Because of a series of miscommunications between the original publisher and me as a novice author, numerous typos and “first draft” errors appeared in the original edition of Falling Down. This new, revised publication, made possible when the original publisher suspended operations, seeks to atone for those miscues, while adding new passages.
The new version will be available at Amazon and bookstores within the next few days. If you choose to purchase the e-version, please, make sure you’re downloading the “Expanded and Revised Edition.”
Consistent with Cat Stevens’ “Morning Has Broken,” which would be heard inside the church, the sky broke in torrents of rain on that wet, gray Saturday. Torrents pelted St. Dominic’s in Eagle Rock, as my brother and I stood nervously in the vestibule awaiting the arrival of my bride.
Like Cat, Joe Cocker would be heard, too. “You Are So Beautiful,” he crooned. And she was. My beautiful Jane Frances McBride.
I stood watching her proceed down the aisle in her father Charlie’s arm and, like Donovan, I thought I might as well try to “Catch the Wind.” But, lucky me, I did. That day she told me I had captured her heart, just like that elusive wind.
Yes, wind and rain that day. So much rain. Umbrellas appeared at the ready, protecting us from the onslaught as we left the church and hurried to a car to be driven to our reception.
There, amidst the gaiety and well-wishing, Jane and I were approached by a waitress, who asked for my keys so that she could put a complimentary bottle of champagne in our car. In a fog of bliss, I failed to realize that my Cousin Ray had a hand in that charade.
We never found a bottle but, on our wedding night in the American Beauty room of the Madonna Inn, we found plenty of rice inside our suitcases.
And so began our journey from honeymoon to Edwards AFB to Orange County to San Diego and repeat (minus that Air Force bit); never away from each other for more than a week or two at most.
We did most everything together until this Christmas Eve. Until just a few weeks before this 50th Anniversary of that rainy Saturday in February.
Now, we have been forced apart for weeks, months, maybe years, that will linger on until, I hope, our spirits rejoin. Come rain or shine. I only wish I could have told her one more time in life, as I will when we meet then: “I love you, Jane. I always have. I always will.”
We will be celebrating Jane’s life on Saturday, April 22, a date that coincides with her April 19 birthday. Details forthcoming. You are most welcome to submit a written comment to be read aloud at the event or speak your thoughts in person during the celebration.
Jane Frances Greco nee McBride, 74, passed away at home in Escondido, CA, on Christmas Eve, 2022, while celebrating the holiday with her family. Jane was born in Los Angeles, and adopted at birth by Dr. Charles and Rita McBride, who nurtured and loved her in their Eagle Rock home.
Jane was witty, thoughtful, generous, artistic, kind, smart, a wonderful cook, and beautiful on the inside and out. The eternal optimist, she could find humor in any situation and lighten the mood with her lovely laugh.
She graduated from Immaculate Heart High School; attended the University of California Santa Barbara; graduated with a BA in history from UCLA; and gained her teaching certificate at Cal State Long Beach. She taught elementary school students for eight years before devoting her full love and attention to raising her children.
Jane married (Frank) James Greco in Eagle Rock on February 10, 1973, and together they had two sons, Brian Joseph and Matthew Adam.
During her marriage, she served as a loving and guiding anchor for her ever grateful and loving husband and devoted her life to her sons and grandchildren, as well as making each of her residences a loving home, made all the more so by her tasteful design touches.
She is survived by her husband; Brian and Jenny (Schafer); Matthew and Ashley (Rose); her sister Janet Johnson; three grandchildren, Jakob, Oliver, and Kirra; and myriad cousins, including Mary, Julie, and Anne; extended family; and many friends, including her best pals, JoAnn and David Phillips, all of whom loved her dearly, as she did them.
She was preceded in death by her father Charlie McBride; mother Rita McBride nee Stein; her closest uncle and aunt, Dolores and Paul Hart; her brother-in-law, Rick Johnson; and her best, little friend Wicket.
Her family is planning a celebration of life later in the new year, likely around her birthday.
Corrupted by drugs, sex, and booze financed by a successful book and movie deal, investigative reporter Nick Lanouette sinks to depths that frighten his friends and colleagues. After being salvaged by an intervention and his own determination, Nick kick-starts recovery by freelancing for his former newspaper and making requisite apologies.
His final and most difficult mea culpa motivates him to undertake an investigation into a seedy strip joint at the behest of his friend and unrequited love interest, Michelle Gallo.
He must place trust in newly found sobriety and colleague Charlene Cooper as they plot to uncover illicit activity in the gentlemen’s club and stumble upon evidence of a major sex trade operation.
Nick’s rehabilitation becomes endangered, when he is tempted by a seductive and unscrupulous club operator, his continuing attraction to Michelle, and developing feelings for Charlene.
Bad Sign relies on historical investigative reporting and real events to explore a sex trade ring that rocked northern San Diego County in the early to mid-1990s. Vestiges of such criminal activity continue in the region and throughout the country to this day.
A Con Man’s Folly Backstory: A fictionalized Abe Saffron, dubbed “Mr. Sin” in his native Australia, plays a significant role as financier and foe of my leading character in The Con Man’s Folly.
The actual Saffron almost single-handedly created Sydney’s red-light district, known as Kings Cross, when he realized World War II era troops created an easy, cash-rich target for his brand of seedy entertainment.
He began in the early 1940s with the purchase and reimaging of Sydney’s Roosevelt Club, which became the first of a nightclub empire that led to his becoming “King of the Cross.” Entertainment services he couldn’t offer in his club without running afoul of the law were made readily attainable in a string of massage parlors and brothels that he also controlled.
Saffron soon gained a reputation for allegedly bribing police, politicians and judges. Despite becoming a focus of numerous investigations,” however, he was convicted only once in 1987. That tax evasion charge resulted in his serving a sentence of two years and six months. Although the real con man on whom I build my story did not interact in the manner described in the book, Robert B. would definitely have known Abe and likely was a patron of the Roosevelt Club.
After publishing Jerkwater Town, I sat down, assessed where my avocation was taking me, and started writing.
A new Nick Lanouette tale, number three in the series, proved perplexing, because of the sleaziness of a real-life crime I asked him to solve. Where and how do fact and prurient interest mesh into readable historical fiction? With a little spit polishing to go, I think I’ve found an answer. We’ll see. Soon, I hope.
Long before inventing Lanouette, however, I met a young woman that served on a community planning group with me. She told me about her rogue father, a man who journeyed across the world conducting scams, counterfeiting money, and seducing multiple women.
She lent me his autobiography and told me that she’d like to see someone do something more with it. Maybe turn it into a movie. I was intrigued. Banged out almost a dozen pages of copy. With a major change in profession and a family to raise, those typewritten sheets languished in my files for almost forty years.
Recently, with my friend’s permission and authorization, I went back to her father’s story adding a head-strong, fictional daughter, sired without his knowledge, who unwittingly gains ominous attention from parties her father cheated and mistreated throughout his life. With a twist of a vengeful kidnapping, flushed out dialogue, and re-envisioned, true events, The Con Man’s Folly became a work I had to share.
My nearly life-long mentor and friend passed early Sunday morning. Doss dedicated his life to peace, love, civil rights, and education. I’ve never known a more caring, selfless man. He will be greatly missed.
As a boy, I recall music being the backdrop of my home life. My father spun country and western 78s on his downstairs record player—the family still has a Sun Record original of Cash’s “I Walk the Line.” Mom wet her panties anytime Sinatra sang on the living room radio, which (I assume) was tuned to a standards station. Under the stairwell leading to the basement, a large box contained classic vinyl from the 1940s and ’50s; many more had been “stolen” by an aunt and uncle, who didn’t return them after a late night party at their home. The family also possessed a number of standard Italian tunes that I remember being played or crooned a cappella at family get-togethers.
Then along came 1958 and Spokanites were introduced to their first taste of radio programming dedicated solely to Top 40 rock ’n’ roll.
“Kay En Eee Double U … Channel 79,” the station’s identification ditty still rings in my ears, as do all those early hits that defined my youth. I was an overweight nerd wearing glasses to alleviate a myopia that extends not to just my nearsightedness, but to my grasp of the world.
That cloudy vision impacts my memory, too, but I know one thing for sure: a guy named Chuck Berry dominated my perception of the early days of rock on my local radio station. His influence on me is evidenced by my ability to still recite from memory most of the lyrics to “Maybelline,” “Roll Over Beethoven,” Johnny B. Goode,” “Memphis,” “No Particular Place to Go,” and a double handful of other originals penned by the master of guitar with lyrics that spoke truth to me and my generation.
You’ll be greatly missed, Chuck.
I saw you over there But what could I do? I couldn’t stand and stare Or come and talk to you And it is always fair To formally be introduced? To you especially I took it on my own To come and talk to you Because you were alone I hope I didn’t intrude Observing you had shown That you were so lonely and blue Nothing beats a failure like a try There’s a great reward Someone will surely hail you If you try But you must try hard And if I hadn’t tried I wonder where I’d be
If I upon relied On fate you meeting me But because I tried Together we’ll always be Nothing beats a failure like a try There’s a great reward Someone will surely hail you Oh darling Together we’ll always be
With all the craziness about us these days, I started thinking—on a throwback Thursday—to a time almost half a decade ago when three freshmen and their RA knew exactly what the world needed.
We came together at Craig Hall on the University of Montana campus in Fall 1967: two kids from Shadle Park—a running back and an aspiring journalist, members of a senior class so large they had barely known each other prior; a talented North Dakota musician, who quickly discovered the financial benefit of hawking pot (as in “pans,” not “weed”); and our RA and consummate leader, a strikingly handsome Air Force brat with keys to a modified and raised blue Willys that challenged the modesty of any skirted coed that tried to climb aboard.
On a singular night that fall, the four of us decided to raise a little hell. We hopped into the Willys and roared out Brooks to a root beer stand, where we acquired a gallon jug of sweet suds. A few moments later, we entered The Heidelhaus with our smuggled contraband and ordered pizzas (as I vaguely recall). The table clamor elevated as more and more “beer” found its way surreptitiously from the jug at our feet and the water glasses on the table.
We were certain wait staff would toss us out at any moment for consuming alcohol illegally. In reality, they likely perceived us as just another bunch of immature college boys, especially our “youthful,” 21-year-old leader—the only guy among the four of us during a future adventure to choose a soda instead of beer and get carded at an off-campus night spot.
Emboldened by the nonalcoholic brew we consumed at The Heidelhaus that fall night, we returned to campus, where we loudly and jovially thundered around the otherwise quiet grounds until we found ourselves standing under a street light at the foot of a high-rise, coed dorm. I don’t think any of us could carry a lick, but our motley quartet found united voice in a mangled version of Dionne Warwick’s plaintive plea:
“What the world needs now … is more freshmen girls. No not for some, but for everyone.”
Fifty years on, we’ve aged a little; cutback heavily on the frivolity; and maybe even acquired a little wisdom. Long past yearning for more freshmen girls, I’m sure our quartet concurs with Dionne about what the world really needs now.
fjamesgreco 