Jimmie England

I want to talk about my friend Jimmie England. No, not this guy , I don't know who that guy is. The Jimmie England I know hauls cases of beer for a local beer supermarket. Yep, it's a supermarket that only sells beer....it's kind of a favorite spot. I feel peaceful there, my head is clear, my thoughts are pure.

Anyway.

Jimmie hauls cases, he drives the funny little vehicle that picks up pallets. A pallet picker. And he wears the uniform of his past glory days. Spandex tights, thigh high platform boots and sparkly shirts. He's practically incoherent from the massive amounts of mescaline and due to the 50 pounds he's packed on since the glory days, he's quite a sight in the spandex.

I watch him balance two cases on his head, teetering in his platform boots, I think of the Jimmie England. That fab glam rocker who almost gave Bowie and T Rex a run for their fame. Cutting the air with his Stratocastor like a samurai. Whirling and swirling in a cloud of glitter as the frenzied crowds just get more frenzied. The drugs were better in those days weren't they? Strutting across stage, in better fitting spandex. Ah Jimmie...where have ya gone?

If only he had chosen to tour Europe instead of Iceland. There was no reason to insist that his music only be released on 8 track. No reason to put all his money into the pet rock boom. No reason to pee on Elton John's shoe. But he did.

And now... Personally I'm thankful the drugs were so strong. Jimmie has no idea where he is and I doubt he remembers. Except every once in awhile I catch him strutting, playing air guitar, lips moving. And I wonder...does he feel it, just like it was in the 70s? Does the brain-dead glam boy ever entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, he'll be invited on the next Glam Rock Reunion Tour? And the beer and pallet picker and the teasing neighborhood kids can all go to hell.