The Legend of the Naked
Cowboy
By
Robert John Burck
Introduction
The village of Greenhills is a greenbelt
community-trees surround it on all sides.
Growing up here always seemed safe and secure and the woods provided my
friends and I with countless things to get into. We built forts out of dead logs and buried them under pine
needles.We started huge fires in the garbage cans at the campgrounds.We fished,
ripped the claws off of crawdads, you name it, and we did it. Everything we did was unsupervised and that
made it all the more enjoyable.
My friend, Dan Nolan, and I probably
began to play together some time around the age of twelve. Dan and I both had older brothers who were
also friends. In fact, their
relationship is probably what brought the two of us together. Dan and I spent the majority of our time
together in the creek behind his house that separated the Park Road from a fair
stretch of woods. We would pretend we
were lumberjacks and would scale trees and anything else we thought lumberjacks
would do. Dan’s older brother, Sean,
was a real lumberjack though. He would
go out into the woods, not only with my brother, but also by himself. He’d go out in the middle of the night! He wasn’t scared of anything, and he could
climb any tree in no time. He made all
sorts of incredible stuff too. I swear
he could build a log cabin in an hour.
One that would look like the real thing, and he was the luckiest guy I
knew. He found arrowheads all the
time. Real arrowheads and spear heads
too. I’m talking about the actual ones
the Indians used many years ago. We
would just be walking through the creek bed and wham, he’d have another
one. I looked every time I went to the
creek until I was exhausted from looking, and he told me the same thing every
time. “You won’t find one if your
looking for it.” Well I can tell you I
never found one despite looking my entire childhood. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I spent forty percent
of my youth, on my hands and knees, digging through rocks and gravel,
desperately trying to find a damn arrowhead.
When
I graduated from Greenhills High School I immediately attended a small
community college - Raymond Walters. I
took all sorts of general courses that one usually is required to take in their
first two years of college. In my
second year I found myself in a geology course that proved to be a lot of
fun. We went on all sorts of little
“digs” where we would search through different layers of geological time in and
around the city of Cincinnati. We also
had independent projects that we had to do from time to time outside of
class. On one such project I found
myself back in the old familiar creek bed that I spent so much time in as a
kid. I never once thought about
arrowheads as I searched for several different fossils that were depicted in my
textbook that I had brought with me. I
hadn’t been in the creek bed more than five minutes, in an area I knew like the
back of my hand, when I looked down and picked up the first colored piece of
nothing that I saw. It was an
arrowhead. I couldn’t believe it! I instantly thought about how Dan’s brother
Sean always told me that I’d never find one if I was looking for one and he was
so right. Well, I spent the rest of the
day looking for another one anyway. I
never have found a second one.
Chapter 1
The Illusion
It was July of ninety-seven. I was basking in the California sun in the
Palm Springs desert. Believe it or not
I was working diligently on my “Hollywood movie career.” At least that’s what I
call it, and since I live exclusively in my own reality, that’s what it
was. A good friend, and at the time,
actively involved theatrical agent, Sid Craig was hosting my little brother and
I to a weekend in paradise. I had won a
contest in my hometown, Cincinnati, from a local radio station that got my
brother and I on a hit T.V. series, “Baywatch.” I went with the expectation of getting a lead role as a lifeguard
but we served simply as extras for about two and one third second. Sid, whom I had met several years ago in
previous travels to California, had invited me and my brother to extend our
two-day trip into a week, and furnished us with a Hollywood studio apartment, a
car, food, and a Palm Springs get away.
Not uncommon for me as I have always found it difficult not to have such
amenities where ever I travel. Reason,
well, I’m a most grateful guest who makes it a point to be a professionally
trained, inspiring-as-all-hell representative of the human race. Do you doubt me, well then, have me
over. Anyway, we were pool side and
Sid, who sympathizes with my long range goals for Stardom leaned over towards
me on his raft and said, “Robert, have you ever considered taking some singing
lessons to develop your speaking voice?”
My little bro and I had a most enjoyable
time and as I can remember, it was probably the most time I’d ever spent with
him. It was a bonding experience that
will last a lifetime, making the trip three times as constructive as would have
been otherwise. I know now- as I did
then, that I created a wonderful sequence of memories and motivations in the
life of Sid Craig and my brother, while learning, as I constantly do, what it
takes to be a “star in my own life” as Sid once told me I was.
Upon returning to Cincinnati, I
re-evaluated my long term and short term priorities. It’s something I do
daily. Like always, I had planned,
determined, accomplished and then wondered what the hell for. I know that I’m better for it. I know that
because I’m a stickler for growth and improvement I have created a new circle
and reference for my life and everyone else I had contact with. I also know that I have put another national
vibe of my personality across the cosmos.
I just want more and so I ask what is the next thing that must be done
to continue on towards my destiny as the “most celebrated entertainer of all
time"?
On August 9, 1997, I stepped into the
halls of Paul McCready’s voice studio.
He said I looked like an “action figure.” He had me do some la la la’s and some he he he’s as he
accompanied me on the piano. This was
to be an evaluation to determine if I had promise. He determined that I could be a good singer if I could make the
sounds he coaxed out of me on
purpose. I took that to mean that I had
the most incredible voice he’d ever heard and that I would make singing a
headlining career beginning at that moment.
We set up an appointment for my first official lesson and I sang at the
top of my lungs the whole way home with the radio- something I’d never ever
considered doing before. I guess I
never sang along with the radio cause I wasn’t planning to be a singer and it
would have been a waste of time.
After several hours of la la la’s and he
he he’s and now some added ooh ooh ooh’s at home for days on end with weekly
lessons, well,for one, I wanted more. I
went to my mother’s and got her beat-up old acoustic Yamaha guitar and began
strumming chords I’d learned from having a few guitars when I was probably
sixteen, maybe seventeen.At a time just before ,frequent juvenile court
appearances had forced me to sell them to pay fines. I got music from my father who I remembered singing old Neil
Diamond and Beatle songs and old time favorites while playing his guitar. He had the words with the chords printed
above them. I knew chords and I knew
the melodies and if I had the words, I knew all I’d need was practice. Very simple, anyone could do it. I took a leave of absence from Fridays where
I was waiting tables and learned the guitar to the extent I needed to. Over the next three weeks I practiced ten
hours a day. Day one through four were
very exhausting and frustrating.From then on I could sing and play at the same
time and was presentable enough to sing “Bobby McGhee,” by Janice Joplin, “Take
it Easy,” by the Eagles, “Little Pink Houses,” by John Mellancamp, “Simple
Man,” by Leonard Synard, “Maggie Mae,” by Rod Stewart, “Margaritaville,” by
Jimmy Buffet and “Friends in Low Places,” by Garth Brooks. It wasn’t my father’s music, so I had to get
the concept of singing and playing with his music and then transpose what I’d
learned to music I liked even more and felt would be more appropriate for me to
sing. That’s why it took me so long to
get a list of songs down, roughly forty hours.
Oh yeah, I sucked, but I could get through them and that was all I
needed for step two of the performance plan which was to go out and fuck up as
much as possible for as many people as possible to get good. I played for family members, gas station
attendants, fast food and convenient store patrons and workers. I went back to work at Fridays and played
for co-workers and guests. I exhausted
the ears of countless people, some of whom I knew. Every time I sang, everyone looked down. No one seemed to be comfortable with the
fact that I was horrible and didn’t care.
I kept telling them, don’t feel bad, I was even worse than this! Two months had passed since I began my first
singing lesson with Paul and unlike everyone else, Paul said that if I sang for
a decision maker in Nashville, “I probably wouldn’t be thrown out of the
office.” I took that to mean that I
needed to transfer to a Fridays in Nashville and display my vocal talents with
the cover tunes I’d learned to as many Nashville decision makers as I could
find. Nashville incidentally came into
mind as a result of a friend who worked at Fridays with me who constantly raved
about going there to be a famous singer.
It sounded plausible and since she’d never followed through, I
considered her role to be a spiritual guide telling me to go immediately.
My love life consisted of a princess
named Mindy, who had for over four years then toughed out every act of
disrespect, dishonor and failure a headstrong egomaniac could put forth. She, much to my resistance, was becoming my
foundation for the strength I believed would only come as a result of the fame
I am destined to master.
I told everyone I knew, and no one was
surprised, that I would be leaving for Nashville to be a famous country singer
the following day. It was October 27,
1997. I’d already been geared up for
some weeks in cowboy hats and boots and at least by appearance, I looked like
the coolest thing to hit the fan since shit.
I remember writing words for what I conceptualized as being a possible
song called “Going to Nashville,” the night before leaving. I also remember my neighbor, Dan, who I
hadn’t seen in a while, saying as I ran past him towards my car to leave for
Nashville, “Robert, you can’t just put on a cowboy hat and boots, grab a guitar
and go to Nashville and be a famous singer.”
I left anyway.
Chapter 2
The First Time I Wore
Underwear
It was cold and dark the night I
first arrived in Nashville, October 28, 1997.
I pulled off the interstate and took an exit that sounded like
“mid-city.” First guy I saw I pulled
over and asked if he knew where I could find a TGI Fridays. Five minutes later I was in my new work
place talking with the general manager, Ali, and the following day I began work
after spending two hours filling out all of their work manuals. I mingled and networked through the servers
and after two days of sleeping in motels just outside of town I began staying
at another server, Mark Donnelly’s, apartment.
He was cool and lived only two or three miles outside of work. His apartment served as a haven for many of
the servers who just sort of hung out over there smoking pot and drinking and
doing what a lot of people I’ve met over the years do after work, nothing. I worked out each day at the Centennial Park
Sports Complex and went out all through the day learning my way around and
asking questions. I found out about the
“singer/songwriting sessions” that went on somewhere in or around the city
every night. Everyone I met knew someone who knew someone who could easily make
me a “star” over night. This is just
another way of saying they all knew I was obviously a “star” and that with
their “limited” to “absolute no” experience, could get me to where I already
was. I got grounded at Fridays and made
certain that everyone I met knew me as what I sought to accomplish. Jogging through Centennial Park at the
week’s culmination I ran across a man sitting on a park bench with his acoustic
guitar. I stopped and asked him point
blank, “how can I become a famous country singer?” He just looked at me seriously and said “to be a singer, you’ve
got to have a real fire in your belly.”
He mentioned that the average staying time in Nashville was “seven
years” for success, and that was contingent upon finding a reputable songwriter
who would give you his/her songs to perform.
Hence the reason that Nashville is a “songwriting town.” It’s all about the songs and who’s lucky
enough to sing them. Tenacity and
networking and fitting into the clique. Everyone could sing. Oh, except
me. Which left me with nothing but a
preponderance of determination. I
decided that the discussion meant that I needed to go home, write my own damn
songs, learn to sing and perform them, and come back as what I would call a
“complete package.” The only place I could see spending the next seven years
was at home with my baby, Mindy.
The night before my departure from
Nashville I went to a karaoke bar with Mark and some of his friends. Looking like a total star, as I usually do,
I graced the room being continually approached by onlookers who asked, “are you
going to sing?” No one could wait. When I was finally called up to sing, I was
drunk and bombed like hell. The song
wasn’t even in my range if I could sing.
Everyone told me I did fine, but I can assure you, it was sympathy. I was excited as all hell though, and tried
to sign up again but it was too late. I
thought, I knew what I’d done wrong and could fix it all up. Anyway, I just wanted to sing for a crowd without
nerves, and I did that. I couldn’t have
given two shits, really, what it sounded like.
I’d done what I’d sought to do.
When we got back to the apartment that night I wrote and put music to my
first song “Closed my Line.” It was
about coming home to the one I loved and it only took about twenty minutes to
put together, completely. Easiest thing
I’d ever done. I knew I could write
songs too.
I got home and went to Mindy’s apartment
first thing. She lived in the same
small town as me now and when arriving home from any sort of long separation,
we’d live in perfect unity and love for at least a couple of days before
“goal-oriented fever” would set in. At
least that’s how I put it. Actually I
was still, just being so damn determined to make some sort of amazing example
for the world to emulate, that I ignored the one closest to my heart. I wrote twenty-five songs over the next
thirty days and had them ready to be performed. I found that to be something at which I am a natural-
performing. Most everyone I’d seen sing
would close their eyes and go into their own world. I make up stories and then tell them to my audience. They might not sound good, but I’m thinking
entertainment, and entertainment is really about communicating, and
communicating is mostly visual. All
along I was thinking, hey, if I got cool stories, and look cool telling them,
people will like them. I guessed radio
would be a problem I’d deal with later.
So I went out and bought a sound system
to perform with. I made sure it was
grand enough to perform at a major sports coliseum so that I wouldn’t have to
come back and go through the shopping procedure again. I booked myself in every bar surrounding my
hometown that would let me in. It was
easy! Every club I visited said, “we’d
love to have you.” They assigned me a
date and I showed up. Sporadically
family and friends came to see me, and Mindy came every time. Then the problem occurred. I showed up and I sucked. I performed at the “Wooden Horse,” “De Je Vu
Lounge,” “Little Ditty’s,” “Back Door,” “Back Porch,” and “Bombay Bicycle
Club,” once! At most of them I only got in one set before being asked to get
out. The manager at the “Bombay” was
really nice; the rest were like pissed off at me. I did get much better though through the process. I learned by going straight into battle how
to fight, and, that again, was my objective.
I took my hard earned experience and flew
to Venice Beach on December 23, 1998. I
had made arrangements with a friend, Charles Worthington, to stay at his place
in Hollywood. He took me to and from
the airport and gave me rides to Venice Beach each day. He was the photographer who shot me in
Playgirl Magazine, on a previous California trip. I wanted to get to Venice Beach because I knew I could perform
for an audience each day without being told to leave, and I knew that I could
experiment and determine what I could do to make people pay attention and like
me for God sakes. I performed on
December 24, 1998 for over six hours in jeans, boots, hat, and loosely fitting
flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off.
I made one dollar and two cents.
The dollar was thrown in by an elderly lady who clearly felt sorry for
me, and the two cents was thrown at me.
When Charles picked me up after day one, he realized that I was a beaten
man and told me not to give up. He
suggested that I try something different like “hell, Robert, play in your
underwear,” laughing, “that’ll make em’ stop.”
The next morning I took the bus to the
Boardwalk. Charles said he would be down
to get me by five, which would give me a total of about eight hours. I first went to the “pit” to work out, you
know, “Muscle Beach,” then I went to perform.
Charles had said when I left that he would bring his camera down and get
some shots of me playing. Much to his
surprise when he got there I had a guitar case full of dollar bills as I sang,
danced and banged out tunes on the guitar in my cowboy boots, hat and
underwear. He laughed and smiled like a
satisfied old wise man and took a series of photos, as did hundreds of
on-lookers. This had been going on for
several hours. I got on the news and
was a big hit. Charles was so pleased. I remember being driven back to his home,
exhausted. He said, “Robert, you have passion, and that’s all it takes to be a
singer.” He then laughed again and
said, “my little naked cowboy".
See, I knew I could sing.
Chapter 3
Two months of straight closes at Fridays
as a waiter is enough to put anybody under.
Thankfully I’m not just anybody and it doesn’t bother me a bit. I’d been practicing like a madman each day
singing, and as a foundation for living, I work as hard at the gym every day,
period! I knew I wanted to return to
Nashville to give it another go with a better prepared version of what I’d only
taken as a spectator on my last trip out.
Mindy and I were living in love when I returned from Nashville only a
couple of months earlier, but that came to an end as I broke from my nightly
habit of ending up at her doorstep. I
really wanted to go there because it felt so much like home, but I just didn’t
practice six hours a day, get a good workout and work ten hours at the
restaurant when I did that. She didn’t
have a problem with me working so hard, I think I just felt guilty because I
wasn’t giving her the attention she deserved.
My foolishness created a pattern where we’d go out for two weeks, then
separate, without words most of the time, for two, sometimes more, weeks. I would pretend to myself that our four year
plus relationship wasn’t that important when in fact it was the only source of
connection I’ve ever really had to a fulfilled existence. The excuse I would use was that I had higher
obligations to humanity, which I humbly admit that I do, but she I somehow
consistently forgot was my favorite human.
March 1, 1998 came along and I was back
on my way to Nashville. I remember
driving down the interstate singing at the top of my lungs. I had made tapes of my twenty-five songs and
played them the whole way. I believed
as I do and always will that a star was on his way to make it big, real big.
I checked into Fridays again and then a
motel outside of town. My friend Mark,
who’d I’d stayed with last time out, had moved, making it too wacky to stay at
his place. I developed a routine from
the day I got there and spent nine doing it.
I worked at the restaurant each morning, then went to the Centennial
Sports Complex to work out, checked the paper listing I’d found for
“singer/songwriter night,” then camped out and waited for my turn to sing. Everything I had was in my car and at days
end I’d check into a motel , practice, jog, go to bed and do it again the
following day. Waiting to sing was a
long process that quickly became obviously ineffective. These “singer/songwriter night’s” hosted by
a different bar or club each night gave nobodies a chance to be somebody among
nobodies. You’d show up, put your name
on a list and wait till you were called.
I went to nine of them and saw damn near the same crowd of people each
night. The audience and the performers
were the same people for the most part and the people who’d been doing it the
longest, played first and left when they had had enough. I went dead last each night and played for
the host and the bartender, maybe two or three others who decided to get drunk
and couldn’t leave. I did play the
Bluebird, and that is a nice place. I
had an audience of maybe close to one hundred.
It was the last place I’d played.
I had gone there a week earlier and got my name on the list when they
told me that they were full that particular night. I felt that I was well received but again, even at a more
upscale, serious place, I don’t think the crowd consisted of anybody important. It was more than clear to me that the way to
become noticed in Nashville wasn’t by singing in these holes. In fact, I remember saying to myself that I
had as good a chance in Cincinnati, singing in my closet in my apartment. There, at least, I wouldn’t seem desperate,
or misguided. Well, maybe misguided.
Back in Cincinnati, I got back to the
drawing board. I wrote songs
twenty-five through fifty, worked out harder than ever, which of course, is
what drives one’s ability to operate at full capacity. I’d been promoted to the bar at Fridays and
was causing quite a stir there. The bar
manager was also my training partner at the gym from time to time and so he got
to know me as I was and not just as I was performing at work. I work hard at Fridays, but, I do things as
unstructured as imaginable. I never
really learned the corporate routines that drive the usual promotional
itinerary. Management, outside of my
friend, wanted a permanent, more conforming worker who would serve to keep the
bar staff looking like management hopefuls.
I just wasn’t the general manager’s suggested appointment and so my days
were numbered regardless of the job I did.
I did however still seek to prove to be a great worker and sought not to
disrupt a steady stream of attendance before taking off on any far reaching,
speculative ventures in distant lands.
Mindy and I were on again, off again, in
terms of our living arrangements and the time we spent together during this
period, however, off again was only a physical separation. I could never let Mindy out my heart despite
any claim to be self-sufficient and self managed for long.
On May 5, 1998 I got an idea. Hey, doesn’t the David Letterman Show tape
out on the streets in New York sometimes?
I wanted to get on the show and the “underwear thing” was on my
mind. I wasn’t working the next two
days and so I took a Greyhound to New York City late that evening. I arrived
the following morning. I bummed around
til 2:00 P.M., and then went over to the Ed Sullivan studio. I waited until the crowd gathered outside
and then got into my outfit. I had two
or three pictures taken and then security for the studio came to me and said,
“what the hell are you doing?” I told
them I was there for the Letterman show as was signified by the word
“Letterman,” airbrushed on my butt. I
was then told to “get my pants on and leave the area.” I went down to Times Square and did the same
thing. It was at that time that Times
Square security came to me and told me to “put on my pants and exit the
area.” I went back to Port Authority
and took another Greyhound home to Cincinnati.
Round trip, forty-six hours.
John Robert Burck came about on May 11,
1998. It was our first day in the T-Bam
studio. My brother Kenny, and friends
Rick Rieman, Kurt Meulenhard and Carl Shivener worked for eleven days putting
down the tracks and mixing our first C.D. which was called the “Small Town
Crusader.” Mindy shot the cover in
front of the Greenhills Branch Library giving it that small town look. We were so in love again, as was always the
case when I took the time to realize it.
The band and I had been practicing for some time in my brother’s
basement and I think we were all excited about making a C.D. We recorded in Todd Buck's basement and
probably prepared the best C.D. ever in light of the fact that we’d only
practiced for a period of weeks. We
also put it all down, the music, in about four hours. Several hours were spent mixing the tracks in addition to this,
but I’m confident in saying that no artist ever seriously intended to make a
finished product C.D. in four hours. I
had one thousand c.d.’s pressed and began giving them to everyone who
asked-even selling a couple. My brother
Kenny sold about fifty, which I thought, was incredible. My due date to become the “most celebrated
entertainer of all time” had lapsed by one day before receiving the one
thousand c.d.’s. I quickly made another
challenge. I would become the “most
celebrated entertainer of all time” in a year or less. That gave me another year, but now, the idea
of it seemed far less ridiculous. It’s
not about failing if I don’t make it. It’s
about setting a goal grand enough to ensure the maximum drive and effort to get
me flying, fast, in the direction I was committed to going.
I sent the C.D. with photos and cover
letters to every entertainment attorney, independent record label and major
record label listed in the “Recording Industry Source Book.” I was following a strategy I put together
from reading a number of books; “Everything You Need to Know to Make it in the
Music Business,” “Nashville’s UN-written Rules,” and “This Business of Music,”
none of which I know the authors cause
I threw the bastards out when I never heard anything from anybody. I took that to mean that the books were
ineffective. Kind of like the time I
went to my little brother’s house and the scale was in a thousand some odd
pieces on the floor. He’d been trying
to gain weight and claimed the “damn thing wasn’t giving him the results he was
looking for.” This sort of rationale, I
can assure you, works like a charm.
I’ve broken several scales, even ones in fine facilities, and I swear I
have put on some damn good weight over the years.
My next plan was much like the first
without the need for anybody’s assistance.
It was to get material, which I certainly had, but still to get
more. For me this means simply, to
create songs, and then to communicate them with awesome precision. Get noticed. I figured, hell, if I can’t find someone with the capacity to get
me famous over night, I’ll get famous over night by my own damn self. All I need is a vehicle. It was with this mind-set that I began
contemplating what had been effective in the past and what would more than
likely work now
Chapter 4
Opening the Floodgates
It was September 17, 1998 when I left
again for Hollywood. I had the
opportunity to shoot for a number of magazines through my photographer friend
Charles. It wasn’t only an opportunity
to shoot, but the opportunity to get to California with a purpose. When on a “get famous with shoe-string
resources” plan, it is always best not to leave unless you’ve got at least one
sure thing going. While traveling
through California, this time, I got several things accomplished. To begin, I shot for four magazines, though
I don’t know which ones they were and I’ve never seen a photo as of yet. I got paid several months later which is how
I know they were published. Models
rarely get paid before publication. All
photography was as usual, nude, but clean, and of course, solo. I also did a video which I believe was
called the “Wild World of Naked Sports.”
It was an experience to say the least.
Twelve grown heterosexual men, possibly one gay, shooting baskets,
kicking soccerballs, and running for miles at Dry Gulf Ranch in Camarillo, California. It was as hot as holy shit outside. The sun
was blasting. Every last one of us had
blood-shot eyes from the sunscreen and sweat dripping off our foreheads over
countless takes of ridiculously cheesy directing. It was only money I was working for, but, I learned a great deal
just by being present for an experience I’d not have had otherwise. It was twelve hours of work, two days
straight. I met close to twenty people
and have made meaningful contacts that I now have the opportunity to converse
with, and encourage, monthly. I’m
sure all of the guys were there for
money as well as they sought ,and still probably continue to seek to make some
sort of lasting career in the entertainment business.
More importantly, this trip to California
began to create for me a more identified association between myself and the
persona I’d only touched upon as of yet, the Naked Cowboy. While at Charles’ place, in Hollywood, I
went to the Boardwalk again, two days straight, before leaving. I performed as the Naked Cowboy both times
and made considerable money, under the circumstances, and got hundreds of
photos taken. I was recognized and
approached by many that knew me from the one time I’d done this before, a while
back. I made the decision then and
there, that if nothing was going gang-busters with “John Robert Burck” by the
years end having sent hundreds of press packets and CDs out, I’d be the Naked
Cowboy in “99!”
The universal laws, being as they are,
began to create a number of great opportunities for the Naked Cowboy. I declared, conceptualized, and so the cards
began to fall. I placed an ad in
Everybody’s News in Cincinnati. It
read, “John Robert Burck” appears as the Naked Cowboy, wearing hat, boots,
guitar and underwear.” The date was
October 23. 1998. The purpose, to state
my intentions in publication. I began
to play out with the band as the Naked Cowboy, but only briefly as I quickly
recognized that being in underwear took all of the focus off of the music. This made the performances, I feel, not
entertaining, but confusing. I also
quickly realized that the amount of people who seemed to be talking about the
Naked Cowboy was incredible. I sent
videos out to the national daytime talk shows and got on the Jenny Jones Show
in Chicago, first on November 13, 1998, then on December 6, 1998. I got then, an appearance on the Gong Show
in California on December 14, 1998. I
was received as a sort of “funny goober,” but I was received. I got national exposure, which, according to
the patent office in Washington, allowed me to use the “Naked Cowboy” in
commerce in all fifty states and abroad.
That trademarked my new persona.
Throughout this period, Jim Knippenburg, with the Cincinnati Enquirer,
wrote several articles about me as I updated him. I went to each and every local radio station, in underwear, and
got on the air singing and talking about my formulating ideas. I played in front of the Hustler store in
Cincinnati in the December snow and got on two local news channels as well as
the Trisha Macky Morning Show. It was
while being interviewed by her that I came to the realization, “hey, I could do
appearances like the one in front of Hustler anywhere in the country, even the
world.” My second C.D., titled, the “Naked Cowboy” was nearing completion and
so I began to formulate a strategy for getting around the country and
maximizing publicity/attention.
Home-life for me was very serious
throughout the end of the year. I was
working at Fridays for ten-hour shifts most nights. I competed in a natural bodybuilding show, the Natural Midwest
States, to fine-tune my physique, and I was practicing and writing songs like a
madman to improve my entertaining abilities.
I spent very little time with Mindy or my family with the belief that I
just had to honor my duty of making my dreams a reality. I would set the example without regard for
personal conveniences or comfort.
Sheepishly I ignored the fact that these were the most important
elements for making me a man capable of achieving the outcome I am destined to
fulfill. No, “it was work or pleasure
and I choose work.” I was held up and
supported by the size of my goals, the pace at which I was moving towards them,
and the constant and consistent recognition and encouragement I received from
everyone who filled my presence. Point
blank, if you work like a warrior, your results will be huge and everyone will
honor your progress and stamina.
Everyone will be encouraged, and you will make men proud by your level
of God-given responsibility to create original acts. Any application of circumstances that does not facilitate such a
scenario is foolish and mis-applied.
However, if you forget to care about the ones who clearly love and
support you the most, are you really honoring such a creed?
Chapter 5
The Tour
I had
made up my mind. I will leave today and
get famous. It was Tuesday, January 5,
1999. I wanted to get to California and
back with as many places as I could in between. I had an 8.5x11 map of the United States and a pretty good
sketched out map of the cities I thought I wanted to hit. I drove to Nashville, went into the Blue
Grass Inn, called the news and then went outside in front to play guitar in the
freezing cold for roughly forty minutes.
Many people came out of the neighboring shops but then went back in
because of the cold. I then went to
Fridays on Eliston Place, where I knew people from my previous trips to
Nashville. I called the news again and
played out front of Fridays. By the
time the general manager came out and told me I had to go, Channels Five and
Four interviewed me and so my first city was a success. I drove to Chatanooga immediately from
Nashville and didn’t get there until dinnertime. It was dark and cold. I
made quick friends with the people in a place called the Electric
Submarine.They called the news and I got a full interview, in depth, a free
meal and great news coverage. I stayed
at a Days Inn just outside of Atlanta that night and had a great workout in the
hotel owner’s personal free-weight exercise room. I went to bed positive and sure of success.
On
Wednesday I woke up and drove into Atlanta.
I found the city’s main Planet Hollywood and played out front until I
was told to leave by the manager. I
then did the same across the street in front of the Hard Rock Café. I then went on the opposite corner of both
that had and empty building in front of it until the police came and put me in
the back of their car while checking my license. I had every corner packed with people as they waited to see what
would happen to me. I was released and
told I needed a permit to play. I got
out, went all over town to check outs permits and found that it simply wasn’t a
ten-minute routine as the police had told me.
I went back to Hard Rock and started over again, this time simply not
playing the guitar but walking around.
The Channel 11-news team came out for which I did play. I was invited then, inside the Hard Rock
Café where I played on a mini-stage while patrons just stared. The general manager who was unaware of my
presence until that point then removed me from the restaurant. I drove to the outskirts of Jacksonville and
got a motel.
On
Thursday, I hit Jacksonville and got a fabulous response, the best yet. I was in the middle of the city and the
office buildings poured out with people who watched and took photos. Channel 3 covered me and then one policeman
out of fifty or so brought the event to a sudden halt. He was personally offended and acted
ridiculous. My job was complete though
and so I cooperated. People surrounded
me at the back of my car where I passed out remaining CDs, signed Fridays’
shirts, and Naked Cowboy Tour Guides. I
then drove and got kicked out of Daytona twice by the same officer. Then got on
the news without any problem in Orlando.
Previous trips to Miami allowed me the privilege of free accommodations
at a friend’s house near Southbeach where I crashed for the night.
I drove
to the city of Miami on Friday. It is a
huge city. I hadn't even been aware of
it’s existence. I hit a parking garage
and then came out as the Naked Cowboy with no planned place to begin. I just started walking down the busy streets
causing lots of attention as I searched for a place to play. I quickly had a cop on my back who called
the sergeant to decide on my “o.k.” or not.
When the sergeant did arrive, there were, at that point, some twenty
officers present and hoards of people.
The sergeant approached me. I
put out my hand and said, “hello, sir, I’m the Naked Cowboy.” He looked back and said, “no Naked Cowboy in
my town.” I was then escorted to my car
and made sure to leave the city. I then
drove three and one half-hours to Key West.
The longest, most boring piece of road I’d ever seen after the first ten
minutes. I played on the main drag on
the Keys for four solid hours. I got no
news coverage cause they have no news coverage. But I did get seen by thousands
of people who took photos, and the police could have cared less. I returned to my friend’s house in Miami and
slept well as I was tired as all hell from a very long day of boring driving.
Saturdays and Sundays, I found, weren’t good days for Naked Cowboy
tours. The cities are empty and no one
is around to react to anything. I drove
through the entire state of Florida and really couldn’t wait to get out. It all looked so much the same it began to
irritate me. I worked out hard over the
weekend in YMCA’s along the way and brushed up on my tan. I read like a crazy man and made lots of
calls home to give reports as to what was going on. I continued to live on canned-goods from the back seat as I had
been doing since my departure for Cincinnati.
When Sunday night came along I was just outside of Baton Rouge where I
slept at a rest stop reading my Anthony Robbins book “Unlimited Power.”
Journal
Entry on Sunday, January 10, 1999
1. How many people can I inspire
to achieve their goals by continually focusing and achieving mine?
2. How great will it be to know
beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only have I carved out the life that I was
committed to, but that I also served as a catalyst for others to do the
same. People that I truly love and care
deeply about? How many people will also
be inspired by these people and then their people? The processional effects of following, without hesitation, ones
dreams/destiny cannot be underestimated.
3. Every time the Naked Cowboy
succeeds, everyone whom I reach succeeds.
4. Not only does everyone who
sees me on the street get a laugh (positive state change), but countless
thousands of viewers of the news.
Everyone who knows my plans and expectations will be elevated by my
efforts. I can truly make a difference
each and every day.
5. People receive money,
affluence, success, assets, love and all that life has to offer, in proportion
to the service with which they provide for others. If I continue to focus solely on how much I can give, how much of
my God-given abilities can I accentuate?
How much can I unfold myself as the miracle that I am? If this is what makes life pleasurable to
me, what financially could I possibly be worried about? There is nothing that I won’t give to make
my life and what I stand for a manifest reality. It is a law then that I do have at my disposal; all that life has
to offer. Perhaps it might seem as though I don’t have “everything” I
could ever want, but currently, nothing is stopping me from giving. That’s what I want. Life is a process, a journey. As I go I will find ways to give more, to
reach more. Every resource I could ever
use to contribute on an international level is within me. What a feeling it is to know that the secret
of living is giving.
On
Monday, January 11, 1999 I drove to Baton Rouge and called Mindy. I’d been thinking of having her meet me in
California, via plane, and spending a week of the tour possibly with me along
the coast of California. She’d never
been to California and felt one, that she would love it, and two, that I would
love to have her with me. Kenny Beck, who
did my make-up on my previous trip to California, doing the video, would be in
Las Vegas working, and sent me the keys to his place in Hollywood. It was a great opportunity for Mindy and I
to escape together in the midst of what was becoming a long, lonely time
apart. While she thought about it, I
went into Baton Rouge and got news coverage from Channel 9 and Channel 2 in
front of the Downtown News building. I
then drove to Lafayette where I got the news again in front of a furniture
store. There it was Channel 3. I also got a newspaper interview before
being ushered out of town by the police.
I then drove to Beaumont Texas and got on the News, then to Houston
where I played for several hours, calling the news without success. Getting on the news in three cities in one
day still felt like failure as I reclined into a hotel room outside of
Houston. Mindy confirmed the trip to
California and I vowed to get Houston with a second attempt in the morning.
The
following day I got up real early and went back into Houston. It was Tuesday, January 12, 1999. Things went much better this time. The Houston Chronicle interviewed me; I was
covered by Channel 2 and two other channels that I was too busy to even bother
with. People came and watched in large
numbers and the police approached and then said I was doing nothing wrong. It was then that I found that my removal from
Lafayette was aired nationally on “Inside Edition” and that they had heard I
was coming. I left Houston for Austin
and got the news there, again, Channel 2.
I then drove all the damn way to San Antonio where the police told me to
leave the city or go to jail. I then
drove all the way to just outside of El Paso through countless hours of warm
desert. When I got to my hotel room I
called Mindy. We talked with excitement
about national coverage and about her coming out to California. She said that I was her inspiration and at
that point I again remembered why I do what I do and how I know I’m the man I
say I am.
On
Wednesday I got the news in El Paso, then I drove to the outskirts of
Phoenix. There I worked out for several
hours with some guy named Havier who owned the Toltec Inn and had a workout
facility in one of the rooms. I gave
him a copy of “Unlimited Development”- a fitness plan that I wrote several
years back-because he seemed committed enough to want to look like me. He said he’d give me free hotel rooms here
and there and whatever. I really needed
to hit the weights and just thought it was miraculous that I came across some,
wherever the hell I was.
The
Capital Building seemed a good spot to appear in Phoenix. I got the news and was then ushered over to
Dan Diego. Crowds of store owners
opening up told me that street performers were strictly prohibited as I
strolled, as the Naked Cowboy, down the streets. It was nice out and I got on the news. I told those I passed after my news interview, “sorry about the
no street performers thing.” I got to Kenneth Beck’s place in Hollywood that
night and slept like a baby after reading "Unlimited Power"for two
hours .
Friday
was my last day alone as the Naked Cowboy before Mindy would be with me for a
week. I did Pasadena and got no
press. I did however, get photos taken
with the Sergeant, and several officers.
They loved it and told me to come back later at night on the weekend
when the place was hopping. I went back
to Hollywood where I covered all of Hollywood Boulevard several times. The police let me pass when I gave them a
“Naked Cowboy Tour Guide.” He said as
he let me go, “I just had to make sure you weren’t a weirdo.” Wow, what does it take here? When Mindy arrived that evening, we first
went and unpacked her stuff at Ken’s, then we went to Pasadena to storm through
some big crowds on Colorado Boulevard.
We were almost killed there by some serious punks. They followed close behind me screaming
“faggot” and shit like that. We ate and
went back to Hollywood.
The week
in California with Mindy was like a little paradise. We shared every waking moment of it together though we did do
some work. Outside of performing on
Venice Beach and getting on the news in Hollywood and Santa Barbara, and
getting in the Los Angeles Times, we watched movies, ate, worked-out,
everything. We stayed at the Blue Sands
Hotel in Santa Barbara and had a pretend honeymoon together. We layed on the beaches along the Pacific
Coast Highway and shared many loving moments together. My hit song “Sex on the Beach in Santa
Barbara” was written during our time together.
The day I took her back to the airport was a long goodbye. We did goal-setting exercises at the
airport for a couple of hours before I left her there to catch her plane.
The
weekend after Mindy’s departure was spent with Ken. He went with me to Venice Beach and the Boardwalk while I
performed each day. We ate out together
, watched movies and just pretty much bull-shitted about the entertainment
business and what he knew of his end. I
got him working out with me in the mornings, something he’d not been doing, and
we hit if off like brothers. It was a
productive and enjoyable mix of working and learning about life.
Monday
began the real workweek and so after coffee with Ken, I was off for Las
Vegas. I drove across a real hot strip
of sand and arrived around noon. I
wasn’t in Las Vegas for more than fifteen minutes. I parked in front of the Stardust, called the news, got on the
news and lots of photos with “Naked Cowboy” cheering tourists and then was
quickly ushered to my car. “Hey, I’m
getting good at this.”
I drove then
back to Mesa Street in El Paso and got the same news coverage I had on the way
to California before stopping outside of Houston for a second appearance
there. The following morning I did
Houston again with no coverage, but, with swarms of people, who had seen me on
the news only a week or so ago, surrounding me. I gave out two hundred Naked Cowboy C.D.s that had finally been
delivered to Ken’s house in California just before leaving. I should have had this Naked Cowboy C.D.
before leaving Cincinnati in the first place, but, I kept getting excuses from
the replication group in New York.
People tried to give me money, and some did. I think I got like ninety dollars which a number of high school
girls collected for me by saying “donations?” They came out of nowhere and
wanted to help me out. It was
Tuesday. I had got a call from the
Jenny Jones’ Show letting me know that my second appearance would air that
day. “I love national exposure like you
just can’t believe.” I was then thrown
out of Texas prior to driving eight hundred and ninety miles. I
hit another motel and called Mindy before falling asleep exhausted. I did run however, I’m not a lazy ass.
The rest
of the trip was pretty much rained out.
I went to Little Rock, Arkansas, Memphis and lastly Nashville. I did however stop back at Fridays on
Eliston Place in Nashville to pass out the new CD to some old pals who seemed
happy to see me. I then bolted
home. It was Thursday, January 28, 1999
when I pulled back into Dewitt Street in Cincinnati. I immediately took a shower, and went to Mindy’s and went to bed.
The next
morning I started thinking about Washington D.C. I just felt that I should have somehow included it in the tour
and was feeling like I came home early.
I wanted to send a package with my C.D. in it to Bill Clinton after
hearing a radio evangelist blast on him and his administration on the way home
through Little Rock. I then started
thinking of publicity and got this idea to send the C.D. in a suspicious
looking package with a note reading, isn’t it time you heard the new Naked
Cowboy C.D.? Luckily I consulted a
friend who told me that nobody would think that was funny and that I would
spend lots of time behind bars with no coverage. So I drove to Washington to take Bill a C.D. in person on January
31, 1999. I quickly found out the
following day that you couldn’t just go up to the White House steps as I had
thought and so I went for a drive around Washington to find somewhere
better. I made a turn down Connecticut
and passed by two hundred or more TV cameras all facing the front door of the
Mayflower Hotel. It was media madness as every news team across the
United States was there to get a shot of Monica Lewinsky coming out of the
hotel. She was there to testify about
her relationship with the President. I
couldn’t believe it. I parked and ran
over to the Mac Donalds that was next door, went into the bathroom and
changed. I gave my clothes to the
cashier saying, “I might be back for these, I might not.” I then left and
walked right in front of the Mayflower’s entrance where I began to dance and
sing, “I’m the Naked Cowboy coming to a town near you.” I got Associated Press across the United States
and front pages of newspapers everywhere as well. I got news coverage worldwide on both local channels and
CNN. My photo on the front page of one
paper was held up on “Regis and Kathy Lee” the following morning by which time
I was at home in Cincinnati sleeping.
Now I felt that the trip had come to successful end.
Chapter 6
It wasn’t more than a day after being
home that I began feeling like a loser that needed to go out and do something
with my life. Thankfully I had gotten a
call from the Rick and Bubba Show in Birmingham Alabama. That got me out on the road again. Nashville was on the way so I stopped
there. I got thrown out of town as
usual and got on the news again. I
spoke to Mindy when I got to Birmingham, and due to some sort of lover’s
quarrel we got into prior to leaving, it hurt even more than usual to be away
from her.
The Rick and Bubba Show went great. They’d heard of me while I was touring the
country. They also happened to be the
judges who gonged me at the Jenny Jones’ talent show. I was well covered by the media in Birmingham and also in
Atlanta on the way home. I was passing
through when I heard that Bill Clinton would be in Atlanta for Hank Aaron’s
birthday party. I staked out the hotel
and appeared out front for cameras when I thought Bill’s limousine had
arrived. I got back to Cincinnati and
then left immediately for Washington D.C. to play on the Capital Building
steps. Turned out to be no big deal and
no one gave a shit.
I began to realize that the best success
I’d had since the beginning of all this hoopla came from going where the media
already happened to be, so I began to sit back and observe what was going on in
the world. Why go out and continue to
make something out of something that had already been covered and done. Just before this plan happened though, I
took a trip to NYC with five friends from Fridays in a limo to try and get on
the David Letterman Show again. No such
luck. Back to my better idea, I began
locally and then nationally. Beginning
in my hometown I began to appear at every news covered event I could find. I did all of the festivals, parades and
outdoor parties that occurred from February through May of 1999. I was banned from Tri-county mall; Cinergy
Field, Showcase Cinemas; the University of Cincinnati’s Campus, Newport
Acquarium, Ault Park and the Cincinnati Courthouse just to name a few. I was thrown out of the Indianapolis 500,
the Chicago MTV V.J. Contest, and was arrested and jailed for grand marshalling
the Kentucky Derby Parade, unexpectedly.
My friend Jim Knippenburg, with the Cincinnati Enquirer, covered a lot
of the details following me in the paper, and local and syndicated radio shows
accepted me every time I came to their stations which was fairly
frequently. I worked at Fridays
part-time throughout the entire period between February and May picking up
shifts when I wanted to. They were very
flexible that way for me which is why I continue to work there despite offers
to work similar jobs in the local area offering more money for my novelty. Mindy moved into my apartment at the
beginning of May, I think it was the ninth or so, and then her parents pulled
up in a U-haul, moving her out on the sixteenth of the same month. She claimed I was dangerous and that I
didn’t want her there. I only recall
working on my career and wondering what the U-haul was doing in the front
yard. The fact that we’d not talked for
two days, to me, was not anything out of the usual. I didn’t think so at the time anyway. In retrospect I know that I’d become the possessed maniac I often
become when I loose sight of the river, jumping rock to rock up stream, with my
raft in hand. I finished my third C.D.
titled “Naked Cowboy, again" on the seventeenth and decided that I wanted
to do another tour. This one, I decided
had to include Mindy.
Chapter 7
Round Two
On June 11, 1999 I left home, this time
with Mindy, for another trip across the United States. She had been talking for some time about
finding a job with travel and I wanted to give her one. One without a paycheck, initially. We went straight to Nashville and I was in a
police car with news coverage within fifteen minutes of parking. I was driven back to my car where Mindy had
ended up as well. Birmingham was our
night out at the Quality Inn that was being provided by the Rick and Bubba
Show. I was singing the National Anthem
at a Rick and Bubba softball game the following night. When I got up to sing and they had me stroll
down the ball field to home plate where all the players were lined up in two
rows with their hands on their hearts, nobody could keep from bursting out in
laugher.
Mindy and I then drove to Nashville again
where we bought Fan Fair tickets from a scalper for the following day. We went in normal, in clothes, then I went
up to the center stage as the Naked Cowboy and danced around till the police
hauled me off. I took probably fifty
photos with people before the police could even get to the crowd surrounding
me. We did Atlanta the following
morning and spent the afternoon getting the engine put back in my car after it
fell out at a stop sign in the ghetto.
Several hours, and four hundred dollars later, we left Atlanta for
Birmingham again. Mindy took a nap and
I drove four hundred miles east to Birmingham.
Yep, I went east, the wrong way.
Mindy took over the driving at that point while I wrote in my journal.
Journal
Entry
My
current goal is to create the Naked Cowboy as a multi-billion dollar industry,
merchandising comics, music, photos, clothing, and anything and everything else
imaginable that can bear the Naked Cowboy’s likeness and meaning,
“determination.” I want to feel
satisfied with each day’s efforts because I feel deep in my heart and soul that
I did more than any other entertainer alive did! I’m going to know that I went the distance and made the
difference. I want to feel my
unequalled level of determination in everything that I do. I want to be more ripped, built and
disciplined than anyone. I want to
feel, be and create these things because I know that God made me to do it. I want to be a communicator. I want to withstand my particular
fight. To continually know and feel and
cherish my unquestioned commitment to be the most famous man to ever live, love
and enjoy this reign on Earth. I want to
constantly hear the constant flood of compliments and the history of how the
Naked Cowboy rose, rises and will continually stride towards being the most
celebrated entertainer of all time. I
want to be the most beautiful man alive.
I want an image so strong that no one can deny me on sight. I want to appear as a star at all
times. An absolute, unquestioned super star
at all times. I want to be looked upon
as the man that was unstoppable. The
man that was determined to go the distance like no other. I want to look this way because God made me
to look just this way. I want everyone
alive to know that the Naked Cowboy is a loving man who had given them the
finest model of the “Ultimate Success Formula” ever purposely created. I want my example and position as a role
model to positively influence Humanity.
Finishing my writing I looked up to see
that Atlanta signs were beginning to appear again. Mindy had backtracked us to where I screwed up and went the wrong
way. Leaving the highway in Atlanta for
gas the car again broke down on the exit ramp.
We pushed the car to a garage, walked to a hotel that was way out of the
budget, and I thought to myself the whole damn way-" How am I supposed to
believe all that shit I just wrote down when this happens?”
Over the next three days we appeared in
Birmingham, Baton Rouge, Lafayette, Louisiana, and Houston. We got multiple news coverage in each city. I was handcuffed only once, and released to
play freely in every city. It was like,
O.K. now to be out in public in your underwear playing guitar and calling
yourself the Naked Cowboy. Still, we
were approaching our fifth day of driving over ten hours a day and so we were
getting a bit restless. Hotel-to-hotel
living requires a great deal of discipline, especially if you are running, and
doing push-ups, sit-ups, back-pulls and free-squats both morning and
night. It was ironic, on Friday
afternoon we decided to take some time off for ourselves. We stopped along a very hot, desert road at
a wild life preserve. It was outside
the desert somehow. Very green, with
lakes and ponds. A picture perfect
place to work on suntans after a long week’s work. We found a secluded deck over a peaceful blue lake at the end of
a very long and winding dirt road without seeing a soul. We put on our swimsuits and lay in the
sun. Five minutes later a park ranger
told us we had to leave because the preserve was not open to the public. We got back in the car and I drove another
four hundred miles.
Our entire weekend was spent in the one
hundred degrees, plus, desert. We had a
lot of road to cover through El Paso, Benson, Tucson, Phoenix, Needles and
lastly Las Vegas. Vegas was the “kick
off the week with a good one,” city. I
played for just under three hours straight in the windiest bull shit weather
imaginable. No news coverage, but
thousands of photos taken away by tourists to every corner of the world. I called Charles Worthington, a friend in
California, on cell phone, who navigated us to his place in Hollywood. We stayed at Charles’ place, worked out in
an actual workout facility and sat in a Jacuzzi for several hours. It was an awesome time of recovery and peace
though it only lasted for about fourteen hours, including sleep. Hell yeah, we were up the following morning
and on the Pacific Coast Highway by seven a.m.
We drove to just outside of San Francisco and even stopped several times
along the way to eat, and play on the beaches.
The water was cold but bearable, and Mindy and I were becoming closer
than ever as we fought to make a successfully moving, physically and mentally
exhausting trip across the United States together without killing each
other. We stayed at -otel that
night. That’s what a motel goes by when
the first letter burns out.
Wednesday, June 23, 1999 was the Naked
Cowboy’s first appearance on Market Street, or anywhere in San Francisco for
that matter, ever, in his whole life.
New experiences are just one of the many great benefits of my work. The city was like none I’d ever been
in. Very pretty, clean, and hell, I
don’t know, it just looked cool. I
didn’t get any coverage but I did get a flowerpot thrown out of a window at
me. Missed by a few inches. Would have killed me. Can’t please everybody. Mindy wasn’t feeling well and was making
calls home to her doctor to get a prescription so I spent most of the time, roughly
three hours, wandering the heavily peopled streets by myself. The following day we got great news coverage
in Reno, Nevada, and Friday we got four news channels in Salt Lake City. I had done phone interviews with the Gary
Burbank Show, Rick and Bubba in Birmingham, and several others, all of which
told me that Salt Lake City would be a bust because of it’s strong religious
affiliations. Just the opposite was
true. They loved it, and ate it up like
no other city to date. I never even saw
a police officer despite the fact that Mindy and I, between my climbing up on
landscaping and singing, and her passing out hundreds of Naked Cowboy fliers,
caused non-stop commotion for over two hours.
Mindy and I had exciting plans for the
weekend. My good friend Bill, who lives
back in Cincinnati, had a meeting scheduled at the Beaver Creek Resort in
Colorado for the weekend. Well, Mindy
and I made it a point to be there as well.
Ten dollars got our car parked, and we stayed with Bill at the Embassy
Suites. Swimming, feeding horses, lying
out in the hot sun, eating out, and whirl pools were the agenda for the
duration of the weekend. Oh, and of
course, working out like a tri-athlete in the hotel’s weight room. Roughly seven thousand miles behind us, it
was a nice break from the action. In
fact, being with Mindy anywhere, after the workday is done, is like a
honeymoon.
The last three days of our journey was
not much different from the majority of the first seventeen. We drove city to city trying to get on the
news by simply showing up in the middle of each visited city as the Naked
Cowboy and causing a stir. Mindy and I
were both homesick now and our fuses were short. I wanted a fabulous outburst of enthusiasm when she made her
calls to the various cities’ news desks, and I think she just wasn’t into it
any more. Really though, I felt like I
should have been doing it all along and was kicking myself for entrusting any
part of anything to anybody. See what I
mean, the fuses were getting short. We
were completely ignored in Denver, got the news in Kansas City, and got news
all over the country with the appearance on Monument Square in
Indianapolis. We pulled into Cincinnati
on Wednesday, twenty days after leaving home in the first place. I dropped Mindy off at her mother’s house
and went to perform at the Q102 Party in the Park at Cincinnati’s Sawyer
Point. I just wasn’t tired yet. That night, and the following, we rested and
lived as the closest couple in the world, ironically, as we are destined to be.
On July 3, 1999, we left again for
Washington D.C. A quick ten hour drive
to grand marshal the Nations July 4th Parade.
Of course no one knew we were coming but us, but what difference does
that make? What’s seven hundred miles
when you just drove over eight thousand.
It was well over one hundred degrees, this time with humidity. Did I mention my 1984, BMW, 318I doesn’t
have air-conditioning. It was hot as
holy shit. On the Fourth, we stood in
front of the National Archives building where the parade was to begin at 11:00
a.m. and we both were just drenched with sweat. Speeches were being made in respect to our nation and the
celebrated parade that was about to begin as I disrobed. “Mr Moody and ladies and gentlemen,” the
announcer spoke. Mindy looked at me as
I stood a foot above the crowd and said, “is he talking to you?”
When the parade began, I strolled out in
front of it, singing and dancing as I do.
No one batted an eye outside of what you’d expect to see at a parade. Two-hundred yards later I was met by two
policemen that eased their way to the center with me and led me to one side
where the crowds were gathered. They
told me to stay away. I went down
through the crowds a few blocks and then returned to the front of the
parade. I was led out three times
before passing the booth where a female narrator of sorts, reported live, what
was happening in the parade for a televised audience. When I passed she said, “and here we have, ,, the Naked
Cowboy. Some people know how to keep
cool.” This still seemed like total
bullshit cause it was over one-hundred degrees and I was sweating
profusely. Once passed this point,
Mindy and I went back to the car and returned to Cincinnati. It was a very, very long drive under the
conditions of a heat advisory. The
second tour was over. What next, was
not yet defined, but developing? I was
glad to have closure and anxious to see what might develop as a result of so
much action taken.
Chapter 8
The Way I Am
Over the next month or so, I just stayed
local. I worked almost every night at
Fridays, and Mindy was still living at her mother’s, maybe her friends. I went to all of the main events that
occurred in Cincinnati, St. Rita’s Festival, the WEBN fireworks, Seafood
Festival, Jazz Festival, Shutzenfest.
I’m telling you, if there was more than a thousand people there, there
was also a guy playing guitar in his underwear while singing through the
crowds. My financial situation had
grown to just over three thousand dollars debt, now, on two different credit
cards, which was, of course, why I was working as many shifts as I could pick
up, careful not to interfere with my Naked Cowboy schedule. I was vowing not to leave town on anything
speculative without the money to pay for it so I was beginning to feel
constrained, but in that situation, I began to work harder and harder to create
some new options. It may also be that
when I work like a crazed maniac, I get to look so ripped and determined, I
just feel unstoppable to the point of having no worries. Working harder has always tended to
monopolize my time since for me working harder means from before sun-up, till
way, way after sundown. I take no
amenities, no laxity in diet or exercise regimen and no down time. Down time is any time where I’m not doing
something directly related to be being a one hundred percent bad ass, even if
that means just being out in public with a cool outfit on and reinforcing my
sense of confidence. I forget often times that there is a whole other layer of
life outside the realm of eating, breathing, drinking and working
perfection. You know, like a family
that surrounds me with the only constraints of a few minutes, or a loved one
only in the next room. I often times
confuse being perfect(hardest working) with being selfish. I think I’m working around the clock solely
for the sake of creating amazing feats of creativity and focus, but then
suddenly I realize that I am out of focus and simply pushing everything
imaginable that means anything out while I hide behind feelings of
inadequacy. I persist and work with
levels of determination that are simply unimaginable in order to legitimate my
worth. I literally reinvent myself when
I get tired of beating up the guy I can be for sometimes less than a week. Mindy sometimes retreats, and I let her
cause deep down I know she understands I am always trying to improve, and it’s
just something people need to evaluate for themselves at times in order to
really make progress. My love for her
doesn’t decline when I’m respecting my inner reclusive child. It’s just scared of the security that she
represents for me.
Chapter 9
You're Invited
Mindy had her pillows all fluffed up and
positioned under her just so before our drive began for Minneapolis. I drove us eleven hours and it was
pleasant. We stayed in Kenosha,
Wisconsin at a Knights Inn that was paid for by the Dark Star radio
program. We both had crusted sea bass
and a romantic evening in a very nice, clean environment with movies. It was arranged the way it should be for a
star. I go into the hotel, a fine
hotel, say my name at the reception desk and I’m instantly helped and escorted
to my room. The whole experience is
really humbling. They don’t know that
I’m really still at the bottom. They
just know that I’m here with the local radio program, I’m all paid, whatever I
want, and I look and sound important. Frankly,
I really don’t need all the attention.
The following morning, we went across the
street to the radio station. You see
everything is easy when you’re invited.
The personnel were very nice and so we waited and talked before taking a
shuttle bus to the Minnesota State Fair.
We were ushered into a booth from the rear where the program was
broadcast live and Dark Star introduced me.
I went out, talked with him for a minute about what I thought I was
doing with my life then he had me sing a song.
I stood before a crowd of fifty to one hundred people who upon
completion of a full song, singing, and really moving, just stared without
making a sound. I let the crowd know
that it was all right. They could clap
if they wanted. I talked with Dark
again and they laughed at everything I said, as I was being completely
serious. I sang two more songs, as the
crowd remained completely silent. They
weren’t being hateful; they just didn’t seem to know what to think. I said it then and I’ll say it now, if Elvis
Presley were there doing the same exact thing, having never done what he’d
already done, he’d have gotten the same response. My outfit is astonishing, my deliverance is very energetic, I
sound presentable, but I’m not like anything you’ve ever seen before.
Mindy and I left immediately after my
part on the program and I took us to Chicago.
I simply will not go that far away from home without stopping for any
and all good publicity attempts. We
parked in a public garage, called the media repeatedly, and I sang and danced
on the busiest street we could find in Chicago. Twenty minutes later I was picked up by the Chicago Police Paddy
Wagon and carted to the police station.
When I got there Mindy was right behind me. She forced the officer to bring her along also because I hadn’t
given her the car key yet and she’d have been stranded without knowing what was
going on. I signed autographs at the
Chicago Police Station for about an hour as a citation was written. The chief came in laughing and holding up a
pair of underwear and asking Mindy if she’d like to try them on. It was a big joke to them, they even
apologized and let Mindy and I go back to the car in the paddy wagon. I was told by two officers that the ticket
was just a formality, and to ignore the appearance in court. “This will get lost in administration. You don’t need to worry about it,” is
exactly what the officers told me.
Meanwhile Mindy was all excited about getting to drive in the paddy
wagon as she exclaimed, “hey I’ve never been in one of these.” I told her, “hey, stick with me, you’ll go
places.”
The next place she went was Birmingham,
Alabama for the Rick and Bubba Fat Fest.
It was September 10, 1999 when she boarded my car for this one. I again drove us some eleven hours again
before we reached the Quality Inn in Birmingham. We ate good and slept in another king sized, very comfortable
bed, with movies. All expenses paid and
a televised event to occur for the Naked Cowboy the following day. What more could one ask for in my
underwear. It was an arena, outdoors,
that held over five thousand. It would
be the biggest crowd I’d ever played for, as a scheduled artist and I was
excited to be a part of it.
We arrived at the amphitheater early the following day. It was warm outside in Birmingham and we checked out the scene.