Ooooooh, I was such a mean little monkey, leaving you hanging like that. But we have come to the PENULTIMATE story. Hold on to your butts, kids.
NYC, 2000, Tom Waits: I was at Tom Waits. Life
could not be better. This is my music GOD, people. I was beside myself.
I had AMAZING seats, due to an act of a deity (okay, it’s because Tom’s
father in law works with my mother) but STILL! Amazing seats! So it was
already the most rock and roll moment of my life. But then…OH THEN.
A couple takes the aisle seats, and I look over to giddily say hi to the woman next to me, when I realize who her companion is.
Are you ready?
I mean, REALLY READY?
Keith. Richards. KEITH RICHARDS is sitting next to me. TO ME!!!! I
whip my head around to my friend with enough force to give me whiplash
to make sure I’m not hallucinating, but his mouth is agape. It’s really
happening. Keith Richards is totally my seat buddy at Tom Waits.
I spend the pre-show time chatting with his lovely wife (she liked
my shirt!) and trying not to stare at Mr. Keith. Dudes? He looks like a
wood carving. A wood carving with the gnarliest dreads ever. A wood
carving who had a personal runner bringing him very strong screwdrivers
the entire night. And he was sitting NEXT TO ME. Oh god, I’m getting
giddy just thinking about it.
So THEN! It was almost showtime, and ooooh boy, I was skedaddling to
the ladies room then, because I was not MOVING once the show started.
So I excused myself from my conversation with Mrs. Keith Richards, (my
friend was long forgotten at this point) and scootched out of the row.
And then it happened.
Keith fucking Richards takes my ass in both hands and leads me out
of the row. And he says, as he is CLINGING my ass, "Aw, you’re alright,
you’re alright" as I apologized profusely. Why was I apologizing as a
rock god was groping my ass? I have no idea. But I was very passionate
about it! Sorry Mr. Richards! Sorry you’re…MASSAGING MY ASS?
I whipped my head around AGAIN, and my friend, who was dumbstruck
before, is barely able to keep from falling out of his seat. I
scampered to the bathroom, rocketed back, and we had yet another grab
ass session as I made my way back to my seat.
And then the show rocked, and I cried like a baby, and Keith
Richards drank a lot and left before the encore, and no one’s ass got
touched again, the end.
And THAT, my busy little bees, is the most rock and roll thing that ever happened to me.
PS: And I once had a very lovely conversation with Artimus Pyle from
Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I was concentrating so hard on not screaming "You
were WOUNDED! In a PLANE CRASH! And ran to a farmhouse in the SWAMP to
help your FRIENDS! And they SHOT at you!!!!" that I can’t remember a
thing about the encounter. Luckily, I have a picture!
Could I look more maniacal? I was excited.