Hey, remember phone books? Not the ones in your smartphone, people; the ones delivered to your door once a year by Pacific Bell and weighed approximately forty-three pounds. The ones that were iron-clad and attached to a phone booth (remember phone booths?) by a thick steel cable. 

Where was I going with this…? Oh yeah – Stan Lee. You may know him as the shredding guitarist from such bands as The Dickies and…um…The Dickies.

Well, around 1990 or so, I decided to look Stan up in the San Fernando Valley White Pages. (Not a race thing.) Imagine how many Stan Lees were in there. Dozens of columns of Stan Lees. Being stoned out of my mind and having plenty of Lik-M-Aid candy powder on hand, I sat down and tried to figure out which one would be his phone number. Was he even listed, being an icon of superstardom in punk rock? I was about to find out. With a pink-stained index finger and strained eyes, I began dialing Stan Lees. I could eliminate many because some were with “Mr. & Mrs. Stan Lee.” Nope. Some had addresses in fancy neighborhoods. Nope. I knew he lived in The Valley, somewhere.

In fact, they all had addresses (a stalker’s dream come true).

Except one.

Just “Stan Lee” and an (818) area code.

Could it be? I had a good feeling about this.

I dialed the number, and as it began to ring, I held my breath…waiting…one ringy-dingy…two ringy-dingy…three ringy-dingy —DAMMIT!—- four ringy-di—

“Hullo?” 

A quiet voice. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

“Stan…?”

“Yeah…?”

“The Dickies’ Stan?”

“Yeah.”

(Fuck yes, people, we have Stan fuckin’ Lee on the phone! I hadn’t thought this far ahead. The fanboy in me kicked in.)

“You don’t know me. I’m Fysh, and I just saw you guys at The Palomino!”

(So much for smooth, dig?)

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! You were fucking great…as usual…you guys KILLED ‘Keep On Rockin’ In The Free World’! I loved it!

(Calm down, Fysh, for fucksake.)

“Oh yeah…Leonard doesn’t wanna play that one anymore.”

“Oh…that sucks.”

“When are you guys playing again?”

“I’m not sure yet. Who are you…?”

“Oh, I’m just a Dickies fan. Fysh”.

“How did you get my number?”

(UH-OH.)

“I found you in the white pages.”

“Hmm…I thought you hadta pay to be listed in the white pages.”

“No, you gotta pay not to be listed.”

“Oh….”

(Time to get off, Fysh…hurry up before you really get too stupid.)

“Well, Stan, you take care, man…I’ll see you next time.”

“Cool. Bye.”

I sat there thinking, “Stupidstupidstupid…!!!”

Ah well…that was kinda cool. Fucking smeared Lik-M-Aid all over the page.

I tore the page outta the phone book and stashed it away for future reference. 

So about six months later, I decided to call him again. 

Aside from specifics, the conversation was pretty much the same as last time, ending with him asking how I got his number.

Suffice it to say, I made a few more calls over time, and it always ended with Stan being perplexed about how not to get listed on the white pages.

My last call to Stan was around 1993. I was stoned as usual, but this time with grape Pixy Stix dust all over my fingers. (What is it with dyed sugar products that prompt me to call the guy?)

Again, the conversation went something like this:

“Hullo?”

“Hey Stan, it’s Fysh. I picked up your new CD yesterday at Tower.”

“New CD…?”

“Yeah…’ Road Kill’…?”

“They released that?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know. At Tower?”

“Yeah. Make sure you guys are getting paid for that.”

“Who is this…?”

“It’s Fysh. A longtime Dickies fan.”

“Oh, cool. How did you get my number?”

Knowing what was coming next, I stifled a laugh and replied,

“Outta the white pages.”

“I thought you hadta pay to get listed in the white pages…”