This was the first time I’d made the trek out to Jojo’s final resting place. I had this daydream in my head before I got there that I’d kneel down and spill out all my troubles to Joey. Then, a flash pot would go off a few feet away and there he’d be, my childhood hero, in all his spindly, awkward, blue ghostly glory.
“Joey,” I’d respond with a gleam in my eye. “Please come back to life. Please come back and hang out with me while I get my life in order. We’ll have so much fun playing video games and drinking Dr. Pepper and watching ‘Night Court’ reruns…don’t go back to Heaven, please!”
“Ahm sorry, Jay Gee Tew, but I must go now. Remembah, all Richie wanted wuz summah dat t-shirt money…T-SHIRT MONEY!!”
Nothing like that actually happened (probably because my friends John and Dave were with me; hey, Obi-Wan never appeared to Luke while anyone else was around, right?). I reached Joey’s headstone and immediately felt weird. I mean, here I was, basically standing on top of Joey Ramone’s body. I kept shifting around because I felt like I was being disrespectful. There were a number of stuffed bunnies surrounding the grave. I guess Joey was into rabbits.
Words failed me as I stared at this big gray slab with the name Jeffrey Hyman chiseled into it, “Beloved Son and Brother, A.K.A. Joey Ramone, Rock & Roll Hall of Famer.” All that kept running through my head was “Man, Joey. Joey Ramone, right here in front of me. Dead. I wonder what he looks like down there.”
“Joey, what’s God like?”
“Kinda like Don Rickles. A real bawl-bustah.”
“Cool.”
James’s Crawling Ear will be back next Wednesday; in the meantime, you can read his last column here.
