Real rocker or faker? Who cares, art is key to life, giving us fun and love
HOLLYWOOD, Calif. — You never know who or what you may see along Hollywood Boulevard in never-never land.
One Saturday my then-husband, Alex, and I decided to escape life for a few hours and head over to Mann’s Chinese Theater for a movie. Alex accidentally took a wrong turn and instead of going down the street with the “secret” parking entrance, he deposited us into the chaos that is Hollywood Boulevard on a summer weekend.
It was a beautiful day in the City of Angels; the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, our windows were down and a soft, mid-70’s breeze was drifting past, but all I noticed were the hordes of out-of-towners slowly — oh so slowly — crossing the street, until Alex looked over at me with mild surprise, then softly exclaimed, “Alice Cooper.”
I followed his gaze out my passenger side window and there, in broad daylight, was Alice Cooper — the upper half of his torso sticking out of a white 1980s-style limo!
Alice Cooper, who by the time I was only a glowing spot in my mother’s womb, was already a 30-year-old rock legend with a stage show that featured guillotines, fake blood and boa constrictors. He went on to co-found a drinking club called The Hollywood Vampires, become an avid golfer and — gasp — a born-again Christian!
This Alice looked pretty much the same as his iconic image, older, a bit weathered, yet somehow preserved. He looked, ironically, just like an aged vampire.
He wore a top hat and a white tux, and coming up from below the moon roof were dozens — and I mean dozens — of disembodied female hands writhing all over his tummy.
I smiled at Alice and he smiled at me, then he politely asked, “How’s it going?”
I blinked and responded, “Hey Alice Cooper.” Blink, blink. “You having fun up there?”
“Oh, yeah.” He replied with a slight grin and small nudge at his top hat, happily letting the headless hands flex on his body. I’m sure a camera crew was somewhere in the traffic following behind, but who knows, maybe this was just the way Alice rolls.
I laughed and looked to Alex, my own rock star friend, and couldn’t help but compare them. Taking in Alex’s angelic 27-year-old face and old-soul eyes, he was my ideal of a real artist, where music is art, necessary and pure. And Alice? Well, I couldn’t help but think “Phony.” I mean Alice Cooper isn’t even his real name.
But is there really a difference?
Because any form of art is one of the greatest gifts we can give.
In this world of chaos and traffic, markets go up and down, marriages break up and we all grow old, but one thing that holds us all together is fun; to laugh, to dance to love.
The rest is just opinion, and really, who cares if it’s real or not?