The three musicians I always wanted to meet were Lux Interior of The Cramps, Keith Richards, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. Waylon Jennings was the fourth, but unfortunately, he’s gone.

Until two weeks ago, the closest I ever got to any of them was at a punk rock show in the eighties in Cleveland, Ohio. The Cramps were performing, and at some point during the show, Lux – dressed in black spandex slacks (not pants) and tube-top – stepped to the stage edge and leaned out over the slam-pit. I was in the blender-mix of dancers, and reached up as he floated by and snatched his necklace. I gave it to my sister later at a local bar, and we were surprised to discover that it was a pearl necklace. The beads were individually strung, which meant Mr. Interior had spent some money on it. It’s one of my sister’s prized possessions.

Two weeks ago, I was at Guitar Center with my six-month old son Kyd. We crossed the front room where the electric guitars are displayed and test-driven. I refer to this room as ‘the moat.’ We headed downstairs to the acoustic area, and when the glass doors closed behind us, tranquility.

I strolled and strummed at the Martins and Gibsons mounted on the walls as we browsed. Kyd was amazed and quiet. Then we entered the very back area of the store where the rare and expensive instruments are kept. It was quiet as a cathedral, and a lone salesman was helping two women and an elderly gentleman who was trying his best to look like Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. He had the cowboy hat, the western shirt with pearl snaps, jeans, a leather belt with oversized buckle, and cowboy boots. I thought he was a very close likeness, then was flattened with the realization that it was indeed the singing cowboy himself.

I always understood Jack’s nickname to mean that he traveled much with a real aversion to ever settling down, and that suspicion was confirmed when I saw his daughter’s documentary The Ballad of Ramblin’ Jack. But after I approached him and introduced Kyd and myself, I discovered another meaning for the nickname. Jack talked and told stories and asked questions and rambled for fifteen minutes, and I hated the fact that I was late meeting my wife and had to go.

So Ramblin’ Jack plopped my baby boy onto his cowboy lap like a guitar and let me snap a photo with my cell phone of him and Kyd.

Jack Elliot is old, and he will ramble away from all of us one day. It would be great to meet Keith Richards or Lux Interior next, but its not really necessary anymore.

And please tell me if you’ve ever met your hero or idol.