One of my dear, childhood friends is Curtis Stone and the heavens haven’t molded a kinder guy. You know? Me, too. I’m a kinder guy. We’re both kind guys. Even-tempered. But? You know what? Curtis’ baby brother did a dirty on both of us. I wouldn’t advocate the death penalty for Jonathan Stone. Genital cuffs? Perhaps. Marooned on a desert isle? Appropriate. Fitted for an iron mask and locked in a damp, freezing dungeon with nothing but a wet Kleenex as a blankie? Well-deserved.

This happened years ago. Jon Stone kept calling us. Home. Work. Paged in restaurants. Several times daily. Con gusto, Jonathan would hum the theme to the TV Western, “Bonanza,” then hang up. Somehow, pre-internet, he got ahold of the actual lyrics and rapidly sang:

“We chased lady luck, ’til we finally struck ——— Bonanza!! — With a gun and a rope and a hat full of hope, planted a family tree! — We got hold of a pot full of gold, Bonanza!!! — With a horse and a saddle, and a range full of cattle, how rich can a fellow be …?”

Click. Line goes dead. Curtis is a famous Western music star. I’m semi-respected journalist. After the hang-up, miles apart, Curtis and I indulge in a put-upon, heavy sigh, hold the phone up in the air for a little too long, then return to our creative labors like the competent, award-winning professionals we were in our gifted artist labors.

Like some merry serial killer except they’re a serial practical joker, Jonathan would call back, passionately belting out just the notes to the Cartwright merry male ranchers: “Dump-dudda-dump-dudda-dump-duh-duh-duh ———........

© Santa Clarita Valley Signal