A Time for Young Women and Old Rockers

Like Christopher Reeve in “Somewhere in Time” I saw my femme ideal in a photograph. The difference is, I saw my photograph when I was fourteen, and have held onto that image all of these years since. But unlike Reeves, the photograph that drew me in was of a super hot, nude young woman on a rock and roll album cover. Unfortunately, the nude figure on my album cover was pressed against, and nearly draped over, an equally nude man. Surely she couldn’t love that pecker-wood, could she? Not if I could help it!

I had found that photo in my older sister’s album collection those many years ago, which I was prone to raid at risk of death for the Boz Scaggs, Louisiana’s Larue, and Juice Newton (who also had a hot album cover) that could be found in there. The songs on the chosen record were good, not great. My beautiful young woman‘s voice was a little nasally, having a high, goat-like trill that was pleasant enough, but had not yet found the desperation that “Rhiannon” would bring to it a few years later, standing it out in Mick Fleetwood’s crowd.

So, playing Reeve’s game, I surrounded myself in 70’s album rock memorabilia, took a few tokes for old times’ sake, and dropped a hit of the old blood sucking game changer onto the tip of my tongue. If that wouldn’t take me back in time, then what the hell would?

And it worked! I closed my eyes, and Stevie found me, coming all the way through the years; young, not quite demure, buck naked, lured to me by familiar smells and intoxicated thoughts. Lindsay tried to follow her, as always, but together she and I were able to cram him back inside the album’s jacket. We rocked the hours away, Stevie and I, to Sarah, Gold Dust Woman, Landslide and others. Straddling me in my easy chair, her weight on my lungs, her hot breath on my neck, my fingers gliding silkily along her soft, if oft-handled skin, she whispered into my ear, “It’s so good to be back.” And it was good.

So when the music ended, and it was time for Stevie to go, I pulled out my ragged and worn copy of “Simple Dreams,” giving left over time to the lovely and talented Ronstadt to have her way with me as well. It is well that acid trips last so damn long.

God, do I love time travel!

Time! Time is all we want! Is all we need! Sweet, sweet, blessed time. Time to pop another beer. Time to replace my headphones. Time to settle in deeper, thankful for a love making that does not need Time’s little blue pill.