One Step Closer to Jackson Browne

Some of you may be aware of my decades-long crush on Jackson Browne. Sure, sure I like his music (more so in the early years). And yeah, I love that he’s a passionate humanitarian with leftist politics, blah blah blah. But I’ve never gotten over my swooning, teenager-ish crush on him.  At various times in my life I'll catch up on what he’s up to, thank you, internet, and especially thank you You Tube. I loved when he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and have it recorded on a VCR tape. I don’t have a desire to meet him, just to marry him. I don’t think about him much these days, but my mood lifts when I unexpectedly hear one of his songs on the radio.

A few days ago I was driving with Ruthe and her aunt Diane. We met up in Guerneville, CA and Diane took us to the coast, to the spot where the Russian River feeds into the Pacific Ocean. The day was overcast and cottony dollops of fog sat atop the surrounding hills. Diane and I had just met, so at some point I asked about her background. Originally from the DC area, her family moved to Fullerton in Orange County, CA when she was a child. I asked her “Do you know Jackson Browne?” The most I was hoping to get from that question was impressing her with my knowledge that a famous celebrity hailed from her home town.  “How did you know? I went to high school with him and we were really good friends. I could tell you just about anything you wanted to know about him."  “Uh, how about his phone number, could we start there?”

Diane summed up her entire past friendship with “Jack” in a few sentences, then moved on to chatter about the ocean or the rocks or the river, or WHATEVER. I wasn’t listening to that crap!!!! As my heart raced and my excitement felt trapped inside her gigantic Honda Ridgeline, I patiently explained that I wanted a l-o-n-g, d-r-a-w-n-o-u-t, detailed, embellished account of her past with Jack. Thankfully, she was a good sport and I admired her non-show-offy style. 

I felt a little guilty for my inability to rise above that fixated, drooling, starstruck, Jackson Browne-induced, zombie-like state, rather than drinking in the grandeur of the craggy shoreline and, later, the awesome redwoods at Armstrong State Park.

Not too guilty.

[please forgive me for the following insiders-only funny anecdote]: I couldn’t wait to tell my mother the Jackson Browne story. She’s the only one who would truly appreciate it, since she knew me when I was a teen. She was duly astonished and loved the story. Later she called back and said that she knew an interesting fact about Jackson Browne, which I may not know; that he’d changed his name as a young man. His original name was Jack Brownstein.