“The Border – Los Angeles, October 1990”

“Where are you traveling to today?” 
“Los Angeles.” 
“Proof of Citizenship?” 
“Canadian.” 
“I said, ‘Proof of Citizenship.’”

I pulled out my driver’s license.

“This just proves that you have an Alberta driver’s license. You don’t have to be Canadian to have an Alberta driver’s license…” 

This… was news to me. 

“I need proof that you’re a Canadian. Birth certificate. Passport. Something. Anything…” 

Honest to God, the only other piece of I.D. that I had was a Blockbuster Video card. 

What’s more embarrassing is that I honestly figured my Blockbuster card would more than suffice. 

So I gave him the card. 

“Are you kidding me?” 
“No sir.” 
“Do you mean to tell me that you think that a Blockbuster Video card will assure me that you are Canadian?” 
“No sir… I’m sorry, I had no idea…” 

The only thing that I assured him of, without having to say another word, was that I was a bonafide dumb ass. 

“Alright. Come with me.”

The next thing I knew, I was in a back room, with an Immigration Officer who, rightfully so, was convinced that I was a moron. 

“So, tell me again. Where are you going?” 
“I’m going to a Songwriting conference in Pasadena…” 
“Ok, so why are you bringing a guitar? Are you playing any shows, are you working while you’re in America?” 
“Well, ummm, no, I’m not working or playing any shows, it’s just that I always travel with a guitar…” 
“You know what? If I let you in, I don’t believe that you are coming back to Canada.” 
“Oh I am, sir… I’m playing in Barrhead next week starting on Monday night…” 
“I don’t believe you. Open your suitcase for me.” 

I opened my suitcase. 
He dumped it on the table and started rifling through it. 

As he was going through my suitcase, they called my flight. 

“PASSENGERS FLYING TO LOS ANGELES ON AIR CANADA MUST BOARD IMMEDIATELY.”

“You don’t have anything to hide, do you? Are you trying to find work while you’re in Los Angeles?” 
“No sir.” 

He took out my toothpaste, took the lid off, and emptied all my toothpaste… 

I was a nervous wreck. 

“Nervous? What are you so nervous for?” 
“I’m scared I’m gonna miss my flight…” 
“It’s not my fault you can’t convince me that you’re ever coming back to Canada…” 
“I wish I could convince you, sir. But I AM flying back here Monday afternoon. I’m playing in Barrhead next week…” 
“Right. Ok. Sure. Now. So what’s with all the cassette tapes?”
“They are demo tapes for record companies…” 
“I thought you said you weren’t working in Los Angeles.” 
“I’m not.” 
“Maybe not, but these tapes are for the purpose of you securing a job in the USA.”
“I’d never thought of it that way, sir.” 
“Well, that’s the way I see it.” 

“PASSENGERS FLYING TO LOS ANGELES ON AIR CANADA MUST BOARD IMMEDIATELY.” 

At that point, I was resigned to the idea that I was not getting on that plane when the officer says, 

“I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’m gonna let you get on the plane.” 
“What? Really?!?”
“Yes. But you’re gonna need to leave your guitar and all your tapes here. You can pick them up when you return to Canada next week.” 

At that point, I didn’t care, because I was going to Los Angeles!

“You better pack up your suitcase, you’re gonna miss yer flight.”

I was in a mad scramble throwing everything into my suitcase. 
My copy of Lonesome Dove
A couple pair of Levis
T-shirts. 
Denim shirt.
Flannel shirt. 
My wallet. 

“My wallet!!! I’d better grab my wallet”, I thought to myself. 

So I did. 

I also grabbed my copy of “Lonesome Dove”. 

“And because I’m in a good mood, I’m gonna allow you to take ONE cassette tape with you.” 
“Thank you so much, sir. I really really appreciate it.” 
“And well you should…” 

I grabbed one cassette and threw it in my suitcase. 
I left the other 19 demo tapes behind with my guitar. 

“And well you should…” he says to me.
What a prick!
I sprinted through the airport and ran on the plane. 

Everyone golf clapped as I made my way down the aisle looking for my seat.

“Excuse me. Sorry about that. Excuse me, excuse me. Can I sneak in right there? That’s my seat by the window there. Thanks, sir. Excuse me ma’am.” 

I sat down buckled my seatbelt, exhaled and, for the first time in about two hours…

I started to relax. 

About 3 minutes later we were roaring down the runway. 

About 3 and a half hours after that, we touched down at LAX.

I couldn’t believe it. 
I couldn’t believe that I was in Los Angeles, California.
A city I’d dreamed of since I was a kid. 
I was always obsessed with Los Angeles.
I still am. 
The movies.
The TV shows. 
The weather. 
Everything. 

We all got off the plane and made our way to the baggage carousel. 

Half an hour later, everyone on my flight had collected their bags and went on with their day. 

Except me. 

I waited. 
And waited. 

I went to the Air Canada desk to ask about my suitcase. 

“Were you late getting on the plane?” 
“Yeah, I got held up in Immigration…” 
“They’d probably already closed up the belly of the plane. Don’t worry, it’ll be on the next flight out later this afternoon. Where are you staying while you’re here?”
“The Sheraton in Pasadena”. 
“Ok, great. We’ll get your luggage to you this evening.” 

I went to the Information booth and asked about where I’d go to get a bus to Pasadena. 

“You just missed it. The next one’s in an hour. Go out there and wait by the curb. Get on the first bus that says “Pasadena”. Tell ‘em what hotel you’re staying at and they’ll drop you off right at the front door.” 
“Ok. Thanks!”

I walked out of LAX and took my first breath of Southern California air. 
It had a more than a touch of smog and a little more than a hint of diesel fumes, but I loved it just the same. 

I remember thinking, “Man, it’s a good thing I grabbed my wallet out of my suitcase, I’ll tell ya…”

But I did grab my wallet.
And that wallet had 200 bucks cash in it.
I was in L.A. baby! 

You couldn’t punch the smile off my face. 

Next thing I knew, I was on the bus to Pasadena. 

Everywhere I looked I saw beautiful people driving beautiful cars. 
Blue skies and palm trees. 
James Dean types weaving in and out of traffic on Harleys. 

No helmet. 
Ray-Bans. 
Cigarette. 

America. 

Perfect. 

I felt like I was in a movie.

About an hour later, I checked into the hotel. 
It was beautiful. 
I couldn’t believe how amazing everything was. 

Again, I felt like I was in a movie. 

As I was checking in, I told the guy behind the counter that my luggage would be arriving later in the evening. 

“We’ll make sure it gets to your room, just as soon as it gets here, sir…” 
“Thanks, man!” 

I went up to my room. 
Turned on the TV. 
“Family Matters” was on. 
“Sorry Urkel, I’ll check in with you later…” 

I turned off the TV and headed towards the elevators. 

As I was walking through the lobby and out into the California evening, I stopped at the front doors and talked to the doorman. 

“Hey man, I’m expecting my luggage to be dropped off here in the next little while…” 
“Yes sir, Mister Mike. Ain’t nothing yet, but I’ll keep an eye out for it, Mister Mike…” 
“How’d you know my name?” 
“Front desk me told me that your luggage was gonna be dropped this evening, Mister Mike”.
“Thanks man! What’s yer name?” 
“Right here on the tag, Mister Mike. My name’s David, Mister Mike…”
“I guess so, David. Nice meeting you…”
“Nice meeting you too, Mister Mike 

I walked off into the night. 

I took in the sights and smells of my first evening in Southern California. 
I wasn’t hungry, so I just walked and walked and walked. 

Beautiful, immaculate muscle cars were rumbling up and down the street. 
Corvettes. 
Mustangs. 
Cobras.
Camaros. 

You name it. 

Harley Davidsons galore. 
Again, James Dean types. 

I remember standing at traffic light. 
Muscle Cars purring. 
The smell of Marlboros. 
The sound of cicadas in the distance. 

I felt like I was in “American Graffiti”. 

As I was standing there I thought to myself, 
“Man, that Immigration Officer was right. If I could stay here forever, I would.” 
I did not want to leave.
I wanted to stay in that place, 
in that scene, 
in that night… 

forever. 

It was all I could do not to run away. 
Just walk down the street and disappear. 
I had that feeling once before, 
when I was 15… 

Orlando, Florida.
July, 1983. 

My aunt Claire was attending a weeklong teachers conference and I went along for the trip. 

She was busy all day, every day and most nights too. 

That was fine with me, I just wandered around Orlando. 
I loved it. 
Fifteen years old and flying solo in Florida. 
What’s the catch? 

I bought my first pair of checkerboard Vans. 

I remember one day, I was in an arcade down the street from the hotel. 

It was full of kids my age. 
Locals. 
They were living a life I’d only really seen on TV. 

Every kid was like a character in a movie. 

I felt like I was in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”. 

I’m not sure what character I was. 
But as much as I wanted to be Jeff Spicoli, I was probably closer to Mark “Rat” Ratner. 

Regardless, I’m pretty sure that no one in the arcade that day remembers me at all. 

Guaranteed. 

I remember I was playing PacMan when “Every Breath You Take” came on the jukebox. 
I loved that song. 
Over by the pinball machine, a couple kids my age were making out in the corner. 

Then “Beat It” came on the jukebox. 
I loved that song too.

The guy stopped kissing his girl and started singing…

“They told him don’t you ever come around here
Don’t want to see your face, you better disappear
The fire’s in their eyes and their words are really clear
So beat it, just beat it…” 

I remember thinking, “I could just take off. No one back home will ever see me again. I’ll live here in Florida. I’ll get a job working at a Wendy’s or something…” 

Anyway, I was lost in thought, thinking about my time in Orlando, when someone brapped their Harley at the light at the corner of Hudson and Route 66 in Pasadena California. 

I snapped back to the now. 

I crossed the street and walked into a record shop that was right out of “High Fidelity”. 

Canterbury Records.

I browsed around.

They were playing the new Vaughan Brothers album “Family Style”. 
Stevie Ray’s last album. 

I grabbed a copy of it, along with the new Paul Simon album “Rhythm of the Saints” and the Robert Johnson boxset, “The Complete Recordings”. 

When I reached for my wallet, again I thought to myself, “Good thing I grabbed my wallet otherwise, I’d still be wandering around LAX, if I didn’t have my wallet…” 

On my way back to the hotel, I stopped at a convenience store and bought a toothbrush, toothpaste and some deodorant

I took my time making my way back to the hotel. 
It could’ve taken a year, for all I cared. 

I was loving life.

The sound of sprinklers. 
The smell of wet grass. 
The smell of hot asphalt. 
The sound of cicadas. 

“Hey, David! My luggage show up, yet?” 
“No sir, Mister Mike. No sir.” 
“Well alright, hopefully, tomorrow…” 
“Yes sir, Mister Mike. Yes sir. It’ll be here tomorrow morning, I can feel it, Mister Mike. I can feel it.” 
“Well ok, man… Have a good night! I’ll see you tomorrow.” 
“You bet, Mister Mike. You bet. I’ll see you tomorrow. Alright alright.” 

I disappeared upstairs. 

Sleep. 

I dreamed I was in California. 

When I woke up… 
I was in California. 

After a quick shower, I ran downstairs for some breakfast. 
Scrambled eggs and toast.

I got a coffee to go, and walked out the front door. 
I inhaled the cool California morning air deep into my lungs. 

Cool.
Fresh. 
Citrus. 

I walked through the courtyard to where the conference was taking place. 

I wasn’t really sure what to do. 

I had no guitar.
I had no demo tapes. 
I really had no point in being there. 

But at least I was in California. 
And that… 
was pretty cool.

There must’ve been a thousand people with guitars milling around out front. 
Groups and clusters of people hanging out, laughing and talking about music. 

As someone who went to seven different schools from Grade 7 through to my second lap around Grade 11th., this was a scene that still, to this day, makes me extremely uncomfortable. 

To this day, even when I walk on stage, I still feel like an outsider. 
It’s all I can do to walk through a club.
I’m not nervous to play, I’m just nervous to walk through the room. 
I feel like the new kid in class walking to the back of the classroom trying not to draw attention to myself. 

I walked through the crowd trying to not make eye contact with anyone. 

I went and sat on the steps that lead up to the conference center. 

I watched all the people socializing. 

Some things never change. 
Once an outsider… 

If I had a cell phone back then, I’d have been scrolling my newsfeed in an attempt to appear busy. 
But I didn’t, I had my wallet (thank God) and was rifling through it, pretending to look for something. 

Then in a Texan drawl, I heard… 

“Hey man, do you know where registration is? Had I known I could’ve just walked in for free, I’d’ve saved me the entry fees…” 

I looked up and saw this guy standing in front of me. 
Jeans. 
T-shirt. 
Cowboy boots. 
Long hair and beard. 

If Jesus was a Texan he’d have looked like this guy. 

“Ahh, hey man, yeah, I think it’s over in there…” 
“You mean you haven’t registered yet either?” 
“No, man. Not yet.” 

I didn’t feel like telling him my adventures. 

“Well, if you wanna, we might could go over there and see what’s what…” 
“Yeah, sure man.”
I stood up and we started walking over towards registration. 

“The name’s Gene.” 
“Hey, man. Nice to meet you. I’m Mike.”
“Nice to meet you, Mike. Where you from?” 
“Canada.” 
“No kidding.” 
“Yep. You?” 
“Dallas, Texas.”
“No kidding!”

Up to that point in my life, I’m not sure I’d ever met anyone from Texas. 
As much as California, I was fascinated with Texas as well. 

My favorite writer, Larry McMurtry, was from Texas. 

So many of my favorite songwriters were also from Texas. 

My favorite movies “Giant” and “The Last Picture Show” both took place in West Texas. 

“Man, I’ve always wanted to go to Texas. Did you ever cross paths with Stevie Ray Vaughan?” 
“Yeah, man, poor Stevie. So sad. No, I didn’t know him, but I sure saw him a lot over the years…” 

We stood in line and started to make small talk. 

Eventually, I told him about my grief at the border. 

“Now listen. Mike, are you telling me that they took your tapes? Your fuckin’ demo tapes?” 
“Yep. They sure did.” 
“Man, that’s just not right…” 
“Yeah, I know, but…” 
“How many tapes?” 
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen fuckin’ tapes! Fuck that. That’s wrong. He can’t do that.” 
“Yeah, well… he did. He let me take one tape with me but that was it.” 
“So, yer here with one fuckin’ demo tape?!?” 
“Well, it’s in my suitcase and my suitcase conveniently didn’t seem to make the trip…” 
“Oh man. I can’t believe it. We gotta do something.”
“Nah, man. It’s ok. I’m just happy to be here.” 
“No way, man. You gotta stand up for yourself, Mike.” 

I was embarrassed. 

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I thought a Blockbuster Video was a legit second piece of ID. 

When we got to the front of the line, Gene said, 

“Mike, you gotta tell ‘em your story…” 

So I did. 

Within an hour, I was the most famous person at the Pasadena Convention Center. 

Everywhere I went, people were coming to up to me, to say hello and saying stuff like, 

“Hey man, I heard about how you had to leave your tapes at the border…” 

A couple hours later, I was sitting in the back row of a conference room listening to a Q and A with Glen Ballard, when a guy sits beside me and whispers, 

“Hey man, I heard that the government destroyed all your guitars and demo tapes at the border… Fuck those guys, man…” 

Yeah. 
The story kinda got blown out of proportion a wee bit. 

Later that day, another guy came up to me and said, 

“Hey man, I got a recording studio just off Sunset. Let’s get a bunch of us together tonight and we’ll re-record your songs, so you can have something to play for the publishers tomorrow…” 

As much as I was blown away by the offer, I declined. 

I figured I’d just enjoy my weekend in California. 
Take in a couple Music Industry seminars. 
Check out a “Pitch-A-Thon” or two. 

A “Pitch-A-Thon”? 
Huh? 
What the Hell is a “Pitch-A-Thon”? 

Well, let me tell you… 

A “Pitch-A-Thon” was a “Who’s Who” of Music Publishers and they were all there looking for songs.
Good songs. 
Hit songs. 

People would start lining up to pitch their demo tapes at 6am. 
The songwriter would get to the front of the line, submit their tape and run off to another publisher, stand in line and do the whole thing all over again.

Some people would be able to get their demos to 8 or 9 different publishers each day. 

If you’ve ever watched the audition process for American Idol, you know what these “Pitch-A-Thons” were like. 

Publishers would take demo tapes from 7 until 11. 
Later that afternoon, in conference rooms all over the campus, the publishers would listen to these songs in front of an audience of anxious songwriters. 

That’s where the fun began. 

The conference room was full of nervous songwriters. 
At the front of the room were two people sitting at a table.  
The publisher and his assistant. 

The assistant would say something like, 
“Song number 27 is called “I Love You So Much I Could Puke!!!”

He’d press play. 
We’d all listen with a keen ear. 
Nice little piano intro… 

“I love you so much I could puke. 
I love you more than Daisy Duke…” 

Thirty seconds into the song, the publisher would say “Nope. Garbage. Next.” 

I couldn’t believe how harsh he was. 

I mean, he was correct in his “Nope. Garbage. Next” analysis, but Christ, a little bedside manner goes a long long way… 

I noticed a guy slinking out of the room. 

“He must be the writer of “Song Number 27”, poor bastard…” 
All day long.
Just harsh criticism.

“Thank God, I don’t have my demo tapes here… I couldn’t hack it.” 

Then Gene’s song was up. 
Thirty seconds. 
“Nope. Not a chance. Next!!!” 

“Fuck, man… Sorry, he didn’t take your song…” 
“It’s alright. Let’s get out of here. Go get some fresh air.” 

We took in a couple more music business seminars and called it a day. 

“Hey Mike, I’m heading back to the hotel, shower up and maybe head down to Sunset Strip. You in?” 
“Are you kidding? I’ve never been. Yeah man, I’m in!!!” 
“Alright, I’ll pick you up at 7.” 
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” 

I walked back to the hotel. 
I still couldn’t get over the fact that I was in California. 

“Hey, David! My suitcase show up yet?” 
“No sir, Mister Mike. No sir.” 
“Yer kidding?” 
“No sir, Mister Mike. No sir. I can’t even imagine where your luggage is, Mister Mike. But it can’t be too long now, Mister Mike. It just can’t be.” 
“Well alright then. No big deal. I’ll check in later.” 
“Yes sir, Mister Mike. Yes sir. I’ll keep an eye for your suitcase and when it shows up, I’ll bring it right up to your room, Mister Mike.” 
“Thanks, David!”
“Yes sir, Mister Mike. Yes sir. You have a good night now, alright…” 
“Thanks, David…” 

I went upstairs and showered.
Leafed through the liner notes of the Robert Johnson boxset. 

Thirty minutes later, Gene and I were roaring west along the Ventura Freeway. 
Windows down.

I’d never been more alive. 

Next thing I knew, we were rolling west on Sunset. 

It was everything I’d imagined. 
It was exactly what you’d seen on TV. 

Hot rods rumbling up and down the strip. 

Everyone looked famous. 
We drove up and down the strip a couple times and took in the sights. 

We hung a left off Sunset and started driving up this steep and winding street.
I noticed that there weren’t a lot of houses on the way up the hill, but didn’t think twice. 

When we got to the top of the hill, I realized it wasn’t a street after all. 

It was someone’s driveway. 

At the top of the hill, the road opened up to a sprawling estate and there was a full-on Hollywood type party going on. 

A sea of beautiful people mingling around. 

In a parking lot of Jags, Bentleys and Rolls Royces, our little Hyundai Accordion stood out. 

Thirty seconds later, we rolling along Sunset. 

Laughing. 

I lit a Marlboro. 
“Scratches his head and does his best James Dean…” 

We drove around for a couple hours. 
Up and down the strip. 
Through Beverly Hills. 
I felt like I was in a movie. 

I felt like I was in a song. 

“LA, Hollywood, and the Sunset Strip 
Is something everyone should see. 
Neon lights and the pretty pretty girls 
All dressed so scantily…” 

We started making our way back to Pasadena. 
We took a wrong turn and ended up at a gas station in East LA. 

As much as we didn’t belong at that Hollywood party, we did not belong here either. 
I suddenly felt like I was in a Tom Waits song. 

“Romeo is bleeding
But not so as you’d notice.
He’s over on 18th street as usual
Looking so hard against the hood of his car
And putting out a cigarette in his hand
And all the Pachucos at the pumps
At Romeros paint and body
They’re all seein’ how far they can spit
But it was just another night
And now they’re huddled in the brake lights of a ’58 Belair
And listenin’ how Romeo killed a sheriff with his knife…” 

Ten minutes later, we were back up on the 5 and making our eventual way to Pasadena. 

Windows down. 
Another Marlboro. 

Next thing I knew I was walking up to the front doors of the hotel. 

David was walking across the parking lot towards his car. 
Shift change. 

“Sorry, Mister Mike, nothing yet. They must’ve sent your luggage to Minnesota or something, Mister Mike…” 
“Yeah, it’s ok. Maybe tomorrow. Have a good night, man!” 
“Yes sir, Mister Mike. You know I will, Mister Mike, you know I will.”

I couldn’t believe the day I’d had. 

I didn’t even care about my missing luggage or the fact that I had no demo tapes. 

I was having the time of my life. 

Sleep. 

I woke up the next morning at 10:30. 

With no demo tapes to submit for listening, there was no real point in going to the conference center until the afternoon. 

I showered, went downstairs, had some breakfast and decided to go for a walk. 

On my way out the door, there was my pal David working the front door. 

“Good mornin’, Mister Mike! Good mornin’, indeed!“ 
“Hey, David! How was yer night?” 
“Oh it was good, Mister Mike, it was good. I just went home and went to sleep. I had to be here bright and early, Mister Mike.”
“Let me guess… No sign of my luggage yet, huh?” 
“No sir, Mister Mike. No sir.”
“Well, alright. No problem. Have a great day, David!”
“You too, Mister Mike. You too.”

I walked out and down the street. 
Everything was bathed in a golden light. 

Except the sky, 
which in the mornings, 
before the smog kicked in, 
was a Photoshopped blue. 

I didn’t want to go home. 
Again, I thought about running away. 

I’m sure there was a Wendy’s looking for someone to work the Drive-Thru. 

Eventually, I made my way back to the conference center. 

I was more famous than I was the day before. 

It seemed that everyone wanted to talk to me about how my cassette tapes had been burned and my guitars smashed to smithereens. 

I didn’t have the heart to tell them any different.  
and besides… 
Why let the truth get in the way of a good story? 

Eventually, I crossed paths with Gene and we hung out the rest of the day, going to various seminars and “Pitch-A-Thons”. 

Man, these publishers were brutal in their critiques of the songs they were hearing. 

I was still very happy that my songs weren’t around to be torn apart. 

“Song number 73 is called ‘It’s Not You, It’s Me (Ok, I Lied, It’s You)’”.

“Turn. It. Off. Please. Now. Who wrote this song?” 
“I did, sir.” said someone from the back of the room. 
“Where are you?” 
“Back here, sir.” 
“Oh. There you are. Who’s that singing on the demo?” 
“That’s my sister, sir.” 
“Ok, well, listen. The song needs a lot of work and she didn’t do you or the song any favors. Actually, she ruined the song. She’s not a singer. Don’t let her sing anymore. NEXT!” 

WOW. 
HARSH. 
JESUS. 

All day long. 
I didn’t see one song get picked. 

“Isn’t it a pity? 
Isn’t it a shame? 
No-one ever warned the boy 
Rock ‘n’ Roll is a vicious game…” 

Gene and I had decided to check out what a Saturday night was like on the Sunset Strip. 

I was outside smoking a Marlboro, talking to David, when Gene pulled up to the front door. 

“Alright, David, I’ll see you tomorrow, alright…” 
“No sir, Mister Mike. No sir. Day off tomorrow.” 
“No kidding. Well, I probably won’t see you before I leave, so thanks for all yer help.” 
“My pleasure, Mister Mike. My pleasure. I sure hope your suitcase shows up before you go home, Mister Mike.” 
“Me too, David. Me too.” 

We shook hands and I jumped in the car. 

I waved as we tore off into the night. 

Thirty minutes later, we were cutting laps on the Sunset Strip. 

Tower Records. 
Whisky A Go Go. 
The Roxy.
The Rainbow. 

As we were rolling by the Roxy, I noticed a long line up down the street. 

I looked at the marque. 

“Tonight – Steve Earle and the Dukes!”

“Gene! Pull over, man! Fuckin’ Steve Earle’s playing at the Roxy tonight!” 

We pulled into the Rainbow/Roxy parking lot on two wheels like Smokey and the Bandit. 

I ran out to the sidewalk. 

The lineup was all the way down the street. 

I went to the ticket booth. 

“Are there any tickets for the Steve Earle show tonight?” 

The ticket taker looked at me like I was a moron. 

She pointed at a sign in the window. 

“Tonight’s Performance Is Sold Out.” 

In between smacks of her gum, she gave me this look that said “If I could kill you and get away with it, I would.” 

She must’ve been related to the Immigration Officer back in Edmonton. 

“And well you should…” he says to me. 
What a prick. 

“Shit. Ok. Thanks.” 

I was walking back to the car and Gene came walking around the corner. 

“Show’s sold out, man.” 

We walked down the street. 

The song “Danger” by Mötley Crüe kept going through my head. 

“You’re in danger and this is my town 
This is Hollywood…” 

We walked into an old “hole in wall” type bar. 
There was a bartender, a waitress and one guy down at the corner of the bar. 

They were all right out of Central Casting. 

We sat down at the bar. 

“What’ll it be, fellas?” 

I ordered a Crown and Coke.
Gene ordered water. 

“What brings in ya tonight, fellas?” 
“Just figured we’d stop in for a drink.” 
“Where ya from?” 
“I’m from Dallas Texas and Mike here’s from Canada.” 
“Canada? Is it cold up there yet?” 
“Yep.” 
“First time to Los Angeles?” 
“Yeah, man.” 
“Welcome to town! What are you gonna get up to tonight?” 
“Well I would’ve liked to go see Steve Earle at the Roxy, but it’s sold out. Maybe we’ll go see what’s happening at the Whisky A Go Go…” 

Just then, the guy down at the corner of the bar, pipes up… 

“Who’d you say’s playing at the Roxy?” 
“Steve Earle.” 
“Never heard of him.” 
“Hey Jimmy, let me use yer phone?” 

The bartender, who I assumed was named Jimmy, handed him the phone from behind the bar. 

The guy talks on the phone for about 2 minutes. 
He hangs up and says, 

“Yer in.” 
“Yer kidding, right?” 
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” 
“Nope.” 
“Good. Because I’m not. What you need to do is go to the Rainbow. Do you know where the Rainbow is?” 
“Yeah, it’s next door to the Roxy.” 
“Exactly. Go to the Rainbow and ask for Tony. Tell ‘em Tony sent you. Now I told him that you guys are friends of mine from Dallas, so if I were you, I’d keep my shut, because he’ll know yer not from Texas as soon as you open yer fuckin’ mouth.” 

We pounded our drinks and hoofed it to the Rainbow. 

We walked up to the front door and the bouncer says, 

“Ten buck cover and a two-drink minimum.”
“Yeah, we’re here to see Tony. Tell him Tony sent us.” 

I had to bite my tongue to keep from smiling. 

I couldn’t believe how the night was unfolding. 

Only in Hollywood. 

Two minutes later, out walks this “Robert Deniro in ‘Casino’” type character. 

Slicked back hair.
Armani suit. 
Rolex. 
Gold bracelet. 
Pinky ring. 

“You guys friends of Tony?” 
“Yes sir.” 

I nod in agreement. 
I ain’t saying “shit”. 

“Come with me.” 

We walk across the parking lot and Tony makes small talk with us.

“You guys in from Dallas?”
“Yes sir.”
I nod in agreement. 
I ain’t saying “shit”. 

“Good town. Love that town. Best steak I ever had was in Dallas.”

We walk up to the ticket booth and the ticket taker looks at Tony and as sweet as can be, says, 

“Hey Tony! How’s things over at the Rainbow tonight?” 
“Everything’s good, sweetheart. Thanks for askin’. These guys are with me.” 

She looks at me and I give her a look that says, “Remember me?” 

We walk into Roxy and the show’s about to start. 
Every step of the way, people are saying “Hey Tony! How’s it going?” 

The crowd parts for Tony. 
He’s like Moses. 

We walk right up to the front of the stage. 
He stands there with us for a minute or two. 
He’s looking around. 
His eyes scanning the room. 
The whole time he’s adjusting his tie and his cuffs. 

Everyone knew that Tony was in the room. 

He lights up a cigarette. 

The lights go down. 
Showtime. 

Before the band even hits the stage, he drops his cigarette on the floor, stamps it out and says, 

“Enjoy the show, boys.”

Then he turns around and walks out the door. 

It was too much to wrap my head around. 
I couldn’t believe it. 

Only in Hollywood. 

I didn’t have time to process just how bizarre the last 30 minutes of my life had been, because Steve Earle and the Dukes hit the stage and blew the roof off the dump. 

I was going crazy. 

“I volunteered for the Army on my Birthday. 
They draft the White Trash first, around here anyway…” 

Two hours later, we walked out of the Roxy and made our way back to Pasadena. 

My ears were ringing as we rolled down Sunset. 

With the windows down and a fresh Marlboro, life was never better. 

Thirty minutes later, I made my way back up to my room. 

Exhausted. 
I didn’t even turn on the lights. 
I just walked in and fell on the bed. 

Sleep. 

Deep, deep sleep. 

I woke up at 10:30am. 

At the foot of my bed was my suitcase. 

Wait?
What? 
When did this happen? 
Am I dreaming? 
I must still be asleep. 

There was a note on my suitcase… 

“Mister Mike! 
Look what showed up right after you left! 
Better late than never. 
Take care, 
David.” 

Holy fuck. 
I couldn’t believe it. 
I could not believe it. 

I jumped in the shower. 
Put on some fresh clothes. 
Grabbed my one and only demo tape and sprinted out the door. 

I ran into the convention center and to where everyone was lined up to submit their songs for the “Pitch-A-Thon”. 

I only had the one tape. 
Which publisher should I submit my music to? 

My eyes scanned the room. 

I saw A&M Publishing. 

I knew that Bryan Adams was on A&M Records, so I figured if it was good enough Adams it was good enough Plume. 

I stood in line. 
I saw Gene walking by. 

“Gene, my fuckin’ suitcase showed up last night!” 

I got to the front of the line with about five minutes to spare. 

Song number 93. 

The next couple hours were a blur. 

I skipped the day’s seminars and went and had some breakfast with Gene. 

“You know, Mike, I don’t even need to hear your music. I think we need to get you to Dallas and record an album.” 
“Are you serious?” 
“Shit yeah, man. I can tell already we’d make a great fuckin’ record.” 

I’d never really thought I’d hear something like that. 
Up until that moment, it had been a dream. 
It still seemed like the longest of long shots. 

A&M’s “Pitch-A-Thon” started at 2pm.

I was a nervous wreck. 

I’d seen how these publishers destroyed other songs.  
Absolutely punished them. 
Relentless. 
Ruthless. 

“Song number one…” 
“Nope. Next.”
“Song number two…”
“Absolutely not.” 
“Song number three…”
“Maybe if I wanted to tank my career…” 
“Song number four…” 
“Only if I wanted to get run out of town…” 

And on and on and on… 

He’d listen to thirty seconds of the song, form an opinion and move on. 

The entire weekend, I didn’t see one song get picked by a publisher. 
I heard a couple, “This isn’t bad but needs some work.” 
But that was about as glowing a review as I heard all weekend. 

Slowly the song number count got higher. 

“Song number 63…”
“Song number 64…” 

I felt like I was waiting for my execution. 

Finally, they got to my song… 

“The next song is song number 93 and it’s called ‘Joe’.”

It’s a song I wrote about a kid in jail named Joe and it’s a conversation between him and his dad on “Visitors Day”. 

The assistant pressed play and the song starts… 

“Joe, Joey my son. 
Just tell me it wasn’t you, who did everything the jury said you done…
Now, Joe, you’re an innocent man. 
Hell, you’re too young to be tried like a man. 
But the jury they don’t understand that you’re my boy…”

Thirty seconds go by and the song is still playing. 

The first chorus comes and goes. 
Now we’re into the second verse. 

I’m thinking, “He must REALLY hate this song and he is going to let me have it when it’s all over…” 

He ended up listening to the entire song. 

As the song faded, he said, 
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if this song’s a hit. I just don’t know. But I do know this. I love it. It’s the first truly original song I’ve heard all weekend. Wow! Well done. Who was that?” 

The assistant said, “That song was written by Mike Plume from Bonnyville Alberta, Canada”. 

At that point, you could hear a murmur through the crowd. 

“It’s that guy from Canada…” 

Everyone started clapping. 
It escalated to a standing ovation. 

“Stand up, Mike! Take a bow!” 

I stood up. 
I didn’t bow, but I waved. 

It was like the movie “Rudy”. 

It was a sea of high fives and back slaps for hours. 

I, all but, got carried out of the auditorium on the shoulders of all the other songwriters there that weekend. 

Twenty-four hours later, I landed back in Edmonton. 
I grabbed my guitar, my 19 other demo tapes… 

and drove to Barrhead.

I never saw David again. 

Mike Plume
July 24, 2020