The Skateboard Is Dead
Welcomes Its New Am Morrissey
It was upon leaving The Cat and the Fiddle, a Hollywood English-style pub, with two friends, Aaron and Allan, that I made eye contact with the shy Manchester poet sitting quietly in the dark corner of the beer garden with two companions. "Holy shit!" I said once we were on the curb, "That was Morrissey!" In utter disbelief, Aaron returned to the beer garden and nearly walked right up to Morrissey before returning and saying, "You're right. Nice call."
I went and got my camera and asked Aaron to take a picture of me with my idol. Allan said, "you should pull your dick out for the photo." I heartily agreed, but as I approached Morrissey's table, all feelings of adversity left me, and I felt as if I were a little girl. Without saying his name, I extended my hand and squeaked, "I'm a big fan of yours." I noticed that one of his companions was a young Asian girl, his other guest I'm at a complete loss to which sex it belonged. He took my hand and shook it limply. His hands were soft. "Would you mind if I took a picture with you?" I asked, but before I had even finished the question, he was already rising. There was a weariness in his eyes and movements, like he had answered this request a million times before. Later, Allan would say, I used to think Morrissey was a prick, but that changed my opinion of him. He stood up to have his picture taken with you. That was really cool."
Aside from the ravages of time, of which I thought this gentle man would forever remain immune, and the gray in his hair and sideburns, he looked exactly how he was in the countless pictures I've seen of him. He was smartly dressed in a pair of jeans, with a green wool sweater pulled over a white collar shirt.
As I put my arm around him and drew him to me, I asked, "So, what are you doing in L.A.?" What else could I say? "Just having a drink." He said in his cute little Manchester accent.
After the picture was taken, I thanked him and despite my yearning to sing Smiths' lyrics to prove I was indeed a fan, I waved goodbye. But before I left, a peculiar thing happened. I turned and said, "I love you." I love you? What the fuck? I never say shit like that. True, I do love Morrissey, but you don't say that to someone. I mean dudes don't say that to dudes.
I've thought deeply on the incident, and I've decided that Morrissey has magic powers over men. He can make men fall in love with him. I know it sounds strange, but how else could you explain the countless number of men who have rushed the stages of his shows and kissed the little man, given him flowers and no doubt professed their love to him? I've decided this is not a bad thing, and I have given myself over to my love of Morrissey and his magic powers; in so doing, I have made him the first am on the Whale Cock team. You will be mesmerized by his magic powers and fall in love with Whale Cock skateboards.