Joey Ramone in Denver with my friend Eric. 1977.
 
Okay, if you follow my posts on Dangerous Minds you know I’m a hardcore Ramones fan. Along with The Clash, Patti Smith and Television, the Ramones defibrillated my rock n’ roll heart in 1976 with their debut record - 14 songs pounded out in under 30 minutes.

With the exception of some glam bands, reggae, jazz cats and old blues re-issues, I wasn’t listening to music in the early 70s as fervently as I had during the psychedelic Sixties. But the year 1976 changed all that. When it came to rock n’ roll it was a very good year. And The Ramones first record made it a very very very good year. I was so knocked out by the “brothers” from Queens, that I started my own punk band, The Ravers, and a year later opened for The Ramones in a small club in Denver.

In 1977, The Ravers re-located to New York City and I spent almost every night at either CBGB or Max’s and my band played both clubs countless times. It was inevitable that I’d come to know Joey Ramone. While we were by no means best friends, we did share more than a few beers with each other and passionately exchanged our views on the one thing that mattered most to us: rock music.

Joey was a shy guy, almost painfully so. But if you gained his trust and he got comfortable with you, he was a wonderful person to talk to - smart, with a dry sense of humor and a sweet disposition. I liked him…a lot. And I miss him and Johnny and Dee Dee profoundly.

When rock n’ roll is your religion, as it is mine, you feel a deep debt to the indispensably essential artists who rescue the music during those critical times when a combination of greed, narrowmindedeness and apathy threaten to destroy what means so much to you. I measure my life not in years but in increments rooted in memories of a string of epiphanies related to rock, sex, drugs, books and movies.

I have forgotten so much over the years. But there are things I’ll never forget, things wrapped around my DNA tighter than a cock ring on John Holmes’ pecker: my first fuck, my first introduction to Kerouac’s On The Road, the first time I saw El Topo, my first acid trip, my daughter’s birth (definitely a rock n’ roll moment), and the first time I heard The Ramones. Like gods hovering over Olympian mountains, these memories loom large in my brain and lodge themselves in my body like invisible visceral tattoos.

It may sound shallow to admit to such a pop culture oriented theosophy, but I’m a shallow motherfucker and, as much as I’d like to think otherwise, I’m heavy into the cheap thrills that keep my prick hard, my heart pumping and fuel the ongoing urge to get up in the morning.

Some people draw spiritual sustenance from Jesus and Mohamed. Some from a diet of brown rice and bean sprouts. Others get off on yoga asanas and mega-doses of vitamin B. And then there are the freaks like me who find God in the almighty power chord that resonates thru my flesh and bones transforming my being into a 190 pound tuning fork made of meat, blood and cum. Hallelujah! 

Happy birthday Joey Ramone, you’re a fuckin’ god!