and didn't let on to the landlord that he was sleeping down there. It didn't always go smoothly, but all in all, Wesley kept up his end of the bargain and came and went as he pleased. I was happy to have him around, and he was incredibly magnanimous, never over staying his welcome and always a gentleman. In his self deprecating way, he knew there was nothing sexy about having an elderly man in your single, New York lifestyle.
After nearly a year of living in my basement, Wesley left. He knocked on my door early on Saturday morning and announced that he had to go back to France to deal with some personal matters and that he might not be back. I remember I was incredibly hungover that day and wished I had had more of my mental capacities to inquire more about his trip and the reasons why he could not return. But just that quickly, he was gone. And true to his word, he didn't come back.
Several months had passed, and I went down into the basement to look into some things in had stored down there. It was the first time I had been down there since Wesley left. I was surprised to see that he had left a small suitcase of his belongings next to the small cot, neatly made, where he had slept for almost a year. I found what I was looking for (I forget what it was) and noticed that there was a small leak. Concerned about the well being of Wesley's suitcase and other personal effects, I took them upstairs for safe keeping, just in case Wesley did come back. I put them in a closet without another thought, and soon after, I forgot they were even there.
Thankfully things began to turn a corner for me personally and I was able to move on with my life. The hiccup of getting out of advertising and losing the girl was behind me and I took a job at a publishing house in Brooklyn. And I met a terrific girl, a beautiful librarian named Lilly and soon after we made plans to move in together in Park Slope. It was when I was moving out that I came across Wesley's things again. I suddenly found myself in a dilemma. What to do with Wesley's stuff? I was concerned that if he came back, he wouldn't know where to find me. I explained the situation to Lilly, and we agreed that the best plan of action would be to take his stuff with us and leave our forwarding address with the bartender at Wesley's favorite bar. Certainly Wesley would head back there immediately upon his return to New York City. So that's just what we did. Once we had finished packing the U-Haul truck full of my belongings, we stopped in to the bar for a pint, and I explained to Mike the Bartender my dilemma. I handed him my new address and phone number. Mike immediately tacked it to the wall behind him and off we went. Almost a year later I received a call from Mike. Wesley had passed away. That was all the information he had.
I had never opened any of Wesley's things. There were just some clothes in a trash bag, a cardboard box with some person effects, and a suitcase. But I decided to have a look. And what I found were thousands of pages of Wesley's stories, mostly short stories that have a beginning, but have no end. But in my view, that's exactly who Wesley was. And based on what I've read in Wesley's personal journals, I believe he would want me to share his words. Thus, The Found Writings Of Wesley Dumont.
Wesley Dumont died on November 2, 2002. He was 85 years old. Born on October 15, 1917 in Paris, France, Wesley was the son of a Frenchman and an American Red Cross worker. On the day he was born, Mata Hari, the archetype of the seductive female spy, was executed for espionage by a French firing squad at Vincennes outside of Paris. Wesley would boast that this the omen for his luck with women.
I first came to know Wesley Dumont in the summer of 1994 in New York City. He was a regular at a bar in Hell's Kitchen that I would frequent as well. Although I was many years younger than Wesley, we struck up a casual drinking relationship almost immediately and he filled many an afternoon with the sort of stories that went perfect with my thirst for beer. As a young writer new to New York City, I loved listening to his stories. They were so rich in imagery I could almost taste them. Stories that spanned generations. Stories about the whole world. About love and loss. About war. About drink. About the power and the shortcomings of the American spirit. About women. And certainly a lot about writing and story telling in general.
I don't want to suggest that Wesley and I were the best of friends. We certainly spent a good many hours together, especially in those first several years. But the sixty years of age difference certainly kept us from hanging out on any sort of regular basis. I mostly saw him at the bars in Hell's Kitchen, or in the neighborhood. In fact, there were several years in the latter part of the 90s that I rarely saw Wesley at all, and when I did, he barely recognized me. By that time I had put the dreams of becoming a writer off to the side in exchange for a career in advertising. With that I set aside the nightmarish image of the lonely writer sitting in the dark in front of a blank page. I moved in with a girl and that was that. Marriage was on the horizon. But as fate would have it, all that changed and I hit a wall and decided it was fine time to tackle the midlife crisis before it set in. At only 30 years of age I found myself without a job, without the girl, and ultimately back in the bars of Hell's Kitchen rekindling my friendship with Wesley. I had also taken an apartment in the neighborhood that proved to be a pretty good dear rent-wise, and it came with a storage unit in the basement that some people would have paid up to $500 to live in. Wesley had fallen on some particularly hard times financially so I allowed him to sleep in the basement provided that he minded his own business and didn't let on to the landlord that he was sleeping down there. It didn't always go smoothly, but all in all, Wesley kept up his end of the bargain and came and went as he pleased. I was happy to have him around, and he was incredibly magnanimous, never over staying his welcome and always a gentleman. In his self deprecating way, he knew there was nothing sexy about having an elderly man in your single, New York lifestyle.
After nearly a year of living in my basement, Wesley left. He knocked on my door early on Saturday morning and announced that he had to go back to France to deal with some personal matters and that he might not be back. I remember I was incredibly hungover that day and wished I had had more of my mental capacities to inquire more about his trip and the reasons why he could not return. But just that quickly, he was gone. And true to his word, he didn't come back.
Several months had passed, and I went down into the basement to look into some things in had stored down there. It was the first time I had been down there since Wesley left. I was surprised to see that he had left a small suitcase of his belongings next to the small cot, neatly made, where he had slept for almost a year. I found what I was looking for (I forget what it was) and noticed that there was a small leak. Concerned about the well being of Wesley's suitcase and other personal effects, I took them upstairs for safe keeping, just in case Wesley did come back. I put them in a closet without another thought, and soon after, I forgot they were even there.
Thankfully things began to turn a corner for me personally and I was able to move on with my life. The hiccup of getting out of advertising and losing the girl was behind me and I took a job at a publishing house in Brooklyn. And I met a terrific girl, a beautiful librarian named Lilly and soon after we made plans to move in together in Park Slope. It was when I was moving out that I came across Wesley's things again. I suddenly found myself in a dilemma. What to do with Wesley's stuff? I was concerned that if he came back, he wouldn't know where to find me. I explained the situation to Lilly, and we agreed that the best plan of action would be to take his stuff with us and leave our forwarding address with the bartender at Wesley's favorite bar. Certainly Wesley would head back there immediately upon his return to New York City. So that's just what we did. Once we had finished packing the U-Haul truck full of my belongings, we stopped in to the bar for a pint, and I explained to Mike the Bartender my dilemma. I handed him my new address and phone number. Mike immediately tacked it to the wall behind him and off we went. Almost a year later I received a call from Mike. Wesley had passed away. That was all the information he had.
I had never opened any of Wesley's things. There were just some clothes in a trash bag, a cardboard box with some person effects, and a suitcase. But I decided to have a look. And what I found were thousands of pages of Wesley's stories, mostly short stories that have a beginning, but have no end. But in my view, that's exactly who Wesley was. And based on what I've read in Wesley's personal journals, I believe he would want me to share his words. Thus, The Found Writings Of Wesley Dumont.
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