Rock Stars Eat Sushi

On Friday night I stepped away for take-out. A Frisbee-sized burger for me. Sashimi for Liz. Since both restaurants are in the same center, I stopped at Dalton’s first, bellied up to the bar for a hefty shot of Woodford Reserve and a couple draughts, and placed my order. It was a nice relaxing forty-five minutes. A brief respite from a week of work and Em responsibilities. I was able to unwind, people-watch on the sly, catch 3 rounds of a lightweight fight, and ignore a fool seated to my right. From Dalton’s I walked to Tokyo and took my place in line behind a guy with longish hair, a black jacket, and black sweats. Instinctively, I knew he was a rocker. Nashville is delightfully full of relocated rockers. I often see them when I’m grocery shopping. Dressed in black and wearing rocker sunglasses, they are entirely at ease in this easy town. You see them and note a nagging familiarity that you can’t quite place. Then you put it behind you and go about your shopping. As the Tokyo rocker politely moved away and took a seat by the wall, I had a faint idea who he was. The waitress rang up my order and took my card. She made sincere eye contact with me—not her style. She then motioned with her head at a signed Cinderella picture—circa 1986, all glam and pouty lips—hanging on the wall behind her and quickly pointed to the rocker. I cocked my head and said, “Yeah? I thought so.” The waitress was simply giddy. She offered me his autograph (which I unsuccessfully declined) and news that he had a new baby. I had been prepared for nonchalant mutual acknowledgement and a graceful exit. But instead I had a brief conversation during which I felt unnecessarily foolish—if only because it was forced. At least I managed not to squeal pixie-like, “Tom Keifer, you fucking rock, dude!!! You guys were my favorite of all the hair bands. Stephen Pearcy and Ratt? Bret Michaels and Poison? Kip Winger? Those guys got nothin’ on you, Tom!!!” The guy was a prince, truly. I mentioned the time I saw him in Augusta, GA in 1986—1st tour. “Yeah. With Bon Jovi,” he said. In me, he no doubt saw a harmless aging fan suddenly reliving a pinpoint thrill of his youth. And in the reflection of that fan’s eyes, perhaps, he spied an even older former rock star, belting Rock Blues to thousands, the tail-end of a decade belonging to him. We talked briefly about the singular joy of fatherhood. We shook hands and I let the man alone. On my way to the Jeep, I noticed that I had a little something extra in my step and a grin on my mug. I glided home in a haze of pleasant nostalgia. I’ve been grinning since Friday. Somebody Shake Me, I’m too old to feel this young. But I’m young enough to appreciate it.

Oh, and Tom Keifer, You fucking rock, dude!!! Ahem, I mean a real pleasure to meet you. And thanks for the autograph.