On Thursday, January 5, 2017, a new radio show began broadcasting behind the pearly gates, just in time for afternoon drive, if Gabriel and the crew observe such things. They’re probably calling it “Fun for Eternity,” and it’s hosted by the one-of-a-kind James “Bimbo” Brewer. I’m not sure who he handpicked for his co-host, but Carrie Fisher would not have been a bad choice. He probably opened the program by saying something like, “Carrie, I love you in those ‘Star War’ movies (yes, he’d miss the ‘s’), but why did they make you tie your hair in those black Cinn-a-bons?”
You wouldn’t have heard George Michael, Prince, or David Bowie on that broadcast. No, other than Carrie, Bimbo’s show would have been about regular angels, not “celebrity” types. Bimbo loved humanity, and in particular, the quirks in humanity that made each of us stand out. Like Jack Benny, Ray Romano and Jerry Seinfeld, he was quite happy to sit back and let the people around him make the entertainment, while he could just enjoy it along with his audience.
When I arrived at WDUN a quarter of a century ago, one of my first assignments during daylight hours was producing Bimbo and B.J. Williams on “Fun at Four and Five.” B.J.’s predecessor, Harris “Bubba” Blackwood, handled co-hosting AND producing duties before my tenure, but management figured that the show was so “loose” anyway, there was little that a greenhorn producer could do to damage it further.
I don’t know why, but Bimbo trusted me immediately. Initially I assumed that he figured that I was management’s gamble, not his. But I grew to appreciate this fact more and more as I began to get a feeling for how important this program was to him.
Bimbo was the epitome of the local boy. He knew and loved everybody in town, and everybody and town knew and loved him. He saw the value in two hours of radio real estate carved out for folks to hang out as they would at the country store in days of old, whittling on a rocking chair, or engaging in a semi-serious game of checkers. Unlike the talking heads that populate our airwaves now, Bimbo’s show was never about him. Unlike “Seinfeld,” it wasn’t about nothing. “Fun at Four and Five” was about you. About us. About people who wonder why their garbage always weighs more than the groceries did. Why we park in driveways and drive on parkways. Why the hot dogs come in packs of eight and the rolls in packs of six. After ten hours of broadcast anger and frustration, it was an oasis … a gentle smile and a pat on the back for listeners who have just finished another work day.
Bimbo presided over the proceedings like a traffic cop. For most of the run, we never screened our calls, we just trusted Bimbo and his sidekick, Bubba, B.J., Stevie Doss, or a slew of fill-ins (my favorite was his brother Fred) to either encourage them and play along, or make the best of it and summarily dismiss them. And for the better part of a decade, Gainesville came to play. It was a glorious cast of characters. Local author and artist of “Mark Trail,” James Allen was “Collins,” a reprobate from the small, fictional town of Collins, Mississippi; a town so small that the fire department was an eight year old bedwetter. To the chagrin of a prominent Gainesville citizen, her husband would call in “in drag” as Miss Tweety, to the delight of Bimbo, who loved being in on the joke.
I was, in short order, dubbed “Wild Willy,” and was encouraged to participate as much as any co-host. Bimbo was tickled by this, because in terms of wildness, I make Bob Newhart look like a crazy man. That just added to the fun. Every now and then, I’d sneak in a zinger, usually at Bimbo’s expense, and while he’d admonish me on the air, he’d also give me a sly wink of appreciation as I’d segue us to break.
One of my favorite memories of Bimbo put the trust he had in me to the test! I was producing a matinee Atlanta Braves game, when our receptionist came into the studio and asked if I would like to meet the stand-up comedian Gallagher, of “Sledge-o-matic” fame. I said, “Sure,” and in no time flat, I was shaking hands with not one, but TWO of my heroes from stand-up comedy. Gallagher was with his buddy, the late Biff Maynard, who had recorded a novelty country song, and they saw our tower and wanted us to play the song. Gallagher was in town for a performing gig the following night, so I told him that, if he would come in and do the show tomorrow, we’d play the song for him once per hour.
The next day, Bimbo came into the studio and I told him that the show was in the bag. Gallagher will be here. Bimbo was puzzled. “Who’s Gallagher?” Bimbo had never seen the wild man in the crazy striped shirt, the hippy hair and the suspenders, and when the man himself walked into the control room, Bimbo’s complexion turned to the shade of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Stevie and I were howling. Needless to say, we all had an amazing time that afternoon, and Gallagher, at one point between guffaws, turned into the microphone and said, “I can’t believe we almost missed doing this show!”
Another memorable show featured personal heroes of Bo's, TV cowboys James Drury and William Smith. While we did traditional-type interviews with our infrequent in-studio guests, we always went back to the listeners for their participation and feedback. And our guests seemed to appreciate the slower pace of our show ... actual semi-intellectual conversation that wasn't confined to five minute infobytes.
During newsbreaks, Bimbo would leave the studio. He was not the type to sit still that long without talking to somebody. He’d wander about the station and gossip with the best of them. He’d stroll back in with less than thirty seconds to spare, and commiserate with me about how the local news just keeps getting longer and longer. Then it was back to business.
Not all of Bimbo’s talent, though, was improvisational comedy. He was a skilled writer. For a year or so, we surrounded Paul Harvey’s noonday cast with a news hour, which we peppered with smaller segments, and one of them was all Bimbo’s. We called them “Ramblings,” and they sounded like just that. His carefully worded scripts sounded off-the-cuff and natural, and I spent many a happy hour knocking off weeks’ worth at a time in our recording sessions. When he’d run low on material, he’d ask me for ideas, and it was fun to see him turn some of them on their sides. One of my favorites was one that he called “Angels in our Lives.” No, these were not the winged type that he’s palling around with today … these are the Angels like Jim Rockford’s Angel … the buddy who always hangs you out to dry, but you’re always there for him anyway. Another was about how nobody named Fred is ever a bad guy. It’s a shame that he never followed through with the suggestions that we gave him to publish these essays. They were that good.
One dark day, it was decided to pull the plug on our little afternoon playground, and our station went pretty much wall-to-wall politics. A business decision, to be sure, but it felt to me that we were betraying the audience that had been so loyal for so long. Bimbo and Stevie did another few years of the show on another station, but eventually folded there as well. Bimbo spent the final years of his life in public service, working with crime victims with the Gainesville Police Department, among other things. To the very end, his love was the people of Hall County.
I only ever saw Bimbo one more time after that. It was in the produce aisle of Giant, possibly a dozen years ago. I had gone in for one thing, I can’t remember what. But we stood and talked together for forty minutes catching up. It was like we hadn’t seen each other for a long weekend, but nothing more. I wish I had had the chance to talk with him after my divorce. I would have appreciated his counsel, because his insight on the foibles of humanity was immense.
When Bimbo was called home yesterday at the age of 74, I was at home for lunch, cuddling with my bosom companion, Casey, my terrier mix. Bo would’ve liked that. At 2:10, my eyes went from her belly to my wall clock, but it wasn’t for another hour or so that I knew why. Bimbo Brewer had moved on to his next assignment.
I grieve for his wife Nancy, daughter Erin, brother Fred and all of their family. I grieve for myself who has lost a part of my past that I had hoped to hang on to forever. But most of all, I grieve for Collins, Miss Disheroon, Miss Tweety, Garnet, Jabbo, Bradley, and the countless other characters and callers who, like me, miss that oasis in the ether that was a gentler brand of radio. I’m not sure who his producer is today, but I like to think that he’s doing nothing more than keeping my seat warm. And I’m betting Jabbo’s on hold right now.
