Hollywood Hills, CA. January 2009.
I'm not the sort of person who's eager to ambush a celebrity for a quick photo. I've got a long list of famous people who I didn't get my photo taken with. But when you've just had a conversation that lasted an hour or 2, asking for a selfie when it's all over seems dirty. Maybe that's why they don't mind having you around. That being said, as Larry David would say, of all the famous people who I wouldn't mind getting my picture taken with, Jackson Browne might be top 3 for me. It may have been at this very point in the conversation with Jackson that I'm telling him how my friends and I used to absorb and dissect and blast his early albums. In high school I swore I'd name my first boy Jackson. (2 ex-girlfriends and a sister already beat me to it.) We speculated and floated rumors about Jackson's surfing days and we even stuck with him after the stories of his troubles with Daryl Hannah. All I know is, he seems to be a good man trying to live a decent life. He sent Sister Tracy a handwritten note and a card when she was hospitalized right after the accident. If it's even possible to lift the spirits of a 30-year-old tomboy who just found out she'd never walk again, Jackson's card may have done it. When my friend Meri invited me to this party for her daughter Karama, I knew I might have a chance to thank him for his note—and let him know that Tracy eventually ended up committing suicide 3 years after he sent her that card. Tracy, more than anyone in the world, would've appreciated the fact that I was in someone's living room in the Hollywood Hills talking to Jackson Browne about her and San Onofre and a movie I had just seen and loved called Surfwise. (Of course, Jackson knew one of the Paskowitz boys!) This may forever be my favorite Bob With a Celeb pic.