*Just to let y'all know, the mugshot of Mick causes me to go into violent, wheezing fits of laughter whenever I look at at it. Scroll down and take a peek-- damn, I gotta' git it together*
Once upon a wishbone, I moved from Orange County to yonder Chico, a tiny college town out in the middle of fucking nowhere. It's charm lay in the lovely bucolic setting of lush parks and trees and swimmin' holes and the stinky, skunky, stony weed that the locals always seemed to have on hand and in giant bags full. I had moved to such an out of the way place for (what else?) a man... A very nasty, snippy, angry and controlling little man who, at first glance, resembled the Emo Philips of yore.
The way this guy dressed would literally stop traffic as he and I walked through the town. Frat boys in giant, raised trucks would shout "Pants!" or "Saturday Niiight Fever!" when they got a load of my ex's ensemble. Head to toe (no. shit.) purple corduroy- in varying shades, coupled with that hair and a pair of black and super shiny cuban-heeled boots.
Our mutual attraction was based upon seeing one another, up and down the state, at Mother Hips shows. Soon, we began emailing filthy missives to one another from our work computers (I think my I.T. guy was saving them and printing them out) and then we hooked up and I quickly moved in with him, eleven hours north of my previous home.
We would smoke out and drink wine and stay up all night, listening to the 'stones or the Hips or Neil Young. You get the idea. At any rate, this is how we connected. And, one night, after a little too much hash, he got up and began to jerk about and lip synch to "Monkey Man". In my altered state, I thought I was watching Mick Jagger. I made him pause the song and I picked out clothes for him to wear that I thought would be more convincing. When he was done up properly and resumed his little show, I yelled out for him to "strut more" or "get down low and then jump! up!" He did all of this, at my command. I was enrapt.
Alas, I wanted him to do the Mick routine more and more and this made him cantankerous and snippety and he refused. When he asked me "would you leave me for Mick Jagger?" I suppose I should have said "Absolutely not!!" Instead, I asked him "from which era- not the modern day Mick, but from the '60's and 70's? Damn right."
Thus marked the first of many incidents that led to the early demise of our relationship.
You see, only MICK can do Mick. He's fey, campy, saucy, cockney, raunchy, mouthy, skinny and femme. On Mick, it works. He's the midnight fucking rambler, for chrissakes. He had the talent and the showmanship to carry it off and he was CONFIDENT. When an insecure little American guy tries to cop Mick's attitude, it ends in a big FAIL. I assure you, there was nothing sexy about my ex strutting thru' the Farmer's Market dressed like a poor man's Brian Jones. In the summer of the 2000's, his swingin' threads were nothing short of ridiculous.
Shortly thereafter I met a nicer, more masculine and less dramatic man, with whom I had a very lovely time. And he loved the Rolling Stones as much as me.