Jory's Towelie Band TV Debut

November 25, 2001, was an eventful date for American history; Fairfax, California; and Jory’s subsequent television debut.  It was on this date, in Afghanistan, that two CIA agents captured a group of Taliban guerrillas.   A few hours later, the prisoners staged an uprising, resulting in the death of one of the CIA interrogators.   Shockingly, 19 year-old John Walker Lindh was one of the Taliban radicals.  He was born in Washington DC and grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland until he was 10, converted to Islam as a young teenager, and traveled to Yemen and Pakistan to study Arabic and religious studies.  In the summer of 2001, he joined the Taliban and went to Afghanistan. 

  

Jory read about it online in the news.  The Red Cross had taken the survivors to a prison hospital. There, CNN interviewed John Walker Lindh and took a photo that Newsweek Magazine published as its Cover Story.  The headline tagged Lindh as the “American Taliban,” a label that spread unconstrained in front-page stories on every newspaper in America. The CNN interview morphed into a phenomenon, with the broadcast media jumping on the terrorism hysteria following 9/11, along with President George W. Bush’s War on Terror.  

In 2002, Jory giggled as he read that former President George H. W. Bush had commented that Lindh was “some misguided Marin County hot-tubber.”  Marin residents were enraged; the media enjoyed a mini free-for-all.  The residents of Marin, which is the California County north of the Golden Gate Bridge, wrote “Letters to the Editor,” published in the Marin Independent Journal,telling the former president about their home.  Many of them chastised him publicly in the newspaper. Then, the La Times published a retraction of the statement by Bush Sr., which stated that the former President said he was sorry he maligned Marin by describing American Taliban fighter John Walker Lindh as "some misguided Marin County hot-tubber."

"’Call off the dogs please.  I apologize.  I am chastened and will never use 'hot tub' and 'Marin County' in the same sentence again.  I won't even try to explain my position except to say I was and remain so offended by John Walker Lindh that I hurt others' feelings. 

"In the opinion of your outraged letter writers, I condemned all of Marin County with a hot tub reference. Obviously, I struck a nerve.  Now your readers have attacked me on my granddaughters, on my residence, on abortion, on Enron, on my being a Texan and on my pronunciation of Marin.  You name it, a lot of angst has surfaced, and it's all my fault.  Though I only garnered 23% of the vote in Marin in 1992, I was your president and I should have known better.  I apologize to those who supported me that were offended, and I also apologize to the unenlightened who did not support me.  I will now soak in my own hot tub and try to be more sensitive to the feelings of others--not John Walker Lindh, though.” George H. W. Bush

Jory was exasperated that the media was linking the American Taliban to Marin. After all, Lindh spent the formative, first 10 years of his life in the East Coast before his family moved to San Anselmo, the town adjacent to Fairfax.  His parents divorced and his father moved to San Francisco. He was home-schooled by his mother.  Briefly, he attended Redwood and Tamiscal High Schools before dropping out and getting a GED at age 16.  John Walker Lindh really had no connection to Fairfax, yet the media was managing to create sensationalism by hooking Lindh up with Jory’s town and community, to which Jory was indignantly loyal.

One night, our phone rang a little before 11 PM.  I jumped with concern to answer it.  “Hi Mom,” burst Jory.  “Turn on the 11 O’Clock News.  Hurry!”

“Are you ok?” I asked.  (It’s a mother’s job to make sure her kid is ok when they call late at night.)

“Yes, I’m fine.  Are you watching the news?  I’m in a new band, The Towelie Band, and we made it onto the news!”

There on the TV was a young news reporter stating that she was on the street in Fairfax, California, the hometown of John Walker Lindh, the American Taliban. Standing directly behind her was Jory and a few of his buddies, all with bath and beach towels wrapped around their heads!  We couldn’t believe our eyes.

“We’re protesting behind this absurd reporter and it’s broadcasting internationally! Can you believe it?” chortled Jory with glee.

“She has no business in Fairfax because she doesn’t even have her facts straight.  Not only that, she called the cops on us, but Officer Chris is my friend and told us to ‘Carry on’ as long as we don’t do anything that could get us arrested,” he blurted out in one breath.

“My friend in Toronto left me a message that he saw us on TV.  It’s crazy!”

Yes, it was crazy, but not totally unexpected from Jory.  He was always true to his beliefs and willing to turn a serious issue into a comical one.  As parents, we learned to always expect the unexpected from Jory, support him as long as it was legal, and accept his silliness with a smile. 

The next day, Martha E. Ture, the legislative affairs editor for Native News Online and an appointed government official in Fairfax, California (aka Hottubistan), wrote and published the following account of the event:  

TALES FROM HOTTUBISTAN

NEWS FLASH!

JOHNNY WALKER LINDH THE FAIRFAX KID DIDN’T EVER LIVE IN FAIRFAX !

We have a friend here in Fairfax named Jory, who plays guitar, bass, and tricycle horns, and who did the sound for Ralph Eggleston’s Academy Award-winning “For The Birds.”  One Friday night he was taking a post prandial amble when he saw a news team from San Jose Channel 3 TV on the Fairfax main drag, shooting street scenes while their overgroomed brunette reporter talked about Fairfax, the hotbed home of traitors and alternative lifestyles.  

“New concerns about the acts of the man now known as the American Taliban," she said sonorously.

John Walker Lindh did not live in Fairfax, despite the pronouncements of the Wall Street Journal, CNN, the Boston Globe, and Newsweek.  John Walker Lindh lived in the next town over, San Anselmo, for six years.  After the family broke up, his mother moved to Fairfax, and he visited her in Fairfax once. The Marin Independent Journal reported this news when CNN and all the rest of the media mobbed Mrs. Walker’s sidewalk the day after her son John was found among the prisoners at Mazar-e-Sharif.

The Boston Globe identified Fairfax as the hotbed of aging radical hippies who turned into millionaires.  Well, that would be Dr. Dean Edell, but most of us are secretaries, commuters, and small businesspeople.  Claudia Rosett of the Wall Street Journal wrote that “Traitors come from American culture at its most neurotically all-validating no-fault New Age nadir of nattering nonsense. Nowhere in the nation could this particular picture have more naturally taken shape than in that Mecca of moral muddling, Marin County-a place salted with rich aging radicals of the 1960s, long on dollars but still short on sense."

She did not write an article that identified Oklahoma City bomber Tim McVeigh's home county, Niagara County, New York, as a hotbed of social evils like bowling, church bingo, and football.

So Jory walked up to the Channel 3 cameraman and said, “He didn’t live here.”

“Are we having a conversation,” the cameraman said.  Purple Cheeks the reporter glowered delicately, as though she could tell by looking at him that she was a more influential, intelligent, important journalist and human being than Jory will ever be.

She faced the camera again and composed her expression to signify `At the risk of life and limb I stand on the dangerous streets of Fairfax, California, to bring you the news, an intrepid war reporter in purple shirt, purple lipstick, and purple blusher.’ 

Why is it so important to keep reporting a Thing Which Is Not So, and trying to make it The Truth, when it is Not True? Why is it so difficult to get the news reporters and editors to acknowledge the truth or do their homework and respond politely to people?  Why didn’t the camera man say, “How do you know he didn’t live here?”  Why didn’t Brave Reporter ask that Jory reveal his sources?

So Jory and a few likeminded friends went home and got some towels and blankets, put them on their heads, and went back downtown, where they stood behind Deep Purple, Brave Reporter in every shot the camera crew tried to take, parading down Broadway with towels on their heads like The Towelieban.

Deep Purple, got so angry she called the cops.

And the Fairfax Police Department sent two officers, Chris and a rookie.  

Chris said, "Hi, Jory.  What are you all doing?”

Jory said, "Hi, Chris.  We are searching for our leader, Bed Linen.”

Rookie said, "She's got a right to be here and do her job without interference."  

"And I have a right to peacefully protest, which I do, because there is no story here in this town, and I don't like the media coming here telling the public a lie about my town," Jory said.

So Chris said, "Well, just don't do anything you could get arrested for."

And Jory said, "We'll be very careful not to touch anything."

So Chris and Rookie went away, Jory and the Towelie Band continued their parading around behind the brunette reporter with the purple cheeks, and a woman came out of Peri's bar and told Jory they made the ten o’clock news, and the camera crew didn't go away.  

So Jory figured Purple Cheeks would try to do it again for the eleven PM news and the Towelie Band stayed on watch, and sure enough, Purple and the San Jose Channel 3 TV news crew tried again and the Towelie Band paraded behind her. At 2 a.m. Jory taped the whole thing off the news rerun, and you can see it yourself (on YouTube) if you click here  https://youtu.be/0O1g9x4kifY   or copy it into your browser.  (Jory is the one in the gray bath towel headress.)

COMMENTS:  

Click on Jorysmother@gmail.com to send comments.

Jory  (2008)

I am a member of my community and strive to see it constantly improve and thrive.

I can be silly at times, but often need it sparked from the outside.

Molly Presser
Great start for the new year! Jory fought for what was right, but with a sense of humor😜!

Barbara Talento
As always a delightful story. Thanks 

Feather Hickox
I'm not sure if this is the best Jory Story of all, but it sure brought back some of my best memories of him and of Fairfax. We think of Jory almost daily and miss him terribly, and I just love reading your posts and sharing them with my family. Jory is with us always.  Thank you and good 2019 to you!  Feather (former Deuce Ct. neighbor and long-time Fairfaxian).

Cindy Ross

I remember my friend from Virginia (who had started NAFCJ) calling me saying she saw the Fairfax Theater on CNN and wondering how close that was to where I lived.

Jimmie Dunne

I enjoyed reading about Jory as a young boy and a young man. Keep em coming.

Judy Sowell

What a wonderful, humorous story. Well written as always. 

Credits:

http://www.peterbcollins.com/2013/06/26/the-real-story-of-john-philip-walker-lindh-the-american-taliban-as-told-by-his-father-frank-lindh/

Duncan Campbell (July 16, 2002). "From hot tub to hot water | Special reports | Guardian Unlimited". The Guardian. London. Retrieved March 22, 2010.

"America's 'detainee 001' – the persecution of John Walker Lindh" by Frank Lindh, in The Guardian, July 10, 2011

http://articles.latimes.com/2002/feb/28/local/me-bush28

Martha E. Ture, Native News Online (http://www.nativenewsonline.org)

Newsweek Magazine

Wikipedia

©   Leslye J. Prum   2017   All Rights Reserved

Romantic From Childhood

When Jory was 4 years old, we moved into a new house.  Actually, it was an older, fixer-upper house in an established neighborhood, where the original owners had aged into retirees.  We brought young children to live among them and significantly lowered the average age of the neighborhood, while definitely increasing the noise factor.  Our new house was in poor condition, but had lots of potential.  We brought with us dreams, ideas, and enthusiasm to update this house into our family home for the next 23 years.  

While the empty moving van left us with rooms of cardboard boxes piled high, Darren and Jory were outside exploring their new front yard.  When the weeds were gone and the grass filled in, it would be perfect for playing ball, chasing each other, and having fun.  Jory, always the romantic, was attracted to the bright yellow dandelions that hadn’t been weeded from the flowerbeds.  He picked a significant bouquet, and while Darren wasn’t looking, slipped over to the new neighbor’s house.  Standing on his tip toes, he reached the doorbell and pushed the button as many times as he could.  

“What do you want?” barked an out of breath, skinny, old man.

“I brought you some flowers,” replied Jory, as he thrust his hand forward.

“I don’t want any and never ring my doorbell again!” snarled the old man, as he slammed the door shut.

Hearing the ruckus, Darren had discovered that Jory was missing, and rushed to retrieve him.

“Don’t ever go over to his house again,” Darren admonished his little brother.

“But what’s his name?” asked Jory innocently.

“That’s ....... Mr. Nicey ....... and he doesn’t like kids, so never go there again.”

From that day on, we lived next door to Mr. Nicey, and for us, that always remained his name.

One of the highlights in Jory's childhood was Cotillion.  Boys and girls were invited to attend the Gollatz Cotillion beginning in fourth grade.  He looked forward to dressing up in a suit, tie, and dress shoes for the monthly Saturday afternoon instructional parties.  The children were introduced to ballroom dancing, social graces, and etiquette.  Young gentlemen learned to greet adults in a reception line, escort their partners to share refreshments, politely open doors, and courteously seat young ladies and women.  Even more than refreshments, dancing was his favorite.  He learned to waltz and foxtrot, but most of all, he loved dancing with his favorite girls from school.

Jory always pursued his love of dancing.  At Bar Mitzvahs and weddings, he led the others to dance.  In Marin, he took lessons in Lindy Hop and Swing, surprising everyone when he took to the dance floor.  All he needed was music and a partner to jump, jive, and swing.  In Oslo, during the summer months, there were bands that played outdoors in public places.  He found a partner, often someone he didn’t know, and guided her through the most exciting and active dances of her life.  Soon, others gathered around to watch them having fun.  At Darren’s wedding, the young women wouldn’t dance with him or Shan, his younger brother, so he grabbed Shan and they wowed everyone by dancing together.

Jory looked forward to attending school dances in high school.  There were plenty of girls in his classes and he became quite creative in asking them to Homecoming and Prom dances.  One time he wrote the invitation word by word on small pieces of torn paper, before rolling them into individual tiny scrolls.  Each one was slipped into a colorful balloon before the balloon was blown up and tied to a stick.  Then, he delivered the balloon bouquet to her doorstep with a note containing a pin.  The note explained that she was to pop the balloons and reassemble the rolled up puzzle pieces before she called him back.  Unfortunately, she already had a date.  His luck with girls wasn’t always very good.  The girl he took to his Prom went home with another guy and left him stranded.

With his first long time girlfriend, he rented a white tuxedo, with tails, to match her dress.  He also added a top hat and a cane.  In addition, he convinced Dad to let him drive the silver Mazda RX-7 sports car, to take her to Prom.  With a beautiful corsage in a crystal clear flower box sitting in the passenger seat next to his top hat, he carefully pulled out of our driveway, knowing that since this was the first and only time that he would be driving Dad’s car, he had better drive carefully.  When he returned, he had put 300 miles on the car’s odometer.

“Where did you go?” questioned Dad the next morning.

“It was such a beautiful night, that after Prom, we decided to get a better look at the nighttime sky.  We drove to Angeles Crest Forest to see the stars.  It was so beautiful with the black velvet sky and millions of twinkling stars,” he replied with a far away gaze.

“Hmmm!  I understand,” was all that Dad could say.

It was during his junior year in high school that Jory began writing music.  He spent hours at night in his room playing his guitar and notating by hand the music that danced inside his head.  The lights were dimmed and the melodies leaked under the door.  Softly, if I listened carefully, I could hear short rifts evolve into phrases, and then into melodies, forming beautiful songs.

“Jory, are you doing your homework?” I’d call from the hallway.

“I’m writing a book report,” he’d answer.  

“It doesn’t sound like it,” I’d reply.

“You’re interrupting me.  I’m writing my book report,” came his retort.

A few days later, the principal called our home.  “Jory has asked permission for you to attend his English class on Friday.  “I’ve never had a student request that his mother come to sit in on a class.  Most high school kids would never be caught with their parents on campus, but it’s a request that I’m granting because it’s so unusual.  The students will be presenting their book reports and he has arranged with the teacher to write a song for this assignment,” explained Principal Jerry Atkin.

I quietly slipped into an empty seat near the classroom door, hoping that the students wouldn’t notice me.  Soon it was Jory’s turn.  He removed his Ovation 12-string guitar from the case and walked to the front of the room.  Sitting on the teacher’s stool, he quickly rechecked to make sure the strings were in tune.  Then, he proceeded to sing his book report, a song called "The Bell Tolls Now," based on Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls.  It was clear from the silent audience that they were surprised and impressed.  When he sang the last note, his classmates burst into applause and the teacher was definitely pleased.  It was a first for all of us.

The following year, Jory convinced himself that all he could write was poetry.  That didn’t sit well with his senior year English teacher, whose class assignment was to write a term paper.  Jory fumed and complained.  

“This is a dumb assignment.  When in my future, will I ever need to write a term paper?  Composers write music, sometimes they write lyrics.  They don’t write term papers.”

“You never know,” I replied.  “and it doesn’t matter.  Your assignment is to write a term paper and that’s what you need to do.  Go write it and I’ll help by proofreading it for you.”

Of course, he wrote his “term paper” on the computer, which was a good thing when it came to editing.  He had followed most of the guidelines, including a proper title page and a bibliography page.  He had selected a decent topic, which he had introduced, described, and discussed with footnotes and references.  His spelling and grammar were perfect.  He had even drawn thoughtful conclusions, but the entire paper was written line-by-line in verse.

“I suggest you hand in 2 copies of your term paper.  You can print it exactly as you have it now, and you can print a second copy that combines all the lines into paragraphs.  You can hand in both versions.”  

He thought long and hard, eventually caving-in to modifying the second copy into traditional format.  We sat together at the computer forming sentences and paragraphs from his verses.  Neither of us cared much about the grade his paper would receive, as he had already been accepted to CalArts for the fall semester, and we were simply choosing not to battle and checking the box toward high school graduation.  The goal was to pass the class and graduate.

Sometimes Jory’s original songs were silly ditties, like “Bertha From Bolinas,” patterned after Tom Lehrer’s satirical songs, like “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park.”  When he’d come to me and say, “Listen to my new song, Mom,” and the song was sweet and tender, I knew that there was a new “love interest” in his life.

“Who is she?” I’d ask.

“A girl I just met.  She’s really nice.”  Then he’d begin playing his guitar and singing a beautiful ballad.  Of these love songs, only one was recorded at studio.jory.org.  Gazing up at the nighttime sky, he wrote “Shooting Stars” one night while he sat on the bleachers at the baseball field behind his studio in Fairfax.  

When Sam and I were in Oslo to dismantle Jory's design studio, two of his friends took us to a magical place that Jory had discovered from a fellow passenger on a flight to Norway.  It was a huge, windowless, brick building, with a high roof, constructed in 1926 in the quiet Oslo suburb of Slemdal.  Standing silently among private homes, it consisted of a humble vestibule leading into one enormous, barrel-vaulted enclosure.  The passage into the cavernous hall had 2 doors.  The exterior, bronze, vault door separating the anteroom from the chamber, was heavy and cut short, requiring those who entered to bow low upon admittance.  When closed, it sealed off the room from the rest of the world.  An interior, ornate, wrought iron gate opened a few inches later, into a pitch black chamber.  The room was filled with silence and darkness, except for a few very dim lights that allowed one to almost see the faint outline of a few, simple wooden chairs, centrally arranged in a row.  

The magic of the chamber was that it had perfect acoustics, so that sounds made within this space remained there forever, as there was no means of escape.  The four of us sat on the chairs in the dark while Jory's friend sang melodies that bounced around us, getting softer and softer as they faded away.  As our eyes adjusted to the dark, the walls and the ceiling seemed to be absorbing the precious existing light, glowing as though it was the beginning of dawn.  Little by little, designs evolved . . .  and then images . . .  and then entire murals.  Our pupils dilated and the entire chamber was now visible.  Astounded, we realized that we were surrounded by intricate, erotic, life-cycle frescoes that stretched along the walls and over the ceiling.  Equally amazing, we discovered that in each corner stood a huge bronze sculpture that must have been placed before the walls were constructed.  We found ourselves convinced that this was truly a magical place that enveloped the few, like us, that were privileged to enter.

In the solemn quiet, I slipped out my iPhone and played Jory’s song, “Shooting Stars.”  His voice reverberated in the mystical chamber with the love he felt for life, wonderment, and the people he knew.  Then softly, it was absorbed into the space to remain forever.  (By clicking on "Shooting Stars" above, you can hear Jory accompany himself on guitar while singing his original song.)

As we prepared to depart, I turned toward the small doorway with the ornate, wrought iron gate, noticing that it completed the ornamentation of the wall paintings across the portal.  I happened to gaze up to discover an unobtrusive dark niche built into the wall above the doorway.  Inside, overlooking the entire room, was a black metal stand stabilizing a large stone.

“This is a mausoleum and that hollowed stone contains Emanuel Vigeland's ashes.  He’s the artist who created all these paintings and sculptures and built this mausoleum for himself,” explained Jory’s friend.  

We stared in reverence before ducking through the doorway, back into reality, leaving “The Jorwegian’s” voice and song safely inside.

COMMENTS:  

Click on Jorysmother@gmail.com to send comments.

Jory  2009

My parents sent me to the Gollatz Cotillion from 4th-8th grades. I thoroughly enjoyed it, since it meant I got to dance with the girls I liked from school. One day at Cotillion, I found two $20 bills on the sidewalk outside. Mr. Gollatz said that if no one claimed the $40, I could keep it. At the end of the evening, I got to keep the money, which began my saving toward the purchase of my first nice guitar 7 years later!

I enjoy partner dancing. I am trained in ballroom & swing, but don't dance nearly enough.

I am a born romantic. I enjoy doing things for a girl I'm interested in just because it'll make her feel special and loved. I want her to have stories she can be excited to tell her friends.

I strive to communicate well at all times. My spelling and grammar are always impeccable and I expect something approaching that of everyone I interact with.

I recognize when magical things are happening to me and to others.

Karen Herzog

What a wonderful gift to all of us this blog is!  Cannot believe Jory did cotillion!  There was so much more to know of him!  I’m sorry he’s gone - very sorry, but thank you so much for the lovely memories you’ve shared!

Molly Presser

This blog, by itself could turn into a book!! I just love, love, love your descriptions of Jory's personality, his "joie de vivre", his caring for other people's feelings. Finally, I love your description of that secret Chamber, including the photos and your feelings as you entered it.  To finish it off, you close with a quote from his diary!! You bring us back to the reality of a beautiful young boy who was smart, talented and caring beyond his years. Your writing is a treasure and a gift to us all.

John Edward Armstrong

Thank you for writing about Jorys life, it's an inspiring read and amazing to learn more about the great man I knew. 

Rita Blumenstein

As always, I enjoyed reading your account of Jory.

Steph Leon

Keep up the stories.

Masha Veytsman

Thank you for sharing Jory’s stories on your blog, they are wonderful and heart warming!

Carol Murray

 Jory sounds like a great guy—very human and relatable.

Kendra Zien

He's dancing with Jenn Mariposa Garcia. 

Jenn Mariposa Garcia

Yeah! I visited him for a few days in Oslo and he took much pleasure in showing me all around. I was on my way to Sweden for a swing dance camp and he knew I love dancing and made a point to stop at this outdoor weekly dance.

Cat Wilson

I am keeping this post and stealing this pic so I can print it one day and remember to no matter what, think WWJD (what would Jory do), keep peace and dance/sing somewere, somehow, every day. This is "so Jory" - not that any of his pics aren't! - but this, and to put him singing with it will be my reward later on this day. How poignant, but how can you not smile? Thank you…☮️😇😍🐾❣️💜❤️💛

Linda Birtler

Jory shared fun and love as he traveled through this world--that is for sure!

Rayleen Williams

Jory's stories are so impressive!  Your telling of his stories are equally impressive.Beautiful and touching and descriptive.  I hope that you will compile these into a book--it is so inspirational.

Judy Sowell

This was a really beautiful story.  I enjoyed listening to his song, and your description of the mausoleum in Norway.  Who would have thunk?  It was kind of amazing.  I’m not sure I would have thought a mausoleum could be enjoyable, but the way you described it, it certainly was.  Thank you for sharing your beautiful stories with me. 

Photo Credits:

http://www.emanuelvigeland.museum.no/mausoleum.htm

©   Leslye J. Prum   2017   All Rights Reserved