Jim Morrison. In my bed. Watching me. I’d freak.
This supposedly is happening to a woman in Virginia who, along with her mother, moved into the former Morrison home. The daughter – who looks like she probably isn’t old enough to even remember The Doors – says she was lying in bed and she looked over and there was the Lizard King himself, sorta transparent and foggy, staring back at her. Some of the neighbours told them later that “Little Jimmy” used to live there (one neighbour doesn’t even know who he is – “Some musician or something?”) and you can just tell by the look on Mom’s face when asked if she’s jealous that Jim visits her daughter instead of her, that she’d only be jealous if it was the ghost of Frank Sinatra.
Turn me on, dead man. No wait, that was some other dead rock guy.
Okay, look, I know Jimbo was hot in his day and all, but he is – and I would like to emphasize this point - a totally dead guy. Why is this woman not running out of the house screaming? I know I would be, and I totally get why women thought Jimbo was a major babemeister. But, you know, that was when he had a pulse and dropped a lot of acid and wrote really really bad song lyrics and stuff.
(Oh please. Don’t look at me like that. The man was about as much of a poet as a Vogon. Just look at the lyrics for Riders on the Storm – does that not sound like it was written by someone tripping his ass off on the roof of a motel on Venice Beach? Because that was, as a matter of fact, the conditions under which Jim Morrison wrote most of his song lyrics, which explains why they sound like they were written by a fairly weird ten-year-old.)
Man, all I know is if I rolled over and there was some dude lying next to me and I recognized him as Jim Morrison, probably the sexiest man alive in 1968 if People magazine was doing that sort of thing, I mean even if he was the younger pre-overweight, pre-Charles Manson’s-hair-and-beard Jim Morrison, I’d freak and be running so fast out of Virginia I’d be halfway through Ohio by now.
Look, I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Not what to do when you wake up with a ghost, but why it’s a very, very bad idea to sleep with Jim Morrison.
This is, believe it or not, the basis of the novel I’m currently working on. It’s inspired by my Jim Morrison-loving friend Elaine who ran into the Hard Rock Cafe here in Toronto a few years ago to take pictures of Monsieur’s boots when I told her I’d seen them there.
That’s all I can say for now. And that no, it doesn’t involve anyone digging up his corpse and committing weird violations that would horrify even Jeffrey Dahmer.
I’m just saying, it’s a very bad idea to sleep with dead people. Under any circumstances.
And if they’re invading your bed in the house that you and your Mom bought, a house that the dead guy hasn’t lived in since he was a teenager, he should stay the hell out of your bedroom, at the very least, and if he doesn’t, call in the exorcist.
I’d show Mr. some serious Mojo Risin’!
And interestingly, the sites he sent for that other stuff didn’t come across as nearly misogynist and brutal as you might think; at least in the ones he forwarded to me, the female models appeared to either be having fun or at least trying to keep a straight face. (And it must be hard to look terrified when you’ve got a plastic apple in your mouth and are trussed up in a giant turkey pan being shoved into the world’s least-convincing oven.)
