He wrote that song about me.

That’s what I tell myself in my imagination. I always wanted someone to write a song about me. No one ever did.  But this is another one of those it could have happened, sort of, if I stretch it a little, scenarios.

Robert Plant. 

 If you know me, I don’t have to say anything else.

Robert Plant.  

Years ago – a lot of years ago – I lived in Merced, California. I worked two jobs and was full of fanciful notions. I’m still full of fanciful notions, but that’s beside the point. The point is I had a thing for Robert Plant. I still have a thing for Robert Plant and always will.

When I moved to Merced, I got a job working in the mall at Musicland. That was considered a pretty cool job back in the day. It actually pretty much sucked, but again, that’s not this story. Later, I also worked part time in my sister’s downtown cafe, The Corner Coffee Shop – an awesome little place. I liked that job much better, especially getting tips, and most of the regulars were great. Plus coffee. And french fries with ranch dressing, chocolate shakes, and biscuits.

I long for the best biscuits I’ve never been able to find, ever again, now just a beautiful memory.

So here I am working two jobs, one of them being in a quaint little coffee shop in a town in Central California, which could have been any town in California. It could have been in the Southern California desert. It didn’t matter that it was Merced. It could have been any town.  It could have been, oh say, Twentynine Palms.

I had this fantasy that one day Robert walks in for a cup of Earl Grey. I can still smell the bergamot. We get to chatting, hit if off and become fast friends. We keep in touch. We have long and deep phone calls. He comes around between touring. I maybe go for a visit now and then, see him on tour, hang out  back stage or in the studio. All the girls are jealous of the special bond developing between us. He is only interested in me. Romance ensues, and I eventually go off with him, and we have an amazing life together.

I knew then that the fantasy was just as silly as it sounds now, but it’s a fantasy. Aren’t fantasies supposed to be silly?

Sure, it’s a fantasy. I know. If we actually met, maybe we would hate each other, or just be completely indifferent.  I get it. Until we actually meet and have a chance to know who we are, it’s gonna be kinda hard to be friends. Still, it’s my fantasy, and I’m sticking to it. What is life without fantasies, daydreams, and hope?

And that voice….

Robert’s voice is a part of me. He has been with me since Led Zepplin days. I can always count on Robert. I guarantee you, if I am down, and I turn on the radio, within a song or two a Led Zepplin or Robert Plant song will play. It happens almost every time. He has always been there. The memories and feelings that his voice and his music invoke are a major part of me, of who I am, of who I will always be.

Life has a way of carrying on and years later, after I moved away from Merced, I read somewhere that Robert traveled around the California desert about the same time I worked in my sister’s coffee shop. I can’t confirm that, though, and internet searches bring up nothing, so who knows, maybe it never happened. Still what if he had been traveling around Southern California then? He could have come to Merced. It’s just a little ways North of, you know, Twentynine Palms.

So it could have happened, and this song could be about me. 

It describes me so well. It’s exactly how it would have been. Through the desert heat and a yearning heart our eyes meet…. 

But it isn’t about me. Sigh.

I’m still waiting for someone to write a song about me.  Can’t someone write a beautiful, insightful, sexy, romantic, intelligent, catchy, number 1 hit song about me?

I know what I’m going to get, though. If anyone writes a song for me it will likely be my friend, J, and the chorus will be:

“Terry likes butts. Terry likes butts. Oh yeah Terry likes butts.”

In fact the whole song will be, “Terry likes butts,” and won’t have any other lyrics. Just butts, and the fact that I like them. Even though everyone knows it’s J who likes butts, not me.

 J made me this picture because he’s so thoughtful.  Remember, though, J is the one who likes butts, not me.

I’m the one who likes Robert Plant, and his butt is just fine, but it’s his voice that carries me.