FIFTY

Notes on Building Something That Lasts — and the Fool I Still Am

Not one note of music while I wrote these. Creativity comes in many forms, I suppose. It goes where it goes, and I’m just grateful when it chooses to pass through me.

For decades, my life was all music. Hard work and a few lucky breaks, one rung at a time — blues bars and weddings to Carnegie Hall, Royal Albert Hall, Broadway, Madison Square Garden. All of it. Then came the years hunched over EQs and patch bays, choosing mics, hiring players, trying to make something that sounds like music. Eventually, records I produced found their way to the Grammys, and those sounds will outlast me.

But truthfully, nothing I’ve ever done has demanded more discipline or vulnerability than this: fifty essays, written without missing a single week. Word by word, building something meant to endure.

Like music, this has become a kind of safety for me — a new apartment in a city next door to the one I’ve always known. It’s not social media filler, and it isn’t a blog archive or a passing distraction. These essays belong to a tradition older and sturdier than that. I believe in truth and trust. They’re written with care, meant to be read slowly, felt deeply, returned to, and remembered.

I don’t take it lightly. To be part of the long line of people who’ve put a proper pen to paper before me — a few of them the real deal — is humbling. I don’t assume to meet their standard just by showing up, but I’ve put in the time. And when the spirit moves, I know it doesn’t come from me alone.

Essay number fifty. Five-zero. That’s big. That’s a book. And if you’ve been reading these pieces, you’ve already held that book in your hands. You’ve already helped shape what it’s becoming.

If you’ve enjoyed what I’ve built here — if you believe this writing matters, if you’ve felt the love or the reckless joy of it — then I’d love you to help carry it forward. I pour my heart and soul into these words each week, and I want to keep building on them.

$8 a month keeps this alive. $80 a year builds the next fifty. Each new subscriber keeps the lights on and the words coming.

This has become something bigger than me. Each reader who joins as a paid subscriber becomes part of the next fifty.

If these stories have found you, you’re already part of it — upgrading just makes it official.

Thank you for reading, for caring, and for making this work worth doing.

And with that out of the way… here it is:

50. Genius, My Ass

The Fine Art of Name-Dropping and Not Caring

I went to Prague because Bruce Willis’ assistant told me to. Not in a gun-to-your-head kind of way, but in that casual way Bruce said, “Hey, Genius, come do a prison camp movie with me,” like he’s inviting you to lunch. I told him no at first. I’m not an actor. I was living in L.A. and had plenty of actor friends out there every day, pounding the pavement, unable to get arrested for a single line in a toothpaste commercial. The last thing I needed was a target on my back—to be the guy who walked into a movie role just because I happened to share a recording studio with John McClane.

Bruce and I have a long history. Ups and downs, sure, but mostly Livin’ it Up and Big Cool Fun. He’d throw an arm around me and say, “Hey G… WE GOT MONEY!” like it still surprised him. I’m heartbroken about how things are now. We were partners in a music studio back then, and real, legit work came out of that place. There are so many stories of wild, beautiful times with my friend the movie star. But those stories are for another day.

When this call to go to Prague came, the truth was simple: he just wanted a close friend in Prague. So I said yes. Next thing I know, I’m eight weeks in a suite at the Four Seasons overlooking the palace, my studio gear stacked in flight cases like a Cold War arsenal. I was supposed to be working on a Bonnie Raitt record with Mitchell Froom, Chad Blake, and Bonnie herself. They needed drum tracks, so I brought my own rig — stuffed into a private jet. Bruce’s manager had a meltdown. I’m pretty sure that’s when he started drafting the “We Gotta Get Rid of Gary” memo.

Sidenote: I’ve still got a few of those fancy-ass soaps from the daily bathroom refresh, which for reasons unknown kept relocating themselves into my flight case. ;)

Prague in those days was crawling with film crews. Wesley Snipes was there. Norman Reedus — brand new, still more fashion-world than Walking Dead — was there. Wesley was a friend, so we’d hang. Colin Farrell (the other lead in our movie) and I went to this party at a friend of Guillermo del Toro’s. It was nuts. Not “gotcha” nuts, but definitely “am I still in my own body?” nuts. I admire Guillermo, he does wonderful things for children, and I love him for that, but let’s just say the man also knows how to knock back a drink.

Terence Howard and I, in full authentic WWII military flyer wardrobe, passed the time playing ukelele’s in base camp—huddled by kerosine heaters. The ukes were gifts from George Harrison, who I had made friends with on our week off. George taught me a few chords and his favorite ukelele song “See You In My Dreams”. I couldn’t get it out of my head. We talked about making a record when we got back to LA. It never happened.

Another film was shooting in Prague at the time. We went to their opening party. The female lead — nameless here because I’m not completely suicidal — was breathtaking. Knock-you-into-next-week beautiful. We talked. She invited me back to her place. A massive apartment in the old part of Prague, the kind with windows so tall they make you feel like a kid. We hit it off.

Fast-forward a weekend. Bruce has a plane. I ask her, “Want to come to Paris?” She says, “Yes — my mother lives there and I have an apartment.” And off we go, staying at the Hotel Bristol — gorgeous, old-world, one of my favorites. I rent a car, pick her up at her mother’s house. We go shopping because, well, Paris.

We hit Colette, curated to the teeth. We’re walking through racks of things I can’t afford, and she tries on this full-length shearling leather coat. Gorgeous. She looks at me and says, “Oh, baby, I love this. Will you get it for me?”

And this is where I turn into a cautionary tale.

I’m not rich. I had no SAG card. My own trailer, sure, because Bruce asked for one next to his. But I’m not the guy who can drop five grand like it’s lunch money. I could barely rub two nickels together, and there I was, sliding my card to the cashier because a starlet called me “baby.” Five thousand dollars. Gone. Just like that.

I’ve told this story to one friend, and he never lets me forget it.

“Mr. Gold,” he says, “you’re the only guy who can hang out with Bruce Willis, Wesley Snipes, and Colin Farrell and still come off like the doofus with the empty wallet.”

And he’s right.

I learned something on that trip — about proximity and illusion, about how thin the line is between genius and doofus.