Of course I like to fancy myself someone who deals in truth. The fact is, I spend a lot of time cobbling fantasy and fiction with autobiography. I should mention, here and now, that any fact is vulnerable in the sake of rhyme!
Why on earth does it continue to surprise me when folks show solicitude in response to my stories of gore and violence, not to mention shock and surprise when I boast of romantic adventure and conquest?
Now that I have begun wasting time placing my head onto bodies other than my own, I seem to have compounded the problem, if, indeed, it is a problem.
My life is such a bizarre comic book tapestry of unlikely events that it's really hard to be of much assistance in looking for authenticity.
Here are a few hints:
If you see a snapshot of me with Stirling Moss, Gene Vincent, Bob Buckhorn, Brenda Lee, Don Garlits, Roy Rogers or Elvis- it's probably legit. If you see me at the table for the last supper or in the arms of Brigitte Bardot- well, sir, I've probably been into the Chartreuse and the Photoshop again.
If you should happen to read something about me playing a show at Lincoln Center or sleeping with the lighthouse keeper's wife somewhere around the northern tip of Scotland, or hanging around with Owsley, backstage at a Dead concert- yeah, those are real. If I'm being abducted by aliens or hosting Jesus- I'm almost definitely making that stuff up.
By the way, the lighthouse keeper's wife was in a separate bed and they were divorced.