Babysitting in LA Circa 1970: Paul is Dead

 Babysitting in LA circa 1970: Paul is Dead

...listen to the best song the Beach Boys Never Did: Beach Baby (1974) by First Class...YouTube video courtesy of djqlxix2112

Visualize sitting calmly on the floor of the den at our three-bedroom two bath ranch house in Pacific Palisades, minding ones’ own business playing Beatles albums on the old Magnavox portable record player; newly minted nickels bearing Jefferson’s image are Scotch Taped to the tonearm to negate records slightly warped from the LA sun waning through the sliding glass door to the patio. Nightfall approaching, mom and dad have taken up what for them is a rare Hollywood Party (as conservatives, they rarely attended for obvious reasons despite father being a television writer-producer) All of a sudden, the evil older sisters come barging-in through the door.

“Draaake,” the oldest one, Shawna asks. “Did you know that Paul McCartney is Dead?” Immediately distraught--my favorite Beatle has always been Paul--I am overcome with feelings of sadness; after all, it was Paul’s picture hanging on my sisters wall which I was encouraged to kiss years earlier at our previous house, here in Sea Cliff—which explains a lot—but we will explore issues of orientation at some later date (just kidding, people…eeeww!)

Dumbfounded, I enter the next stage of acceptance upon hearing bad news---Denial: “He is not dead…is he?” I protested. Armed with an LA Times, the middle sister, Dorian, thrusts the paper dated January something nineteen-seventy bearing the headline, Is Paul McCartney Dead? under my nose. Granted, it is not plastered all over the front page nor very convincing of a statement even for a ten-year-old, yet hardly a modern day “fake news” story, either. 

Reading the article in disbelief, Shawna, commanders the phonograph rocking the speed selector between 331/3 RPM [a supposed, Free Mason Number and why did “they” pick this speed for the playback of vinyl records…? Oh, that’s another conspiracy blog, never mind!] and the 45 RPM setting.  Anyhow, youthful Millennials, in doing so, she could now play a record backwards once her finger is put on the LP to spin it in the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Dorain replies, "We are going to prove that Paul is dead!"

"YOU PATHETIC MORON!” Shawna adds.

Out comes the Beatles White Album as the oldest evil doer, Shawna, begins to play a song entitled, “Revolution # 9”. At first forward: “number nine, number nine, number nine…” the voice on the song repeats in monotones as she rocks the speed selector into neutral, finger on the disc--between 33 Revolutions-per-minute and 45 RPM, the record begins rotating backwards, when out of the speaker to my astonishment comes the phrase, “Turn me on dead-man…Turn me on, dead-man”  

…So What!, I protested.

By now, Dorian is armed with several Beatles album jackets, thumbing through the pictures within the album Magical Mystery Tour to find the “blood” retouched on Paul’s Moccasins, flipping the album jacket over she points to the picture of Paul being the only one adorned with a black carnation.

“The sign of death!” she shrieks. “…and look,” she states slowly, “Here on the front, Paul is the one wearing the Walrus Costume—A Welsh sign of death!”

To which I reply, “What?”

“He was Welsh,” she says.

“…like the Grape jelly?” I asked.

“Noooo, it is a country, midget-mind,” Dorian states smugly.

As if on cue, Shawna doesn’t miss a beat as the song, “Glass Onion” begins to blare from the phonograph, the words of John Lennon singing: “…Here’s another clue for you all-awl…The Walrus was Paul.”

“The Beatles put clues about Paul’s death on their albums,” Dorian states as if it is a matter of fact.

Feeling my face turning red, heart racing, I look around the now juxtaposed room, Dorian launching into a mantra: 

“PAUL IS DEAD… PAUL IS DEAD…PAUL IS DEAD!” 

Shawna is now laughing hysterically as I break into tears, crying uncontrollably when...

Suddenly, the door swings open:

“What the hell is going on here?” Dad asks sternly, Mom looking confused as I run to her protective arms. 

Shawna: Uh… we were just trying to share with Drake…uh, you know...Dad, about this Paul McCartney being like maybe…dead?” Shawna beginning to mumble, looking down at the floor.

To which our father replies, 

“Oh, I see…We go out for one night, one night, and come back to the whole house in an uproar!”

“Now calm down, Honey,” mom says stroking my forehead, but looking at father who exclaims:

 “I need a belt”

“You’re not going to whip my sisters are you Dad?”

Mother knows this is not the case, asking,“Would you like me to get us a drink, Dear?” 

Mom cheerily asks looking at him in that Nancy Reagan-esque way that just infuriated my already feminist--soon-to-be-attending Santa Monica City College--Oldest Sister, Shawna.

 “Make it a double,” Dad replied, Mom happily heading-off towards the kitchen, Dad adding, “Please do not torment your little brother, he’s not playing with a full deck half the time, anyway.”

Shawna: “You are always treating him differently. THIS IS NOT FAIR!”

“Shawna…you’re a Communist!” Father stated without a hint of sarcasm. “The sooner everyone learns that life is not fair and some people are more equal than others the sooner you kids will be ready to face the world. We will discuss this tomorrow---OFF TO YOUR ROOMS, EVERYONE!” 

Narrowly escaping the wrath of Willard, we scurried down the long hallway of the SoCal mid-century ranch house, me into my P.J.s, Shawna to pick-up the receiver and call a friend on her turquoise Western Electric Southern California Bell connected Princess Phone, and Dorian pilling into bed across the hall from me to write in her diary.

When mom came back to tuck-me-in, the reassuring clinking of ice cubes from her high-ball glass could be heard coming down the hall, I was still shaken and asked if Paul was indeed dead:

“Honey, we know that you and your sisters are still upset about the Beatles breaking-up. Your Dad being in show-biz and all thinks that all of this talk is to prop-up falling record sales—a publicity stunt,” she stated reassuringly.

Still concerned, I snuggled-in and replied, “I sure hope so mom, I love Paul.”

Giving me that puzzled look that I still sometimes remembered getting around that age, she replied, “Daddy is to go back to Capitol [Records] tomorrow to do some sound work for Death Valley Days…I’ll have him ask around--see if there is any truth to all of this nonsense, Dear. We Love You, sleep tight.”
 

The light of the hallway giving way to the door-shutting, I flip on the AM clock radio at a low level; Hef will have to do his show, Playboy After Dark without me sneaking a look—no bunnies tonight---over the black and white; I had best not push my luck, I thought drift’in-off as California Dreamin’ played on 93 KHJ…so I did.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_is_dead