ANGELS

Polly and I were having breakfast at The Belmont this morning when a man entered and sat a few tables away against the banquette facing us. He had on a Motley Crue t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, a full beard, sunglasses, a Big Black Hat, one hand wrapped in bandages and studded cowboy boots. Between them all, the only part of his face I could see was the tip of his nose. Rock Star. Bordering on Crazy Biker but Crazy Bikers don’t generally order three dollar cans of Coke and smoke American Spirits. Really Old Worn Out Rock Star. I guess. I know there’s a famous guitar store down the street but what the fuck do I know about Rock Stars? Or Bikers for that matter? I’m a Queen who happened to be wearing a black shirt.

He pulled a CD player from his bag and a black 3-ring binder filled with pages of discs which he took out and began arranging on the table. I never saw him actually play one but he pored over the pictures. I noticed Polly was staring at him like she was a little afraid and he laughed.

“She’s a pretty thing! Hound dog! Hell, back home we used them for hunting.” It’s hard to picture Polly doing the whole “Beverly Hillbillies” Thing, especially with a fear of Big Hats. “Yeah, that was back in the swamps in Jacksonville. Back before, you know, the Plane Crash...”

Wait a second... I grew up in Jacksonville, Florida! Wait a second... what Plane Crash? I must have looked stunned or retarded because by way of explanation he took off his hat and smiled real big, kind of shaking it in his hand like a vaudeville act. This must be the Big Reveal, the Punch Line and I better politely step up to the bat real fast. “Oh yeah!” I vaguely exclaimed. Think, think, think...

He reached in his bag and handed me a CD. There it was : Lynard Skynard. Oh... “Freebird”, “Sweet Home Alabama”, countless keg parties in High School, proms, stoners, rednecks. Drunk preppy white High School boys standing around a keg, sweating, arms over a shoulder as they all sing heartily to the songs. You bet your ass Local Band Makes Good was gonna play big. Jocks love that music. Me, not so much. I was listening to Patti Smith and Rufus. Southern Rock embodied every reason why I wanted to get away from Jacksonville.

However, I was not going to let that cloud my judgment now. I was sitting with a Cultural Icon. One that was missing some teeth and grizzled beyond belief, but still... he had contributed in some odd way to My Story and the least I could do was hear some of his. And hear it I did, for about the next hour. God, he loved telling it and I’d watch him burst out laughing, saying stuff like “Shit” and “Can you believe it?”. I thought it would have made a great movie and indeed his band is in LA to make a film with Peter Fonda.

The movie I was seeing, the Live Version, wasn’t linear. It was a Dream he had about his life where lines were nonexistent.

...the Real story, the story of What Happened, Dennis Hopper, Sam Elliot, 14,000 bikers, Cher, the Plane Crash, he was always sad after that, Robert E. Lee High School if you know what I mean, Southern Comfort, gators all over the back yard, yeah, you know I thought you looked familiar, going up to the Rainbow, this girl band, Punk, you know kids doing their own thing and she said to me you were always how I wanted to drum, can you believe that and she was a pretty little blond thing too, Judd Hirsch, Breakfast Club, this big ol’ bud, man I’d want him in the movie too, you should give me your number, come by while we’re jamming and shit...

At one point he pulled out a white card and handed it to me. It was a photograph cover, like you get if you have your picture taken by a wandering camera man. The front was shiny white cardboard smeared with (I hoped) red lipstick. Inside was a picture of the Rock Star with a tall blond chick in a tight white dress. Around the edge she’d written “You are a FREEBIRD! XOXO Sandy” with her Toll Free Cell Number scrawled on one side. On the back in Black Sharpie was scrawled BIRTHDAY PARTY and 30. Secret Rock Star Stuff. The next card would say DRUMMER and 26, the next BOOBS and 33. I was holding an Actual Groupie Artifact. Almost Famous without, you know, the Made-Up Plot and Actors and Catering. Starring... me!

I never did quite understand his name. Even if he’d said it, it wouldn’t have meant much to me. He talked about how everyone was dying, “So-and-So” in the Plane Crash, “So-and-So” had Triple Bypass. “I’m fifty-five years old and Jimmy said to me last week, buddy it looks like you’re the one who’s going to carry Southern Comfort on into the future.” Ain’t it the Truth? God, he looked eighty but not an ounce of waste. This wasn’t someone who said “No” to whatever happened. He did not Settle and Regret, saying years later “Damn, I wish I’d done that.” Mid-fifties and riding Harley's, playing in a Band and hanging with Peter and Dennis. Starring with me and Polly in My Movie. Wringing and wringing Life and sucking out every drop.

Why the fuck not?

2:41:51 PM    sro home /