I am the Lizard King...I can do anything...

I’m not the Lizard King, but Jim Morrison was before he kicked the eternal baguette. He died in Paris in July of 1971...just two months after I was born. If I had known then I would’ve tried to convince my parents to take me to one of his concerts. But it probably would’ve sounded like this: Googabaga burfamalapooga. And so naturally my parents would’ve figured I was trying to utter one of their names instead of begging them to fly me to Paris to watch the Doors perform their final concert.

And because I lacked a coherent vocabulary at two months (not to mention clairvoyance) my only option was to wait until adulthood and visit Jim’s grave at the Père-Lachaise cemetery in Paris. It’s a pretty modest grave for the American Poet—a thief stole the marble bust that used to sit atop the headstone—and it’s surrounded by a bunch of dead people Jim never knew. Grumpy French security officers guard the site throughout the day and night, as it has become a popular hang out for those daring enough to sneak into the cemetery late at night to party with the Rock God. Once I witnessed a teenage girl sobbing over his grave, her tears spilling onto the piles of joints left by fans.

This particular time I was with Petra. It was my fourth visit with Jim, but it was the first picture I ever got. You see, I was cursed the other three times. The first time, I was with my friend Marc and when he snapped the picture there was a feeble little click and the film began to rewind; naturally, the picture never came out. The second time I had a camcorder. And as I was approaching Jim’s grave, with the film rolling, the battery died. And the third time I was with my friend Maki (see The Old Gang) and once again I had my camcorder. As I was getting ready to film the grave, a French officer shouted: “Ne filmez pas ici!” No filming here!

But on this day in October of 2001, just one month after 9/11, I found Jim’s grave virtually empty of people. I checked the camera—the batteries were working, there was plenty of film, and the French officers looked away with little interest. I knelt beside Jim’s grave while Petra steadied the camera. And thirty years after Jim’s death and my birth, I got my picture with the Lizard King.

By the way, the Greek inscription at the bottom of the headstone reads: KATA TON DAYMONA FAYTOY. FIGHTING THE DEVIL WITHIN.