Norman!

Da-duh, da-duh, da-duh, da-duh, da-duh, da-duh, da-DAAAA-DAAAA...

There's no getting around it. You just can't write out music in words any more than you can write laughter (LOL = give me a fuckin' break).

The above gibberish is supposed to represent the opening bars to Norman Greenbaum's number-one hit song "Spirit In The Sky." Have you heard it? You probably have, whether you know it or not.

It seems that Hollywood can't release any movie about space, rockets or aliens without getting on the horn to Greenbaum first. The song's been featured in Contact, Apollo 13 and Wayne's World II. "Spirit" will soon be starring in a Disney movie called Titans.

Norman's been as ever-present in my life as his song. I can't do anything in show business without Greenbaum stalking me. It's only fair. I stalked him first.

In 1971, after I graduated from high school and dropped out of the U.S. Coast Guard Academy, I moved into the dorms at Santa Rosa Junior College. I didn't have much interest in college at time, but the rent was free. I wanted to be a hippie, a bohemian, a war protester, a drug abuser and a rock star.

I pretty much wanted to get laid.

Instead, the best I could do was hang out with other musicians and hope to get their overflow. That summer, I hooked-up a folk singer named Jimbo and invited him to the dorm to smoke some pot. He had the pot.

"Soooooooooo... what are you doing here in the dorms, man?"

"I get free rent. I was a hotshot wrestler in high school, so now the coach wants me to join the college wrestling team. Groovy, huh?"

Jimbo exhaled. "Too bad, man. I've got some acid."

"I said I was a wrestler, not a narc."

"Far out, man. You want Blotter or Windowpane?"

We dropped the acid. We saw colors.

After a century or so of silence, Jimbo spoke. It scared the living shit out of me.

"Hey, man, let's hear one of your tunes."

I tried to play one of my songs, but the guitar strings mocked me. I ignored them and plucked on.

"Not bad. What do you call that, man?"

"It's called 'God Damn Society.'"

Sadly, I'm not kidding. As I got older and wiser, I changed the lyrics and the title to the song. It's now called, "God Damn Everything."

"Hey, man, you should go down to the Rosewood Forest and play the open mike. It's every Sunday."

"Yeah, man, far out. That'd be groovy." We were both talking like Tommy Chong.

The next Sunday, Jimbo and I met at the Rosewood Forest. I was stoned, but only enough to be nervous. As I got older and wiser, I learned never to show up stoned at a gig. It's much better to show up drunk.

"Check it out, man. Norman Greenbaum's here."

Jimbo pointed across the room and sure enough -- it was Norman Greenbaum. I think. Truth is, I had no idea what Norman looked like then, but years later he confirmed that he used to hang out at the Rosewood Forest and was part owner or something. When Jimbo pointed at Greenbaum, Norman got up from his table and sullenly walked into the back room.

The back room. What a trip. That's where the action was, I thought. They're back there doing killer weed and there's probably groupies hanging around. And some of them are probably naked, since Norman's a rock star and all. He had the number one song in the nation for a good part of 1970. Why wouldn't he have naked groupies?

As I got older and wiser, I realized the musicians were probably in the back room tuning their guitars.

Later that night, I took the stage and played "God Damn Society." The effort earned me a courtesy applause. No groupies rushed to my side. It sucked to be me.

I didn't see Norman again until 1974. After I got out of the Air Force (so much for being a hippie) I connected with a famous rock producer, Mark R. In exchange for being Mark's personal assistant, I got free rent, free food (not enough, as I recall) and most of all, I got to hob knob with showbiz types. Most of these bigwigs were record execs, but I did meet Kenny Rankin (pop singer), Dallas Taylor (drummer for Crosby, Stills & Nash) and Flip Wilson (comedian and TV star).

One night, while Mark and I were upstairs in his office, the doorbell rang and Mark said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Could you get that? An artist is coming over, and I might sign him."

"Sure," I said and scrambled downstairs, like the eager 19-year-old I was. I opened the door to find Norman Greenbaum. I was stoned. I was scared. I slammed the door shut again. Shit, I thought. It's Norman. How could this happen?

Let me explain: I had to lie to get the job working for Mark. And one of those lies involved Norman, a lie developed two years earlier while still in the Air Force. At first, I told the truth -- that I once saw Norman Greenbaum hanging out at a club in Santa Rosa, California. But the truth wasn't quite impressive enough, and I had a music career to consider. The story grew. In the second version, I meet Norman Greenbaum and hang out with him all night doing various drugs and women. In the third version, we hang out several nights doing the same. By the fourth version, I'm playing guitar in his band and touring the country at his side.

The fourth version landed me the job with Mark.

While the term wasn't in use at the time, I decided to spin doctor. I opened the door and greeted him like an old friend.

"Norm!" I said. (I think the writers from Cheers eventually stole that from me.) "How you doing, man? Remember me? It's Mike Jasper? Remember? I met you through Jimbo at the Rosewood Forest, and we jammed and I played guitar behind you and all. Good to see you again, man."

I had enough real information to be fairly convincing. Still, Norman gave me a funny look. "Yeah, man. Good to see you. Is Mark here?"

"Sure is," I said. "Let me show you up the stairs."

I don't know if Norman was stoned or if he just decided I wasn't worth arguing with, but I've always been grateful to him for that night. When Mark said, "So, you guys are old friends. I thought you'd be surprised," Norman just nodded his head and smiled.

Eventually, we did become good friends (or so I say). When I moved back to Northern California, I started playing a bar called John Barlycorn's. As I waited to go on one night, a guy at our table said, "Look. It's Norman Greenbaum."

Sonofabitch, it was.

He came to the bar nearly every week, so I saw him quite a bit during the '80s. By then he had quit the music business for good, but he was always supportive of my career, always good for advice, and always great to get roaring drunk with. Thanks to the Internet, we still keep in touch and have become somewhat close. Like Bela Lugosi and Ed Wood.

So this one's for you, Norman.

And to all my readers: I've put a link to Norman's Web site at the bottom of this column, so go click on it and share the love. Listen to "Spirit In The Sky," drop him an e-mail and buy a damn tee-shirt (they look great).

If you don't, I'll be forced to write out the original version of "God Damn Society" in my next column. All 19 verses.

Ugly.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own.