Now I do have to thump on Lance Armstrong

It's official, Lance Armstrong and I are going to have to tangle, that is if he shows his skinny little biker's ass in Portland during his "fiancee " Sheryl Crow's concert this month. I knew this might happen, but now it's certain.

Yea, I know they are reportedly engaged, but I know from personal experience that engagements don't always culminate in weddings. So I was still holding on to my Sheryl Crow-will-be-my-wife/lover/sugar momma fantasy.

I realized the other day, while buying tickets to Sheryl's upcoming concert that I somehow missed the release of her new album last month. The things you miss when you don't have a newspaper subscription and are completely out of touch with pop culture. So, anyway, I decided to stop by Best Buy today on my way home and pick up Sheryl's album “Wildflower” and Sara Evans' album, “Real Fine Place, ”which was released today.

Speaking of Sara, she of course is going to abandon her husband for me once we finally actually meet, but I'm not going to get into that right now. Because this post is about Sheryl. And me. And kicking Lance Armstrong's ass. And I won't want to look like a fickle, disloyal fantasy lover. So, let's, for now, just forget I brought Sara up. I still luv ya Sara, but well, you are out of state and will be in between tour stops in North Dakota and Illinois when Sheryl’s in town and...

Wait. Where was I?

Oh yea, so I bought Sheryl’s new album. I was flipping through the liner notes, having a good-ol’ time while the CD played when I discovered that part of the album was recorded at a studio in Portland. I took this as a further sign that Sheryl and I are destined to get together.

And then it hit me, like a bicyclist slamming broadside into a moving car. It was right there. In the dedication.

“To Lance with deep love and appreciation, this record is for you.”

So that’s why I have to kick Lance’s ass. Celebrities and sports superstars getting engaged is one thing. That happens all the time. Those never last. But putting something in the liner notes of an album? That stuff is with you forever! You can't take that shit back!

Of course I can’t blame Sheryl, because she is, well, perfect, so it has to be that Lance guy’s fault. So, he has to pay!

OK, so Lance is younger than me by about 6-7 years. And he’s a world class athlete. But, it’s the principle of the thing. OK, so I concede that Lance would probably kick my ass and use by bones for bicycle spokes. But I can’t just stand for this insult!

You see, Sheryl and I have a history. She doesn’t know anything about it, but it’s completely real if only totally imaginary.

The first time we met, I was driving my ’88 Honda Prelude down a narrow, winding road to Coquille on the Oregon Coast. Or maybe I was coming back from Coquille. Anyway, doesn’t matter. I was driving. Coquille was involved. The Prelude was there. The sun was shining, which was a rarity on the Oregon Coast, so maybe that’s why the memory is so vivid, except for the parts that are a little vague and nebulous. I’m driving down this road and this song comes on the radio. This voice. This tune that just wouldn’t get out of my head. A goddess with a light, airy voice was singing of sights and quirky characters inhabiting Southern California, making them sound funny and sad and stranglely heroic all at once. The song was “All I Wanna Do,” and as quick as you can say "until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard" I was head over heels for Sheryl Crow.

Sheryl’s “Tuesday Night Music Club” CD was probably the first non-country music CD I bought in years. And she is one of the few artists of whom I have all their CDs in any genre. OK, so she’s only had seven albums in 11 years, and I ended up buying three at once a few years ago because Sheryl and I lost touch for a while, but I came back Sheryl, a bigger fan than before. And besides, just what were you doing with Eric Clapton when I wasn't looking? Let's not point any fingers missy!

Anyway, “Tuesday Night Music Club” was my transition album. I was a fan while still living in Oregon, but after moving to Southern California in 1995 and spending time in some of the places she sings about on the album, like aformentioned Sunset Boulevard, Las Vegas (even Barstow) the album and the collage of photographs on it took on a newer, deeper, different meaning to me. The lyrics were made real by seeing, experiencing, some of the places that inspired the words and melodies.There were photos of signs on the album cover and liner notes and the photos themselves were signs of a fate and a destiny yet to be realized.

I remember lying in my bed in my Mojave Desert apartment, listening to songs like “Leaving Las Vegas” and my imagination would drift off. I would daydream that Sheryl, tiring of all the celebrity attention and rat race of L.A., bought a place in the desert (hey, it wasn’t unheard of, Roy Rogers lived there and, um, well, um, some other celebrity or other whose name escapes me).

So, anyway, Sheryl bought a place in the high desert and we met somehow. I think I had won the lottery or something and moved to a more upscale part of town (because anyone flush with lottery winnings and record sales cash would obviously gravitate to Victorville or Apple Valley, Calif.) and we ended up as neighbors. Anyway we hit it off. And I became her lover and fulltime tour and studio photographer, traveling with her. And when we weren’t on the road, we seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time lounging by the pool at her house or my desert home, or her L.A. home. And often we would take late night roadtrips to Vegas, shouting the lyrics to “Leaving Las Vegas” as we drove through Barstow on Interstate 15, and laughing like hyenas. We could of taken our private jet, but singing the lyrics wouldn't have been the same while flying over Barstow.

It was an elaborate storyline, played out over a long span of time. Well, except sometime in there the role of Sheryl was played by Terri Clark. But now Terri just got married, so we don’t need to get into that whole heartbreak.

Mostly it was Sheryl. Always it was Sheryl. Even if she sometimes was taller and wore a cowboy hat. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

And that’s why I’m going to take my little yellow “Live Strong” bracelet and stretch it over Lance’s head and strangle him with it.

Well, after getting his autograph. And telling him what an inspiration he is.

Then he’s going to pay! Sheryl will forgive me though.

Won’t she?

Hell it’ll be my 40th birthday, she’ll have to. Temporary insanity. It’s totally defensible.

Right?

Sheryl Crow
Lance Armstrong
Sara Evans
Terri Clark
Music
Fantasies