We met one night outside the show for an alternative rock band called Marfire. To this day I’m still unsure if he heard a single song of theirs that night. As I stood in the cool autumn breeze, he asked me for a light. As it happened, I only had a pack of matches on me, which I had gotten from the hotel bar the night before.
“I didn’t know anyone still had matches,” he commented with a chuckle, and we got to talking. Mostly bullshit at first, while he was distracted by every person that sauntered by and into the show, as if he were studying the entertainment habits of a new species.
It wasn’t until I happened to mention that I was a writer, and particularly interested in biographies, that he really even saw me, like a whole new person was standing in front of him.
“It’s pretty clear then that we were meant to meet, and you to tell the story of my ascension into rock history,” he declared and handed me his flask, intended, I think, to cement our new partnership in a bond of bourbon. He then talked at (not to) me like a squirrel with a nut for nearly 15 minutes, about how he was destined for greatness, how his world travels had sculpted him, how no one understood him but they soon would, about punk rock and Motown and Andy Kaufman and his whole plan for his live show, which he would launch very soon, he was sure of it. And then with an affirmative nod, but without so much as a goodnight or goodbye, he turned and disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t hear from him again for two weeks.
It was just after 6am on a Tuesday when I awoke to a call from a number I didn’t recognize with a ringtone I’d never heard.
“I got my tech guys to hack your phone and give me my own ringtone. Cool, huh? Listen I got a bunch of ideas I want you to jot down before they happen…”
The story continues when you subscribe to the Shaggy Palms email list. CLICK HERE to join.